Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

“Our anarchist . . . socialist . . . friends across this country and Europe,” continued Moriarty, holding a hand out toward the German-speaking working men, “will, upon a precise signal, descend upon the police forces in Chicago, Washington, Boston, London, Berlin . . . all the cities I have mentioned and more. The police will be ambushed at predetermined places and times. Our anarchist friends will be better armed than ever before—with rifles as well as pistols, large quantities of dynamite as well as grenades—and the timing shall be as precise as I described. This one hour on the first of May, starting with the public execution of the chief executive of the United States of America, will make Haymarket Square look like the tiny, insignificant rehearsal it was.”

Suddenly James had a terrible urge to sneeze. The chicken feathers behind him on the canvas, others littering the beams above and beside him. He squeezed his nose shut and prayed.

“Where do we . . .” asked one man from the crowd below, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

“Where do you come in?” Moriarty finished for him. Again that cadaver’s smile. Above his squeezing hand, James could see men in the front rows seem to flinch away from the professor.

“When the heads of these serpents of oppressive governments are severed,” said Moriarty. “Cut off . . .” he repeated for the least intelligent among his audience. “With mayors and police chiefs and federal officials murdered, there will be nationwide chaos. And amidst that chaos, you do what you do best . . . you loot. You plunder.” He paused and his tongue licked out like a snake’s. “But not randomly. And not with the usual failure of aforethought. No, you will be looting the finest homes in New York and Chicago and Washington and Boston and all the other cities. The fattest banks. The richest federal and state gold depositories. You will be looting according to a plan I have drawn up and will soon share with you . . . a plan that is foolproof.”

Random talking turned into a roar of approval and excitement.

“It’ll be like the fucking New York draft riots only with no fucking army coming in to shut it down,” shouted one man.

James remembered the draft riots in 1863. Not long after Gettysburg. When the army draft was started in New York City—it had been volunteers up to that time—the street gangs and mobs, mostly Irish, had risen up in civil insurrection that had gone on for days. The homes of some of New York’s richest families had been invaded, women raped, money and paintings and furniture stolen. Entire blocks had been burned down. One Irish gang, for the fun of it, had burned down an orphanage for black children, killing several of them.

“It shall be the New York draft riots times one thousand,” said Moriarty over the noise. “And you are correct . . . this time there will be no U.S. Army sent from battlefields to save the beleaguered and outgunned local police and militia. The spoils shall be . . . yours.”

He turned and went back to his seat.

Suddenly, over the roar of excitement, a man with a shotgun leaped out of his seat and pointed with his free hand upwards, directly toward where Henry James lay cringing and trying to make himself smaller on his beam.

“A rat!” screamed the man, his tone almost delirious. “A fucking rat!”

Before James could even think of scuttling backward, the man raised his shotgun, aimed it directly at James from sixty feet or so below, and fired. Five or six other men with shotguns leaped to their feet and also fired directly at James.

Henry Adams and John Hay both had telephones in their homes. Hay used his all the time, especially related to the consulting he was doing for the State Department. Adams disliked using his, but did so most frequently to call John Hay, who lived in the mansion adjacent to his. Essentially they were just talking through two walls and—due to all the telephonic static and cackling and crossed lines—it would probably have been easier to open windows and shout at one another.

“You’re trying to back out of this evening’s dinner, aren’t you, Henry,” said Hay after listening to Adams for a minute or so. It was already Saturday afternoon.

“Well . . . I didn’t feel that I offered much at your last gathering,” said Adams. “People in perennially low moods should not be allowed to appear at persistently gay high-society gatherings.”

“That would rule out about ninety-three percent of us,” laughed Hay.

“And would improve the quality of conversation exponentially,” said Adams.

“True, Henry, true. But do come tonight. It’s simple fare and stag.”

“What happened to all the lovely ladies, including your daughter Helen?” asked Adams.

“Nannie Lodge, Helen, Clara, and Edith Roosevelt—who’s in town only briefly with her husband—are all pouring coffee at the huge DAR Gala Fundraiser for Our Civil War Veterans,” said Hay.

“Where’s that being held this year?”

“In the Capitol Rotunda,” said Hay.

“They’ll either freeze or swelter,” said Adams.

“Probably both.”

“Is Lizzie Cameron cutting cake for the geezers as well?”

“No, she’s going to the opera tonight,” said Hay.

“With Don?”

Hay laughed. “When was the last time Lizzie was chaperoned to the opera or to any other cultural event by her husband Don? ”

“Who then?” asked Adams.

“Her cousin—whatshisname. The old venerable who bored the brass off the andirons at the Vanderbilts’ big do last November.”

“You mentioned Edith Roosevelt, which suggests that the Boy will be one of the stags in attendance tonight,” said Adams. “Are you really going to put Harry and Teedie in the same pit again so soon?”

“The Boy hates it when we call him by his childhood name of ‘Teedie’,” said Hay.

“He hates it when we call him ‘the Boy’, too, but he loves us more than he hates it. Are you really going to put Harry and Teddy at the same table again, Hay?”

“Teddy’s terribly remorseful about what he said and about being boorish at our last dinner gathering,” said Hay.

It was Adams’s turn to laugh. “I’ve never seen Theodore Roosevelt remorseful to anyone over anything he said, did, stabbed, or shot.”

“True,” said Hay. “But upon reflection, probably Edith’s, he realized that words like ‘effeminate’ and ‘coward’ weren’t appropriate when directed at one of America’s finest men of letters.”

“It would have been more fun fifty years ago,” said Adams. “Or even thirty. We would be past the process of selecting seconds by now and they probably would have chosen the dueling ground and oiled and charged the pistols.”

“Harry seems more like a rapier man to me,” said Hay. “And he would have gotten to choose the weapons.”

“Rapier wit,” said Henry Adams. “None sharper or more pointed.”

“But Teddy truly is sorry and has begged for a chance to show that he can behave,” said Hay. “He wants you witness to his good behavior.”

“I was a witness the last time he showed it,” said Adams. “That was in ’seventy-three or ’seventy-four, I believe.”

“Seriously, Henry. This is just us men tonight. We’ll argue politics—politely, of course—scratch when and where we want to, belch ditto, talk like sailors, drink like sailors, and toast the missing fairer sex until Benson and my other men have to carry us to our respective beds. I’ve invited Dr. Granger because . . . well, you know.”

Adams knew. Dr. Elias Granger was older than most of them, in his mid-sixties now, and had been in deep mourning ever since he’d lost his wife four years ago. With just men, Granger could relax and exercise the happiness which had been his hallmark right up to his wife’s death. In mixed company, he rarely spoke when the ladies were present any longer, as if doing so might hurt his dead wife’s feelings. Adams, seven years a widower now, thought he understood. If it hadn’t been for Lizzie Cameron and, to a lesser extent, Nannie Cabot Lodge, he probably wouldn’t be accepting dinner invitations either—at least those with the fairer sex present. As it was, he not only attended such mixed dinners now but had resumed hosting his famous “breakfasts”—held closer to the noon hour than morning—which included Lizzie, Nannie, and other local delights.