Noblesse Oblige
Book Three
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 7
Westward, Look the Land is Bright 

“Listen to this one: ‘Prince of Wales’ Surprise Visit’—apparently I am buying a house in somewhere called Long Island ‘to escape the zepps.’”

“Here’s a good picture of the both of us, Mala. ‘British Duke and Brother War Heroes.’”

“You’ve been a very good brother, Derby,” said Martin.

“And you will make a fine king, your Royal Highness,” replied Stephen, laughing as he threw across another newspaper that proclaimed: ‘British Lords in Recruiting Drive.’

“‘The British are Coming: Lords on Mayor’s Payroll’” read Stephen. “What on earth does that mean?”

“Oh I don’t like this one: ‘Servant at Front: Feudal System in European War.’—though there’s a good picture of you looking oppressed, Carlo.  Have I whipped you today?”

“No your lordship, shall I fetch the scaffold?”

The boys were in a luxurious suite on the 18th floor of the Plaza Hotel in New York.  Stephen had arisen from the bed to once again gaze at the spectacular view across Central Park, which was, at that moment, bathed in the morning sunlight of a spring day.  Martin lolled abed surrounded by half a dozen morning papers, which had reported their arrival. 

***** 

The crossing had been a rough one, combined with the unremitting terror of a likely U-boat attack.  The Olympic had left behind her escort that had shepherded the liner from Liverpool to Ireland and then, eschewing the usual zigzag course, made straight for Halifax, trusting that her speed would outpace any German craft, although it was always possible that a submarine could chance upon her.  Indeed it was reported once that a submarine had indeed been sighted, but it did not fire.

The Olympic had been painted in the most striking dazzle livery and stripped of many of her luxurious fittings for her new task of conveying Canadian troops to Britain, but travelling aboard her was still a wonderful experience, especially for her plentiful supplies of white bread, sugar and butter.  The three travellers might have been squeezed into one cabin, but they made up for it in the eating, until rough seas on the second day out dampened their appetites.

The ship, one of the few passenger liners crossing the Atlantic in wartime, was crowded with Canadian soldiers, many of them badly wounded and returning home, as well as with men who had business to conduct in America and the Orient beyond.  Stephen spent many hours of the day chatting to the Canadian soldiers, the injured ones greatly impressing him with their stoicism and their open and friendly attitudes.  When he was not moving among these soldiers, he was exercising on the spacious deck.  Martin then discovered the gymnasium, still intact, and they both made much use of the equipment to pass the time.  The Captain invited them to his table but was disinclined to talk about the sea or the dangers of the voyage, so was not pressed to do so by the passengers at such a worrying time.

It was with relief—and indeed with cheering from the men—that the coast of Newfoundland was sighted on the fifth day.  The following morning the liner sailed south and entered a magnificent harbour surrounded by low hills and guarded by a citadel left over from a previous age of warfare.  They entered the Narrows and passed through the submarine net into the calm waters of the Bedford Basin.

Halifax was frantic with activity and its port was crammed with hospital ships, troop ships and convoys assembling for the eastward crossing.  There was no hotel space available and the boys were just resigned to spending the night in the railway station, which was at North End when a message arrived at the ship.   It was from a Mr Martin, a Canadian businessman and politician and mayor of Halifax.  Martin and Stephen were invited to dine and they were offered beds for the night.  Carlo accompanied them in the hope (which was not in vain) that he too could be put up.  Mr and Mrs Martin made a great fuss of them.  This was the first instance of a great many that were typical of the tremendous generosity shown in Canada and the United States to the visitors and which made them reflect on the frostiness of their own kinsman to outsiders.

The overnight train took them across the border where sights and sounds were stimulatingly unfamiliar and then they suddenly found themselves in the middle of chaos.  They stepped from the train and were immediately surrounded by a phalanx of aggressive newspaper reporters and photographers.  They were bombarded with questions and continually told to pose for the flash.  Martin felt frightened at the Americans’ impertinent questioning while Stephen wondered how they could even hear their answers—and clearly they did simply make up what they thought their readers wanted to hear in the absence of anything else.  They moved down the platform with difficulty then, just as they reached a cathedral-like space, an Englishman appeared, elbowing his way through the frenzied throng.

“I’m Jarvis, your lordship, the consul here in New York.  Welcome to the United States,” he said, shaking hands with Martin then with Stephen.  “Please leave these chaps to me.  We’re all a touch excited this last fortnight with war having been declared.”

He turned to the reporters: “Now boys, stand back, give ’em some air, give ’em air!  They’ve just come on a dangerous voyage and they have been wounded at the front.  Lord Branksome here is the Colonel of the Url o’ Holdenhurst’s Yeomanry—his family’s militia.  He’s the youngest colonel in the whole of the British Army.  You were injured in France, weren’t you Colonel Poole?”  Martin managed to get out that he was injured in an explosion.  “Capt’n Knight-Poole is his kinfolk and has also been injured on the Western Front.   He was awarded the Military Cross for bravery— he’s a British hero.”

“Why they in Noo York, Jarvis?” yelled one.

“Boys, they will be on a cross-country tour encouraging Americans to enlist in this great World War and telling folks something of their experiences.  Come on down to City Hall if ya wanna get some more.”

The reporters were busy scribbling in notebooks and that gave the party time to slip into a taxicab, with Martin and Stephen swivelling their heads in awe of the magnificent station- surely the most splendid they had ever seen.

“Where’s Carlo?” asked Martin in a panic.

“Put your heads down gentlemen,” said Jarvis, now returning to his former mode of speech.  They ducked out of sight and Jarvis scanned the concourse for the British private whom he soon spotted with a porter and the luggage.  He waved him over and their trunks and suitcases were loaded.  Jarvis tipped the Negro porter as no one had dollars.

I hope you don’t mind gentlemen, but we must go straight to the reception the Mayor is holding.  He is very much in favour of conscripting troops for this conflict and we want to cultivate that.  Your batman can take your things to the hotel.  We’ve put you in a nice one, although I don’t think the Army will pay for it.  I hope you don’t mind.”

Martin wasn’t sure if he didn’t mind, but he was so tired that the sound of a nice American hotel was very attractive to his ears at any price.

In a whirlwind the cab proceeded on a miraculous ramp above ground then below ground and emerged into a broad, straight avenue—numbered 5— and they swept the length of Manhattan towards the towers of the financial district.  In thick traffic they passed fine-looking shops, business and hotels and a myriad of building sites where old, brown four-storied buildings were being replaced by towering edifices in light-coloured stone on steel frames.

The City Hall was a surprisingly diminutive Regency building—something from another age—set in a small park but surrounded by monstrous buildings that dwarfed the church spires.  These, they were informed, were the headquarters of some of the newspapers from whence the pack of reporters had descended.

Just as they were making their way into the building, a terrible din from police motorcycle sirens heralded the arrival of the Mayor of Greater New York himself.  Jarvis hustled them inside to avoid more newspapermen.

The hall was crowded and Martin and Stephen suddenly found themselves on a stage.  They were introduced to several important people whose names they forgot instantly and then to the Mayor himself.  Mr Purroy Mitchel was a surprisingly young man, clean—shaven and with intelligent pale eyes, broad nose and a thin, determined mouth.  He told them later at the luncheon that his grandfather had been a Member of Parliament and a convert to the Irish cause.  He had been transported to Bermuda and then to Van Dieman’s Land from where he had where he had escaped with remarkable adventures before settling his family in the part of New York called Brooklyn.  He said that he had long warned the government to be prepared for war and had personally created a civilian defence force of over 20,000 men.  He opened his coat to disclose a revolver.  “I’m a good shot too,” he boasted.  “The boys can get you a permit for a dollar.  I’d advise you to carry a gun; I’ve been attacked twice since becoming mayor— last one was killed— and this gun has saved me.”

“Is the Plaza Hotel safe, Mr Mayor?” asked Martin.

“I understand that you’ve both just come back from the Western Front.  The Plaza is comparatively safe, but I’m not so sure about Five Points.”

The Mayor rose to his feet and made a speech that neither Martin nor Stephen could hear well.  Martin was called to respond.  He was nervous, but here he was now, so he swallowed and got to his feet.  He did not choose his usual ‘speech for all occasions;’ instead he said that the war was a terrible thing, but it was necessary to prosecute it for the good of civilization.  He described the German invasion of Belgium and France.  He described the use of poison gas and liquid fire.  He related the shelling of cities from cannons that could fire 20 miles and from zeppelins and aeroplanes that could drop bombs over sleeping cities— hinting that New York itself might not be safe.  He said that the British government looked to America as a like-minded ally and that he hoped that with their help the war would be over all the sooner so that people could get back to their homes and business in peace.  It was a good speech, spoken without notes or rhetoric and Stephen let him know it when he sat down.

Stephen stood and began by saying that he was half-American (this caused a cheer and a round of applause) and serving alongside his men, who were all fine fellows, and the comradeship that came with training and in battle, was the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced.  He did not have any grand reasons for fighting, he said, but he felt all Americans knew a just fight when they saw it and that he knew that Americans would want to help out ‘a pal’ in trouble.

There was applause and then questions were invited.

“Will you be going to kill Irishmen?” asked one angry man.

“I’m not a politician, sir,” answered Martin, “but I sincerely hope not.  My fervent hope is that all the Irish people can live peaceful and happy lives, but I know they will never be able to do this if Germany wins this war.”

“What about India, Canada and Australia?  When are you going to give them freedom?”

Stephen rose this time and said:  “I have just come from Canada sir, and the people there look free to me; they’d punch you on the nose if you suggested otherwise. (Laughter). There are a million Indians in the Army fighting against the enemy powers.  Would they be volunteering if they were slaves?”

The remaining questions were a lot easier, finishing up with one about what the boys thought of American women (“The most beautiful women we have ever seen—I thought they were all moving picture stars”) and ‘Were they looking for American girls to marry?’ (“We are forbidden to socialise while on this mission, sir, (laughter) and I doubt any sensible American lady would like to come to a country that did not enjoy the benefits of chewing gum and hot dogs.”)

Thus the event concluded, but not before the American anthem was played by a brass band that the boys had failed to notice.  Giant recruiting posters were unfurled to the cheers and applause of the audience.

Jarvis and a Col Farmer, a military attaché from the embassy in Washington, accompanied the boys back to their hotel.  They were thrilled to be whisked to the 18th floor and marvelled at the luxury and convenience they found at every turn.  Farmer laid out their schedule.  They were to have a full week of engagements in New York then there was to be a tour in a giant loop across to the Pacific coast with speaking engagements once or twice per day.  Included in this was a meeting with President Wilson in Washington.  They would be returning to England at the beginning of August.  He provided them with a map and itinerary.

It looked daunting, but they were buoyed by their recent speeches. “You handled the political questions beautifully, gentlemen,” said Jarvis. “There is much pro-Irish sentiment in this country and they have very peculiar ideas about the Empire, conveniently forgetting about their own behaviour in Cuba, Nicaragua and The Philippines.  They did have some bother under a previous George, I believe, and have long memories, but that was poorly handled and before my time in the service,” reflected Jarvis.  “However, generally speaking, they have very little interest in the outside world and they won’t ask you many questions about Britain— it’s beyond their horizon.  They will expect you to be impressed by everyone they introduce you to and by everything you are told to see—but you would have found that already.  Praise them extravagantly.”

“Are we expected to urge men to enlist, sir?” asked Stephen who had his doubts about the War.

“No.  That would not look right,” said Farmer.  “Just tell them your own stories as you did today.  I think the Americans are itching to fight—it will be providing organization and training that will be their problem, not men.  Remember what we were like in 1914.”

“Poor fools,” said Stephen, then he regretted it. “It’s a bloody business, Col Famer,” he continued, turning to him, “We’re in so deep now, yet the cost of life does not seem to justify the gain—or lack of it— not on the Somme at any rate.”

“You might be right, Captain, but the Americans must not be allowed to think that.”

“I believe the Army is not paying our costs, Col Farmer,” said Martin.

“No, so I believe.  You will continue to receive your pay…but I will see what I can do.  Are you alright for funds in the meantime?”

Martin said he was, but was annoyed at the attitude of the authorities. 

***** 

“Come back to bed, Derby.”

“No, let’s go for a ride in the park there; I can see a bridle path and there must be horses for hire.  Draw our bath, Carlo.” called Stephen.

The Park was stupendous— quite rural in parts—and on both sides were houses as fine— if not finer and certainly more expensive than any in Park Lane or Grosvenor Square.

“We are lunching at that one, said Stephen, pointing to a great marble pile opposite their hotel.  Mrs Vanderbilt has invited us.  Jarvis said she is an old lady but we can’t refuse.”  They walked down 5th Avenue amid a cosmopolitan crowd of well-dressed citizens who were briskly coming and going from shops, clubs and hotels.  At 42nd Street they turned right and found themselves in the theatre district.  They turned right again and walked up Broadway to Times Square, which was very busy with trams, taxis, motor lorries, motorcars and pedestrians.  The newspaper it was named after they found had moved its offices to a cross street.  At a great intersection at the edge of Central Park there was an impressive group of statuary and from one of the avenues a hideous elevated train emerged and snaked its way into another amid shrill squeals and a deafening thunder.  A stroll along 59th Street brought them back to the Plaza Hotel.

With their uniforms brushed and pressed Martin and Stephen made a fine impression on the marble steps of Mrs Vanderbilt’s townhouse.  The size of the mansion, the number of liveried servants, the acres of marble flooring, the costliness of the appointments and the overall scale at which the Vanderbilt’s seemed to live, all made Branksome House look rather shabby, although the assemblage of some of it seemed wanting in taste, thought Martin, rather cattily, but possibly even taste could be purchased here if one knew where to shop.  Certainly the most luxurious thing was the quiet that the thick stone walls afforded, for New York, just outside the doors, could not be heard in the calm monastic silence of Mrs Vanderbilt’s rooms and there was a very fine garden on the other side of the house to boot.

Mrs Vanderbilt was gracious and not at all intimidated at having the aristocracy to luncheon. One again they met very distinguished people, but forgot their names immediately.  Invitations, as at Aunt Maud’s, rained upon them: they were invited to dinners and teas, to clubs and polo matches, to sail on yachts and to stay at country houses in Westchester, Newport and Long Island (Stephen determining to buy a map).

Stephen sat next to two very attractive girls, one the daughter of a Mr Goelet and the other the young wife of Mr Bayard Cutting.  Opposite was Mr ‘Neily’ Vanderbilt—the old lady’s son.  He proved to be very interesting: he was already in the 12th Infantry Regiment of the New York National Guard and had fought only recently against the Mexicans.  He had an intense interest in Military Engineering and talked about the subway system in the city with which he was apparently involved.

Martin was sitting next to a Mrs Gray who informed him she had been a Fish before her marriage and on the other side was a Miss Ogden Trout whose mother, sitting opposite, kept prompting her daughter into clumsy conversational gambits with his lordship.

The meal was over quite quickly by English standards as many of the men had to return to their business offices ‘downtown’ but the remaining guests withdrew to a magnificent music room where they settled uneasily onto little gilt chairs and chatted until a musician appeared and stood near the piano.  Mrs Vanderbilt introduced a Mr Charles Griffes and announced that he was going to play one of his piano sonatas.  There was polite applause and the crowd (except for a few rude individuals) hushed.  Griffes was a short fellow, young-looking—perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties.  He had a small round face and brown hair that receded from a high forehead and he pursed his rather thick lips beneath a clipped moustache that made him look rather like H.G. Wells.

The music was modern in the European manner, with lots of discords and notes in the minor key.  Martin thought it suited the times, which were themselves not in harmony and distressingly confused and, while he found it quite interesting, he had to nudge Stephen who had made the mistake of letting his eyes close.  At the conclusion there was polite applause and Mr Griffes took his bow.  The composer came over and chatted to the boys and Martin decided he liked him.  Stephen excused himself for closing his eyes, complaining (perhaps not quite truthfully) that his injured leg was troublesome.  He spoke of his need to strengthen it. Griffes then suggested that Stephen make use of the gymnasium at the Young Men’s Christian Association on 57th Street.  He himself had a room there with a piano where he did much of his composing.  He was just being taken away by Mrs Vanderbilt to meet someone referred to mysteriously as ‘the Bromo-Seltzer heiress’ when he handed Stephen a card with its address, then, at the last minute, he handed a second card to Martin.  When he was gone, Martin looked at his card: ‘Everard Turkish Baths 28 W 28th Street.’

“Could this be anything like the Hammam Turkish Baths in Jermyn Street?” asked Martin showing the card to Stephen.

“If I’m not mistaken, I think it might very well be.  Do you want to go?” he whispered.

Martin, nodded, with his eyes shining.

The boys walked back to the Plaza Hotel and began to refine their presentations for the evening’s talk, which was to be in a drill hall.  Their work was interrupted by the acceptance of an invitation to afternoon tea at a Mrs Kingdon Gould’s on 5th Avenue.  The lady herself turned out to be a beautiful and youthful Italian woman and her husband’s source of great wealth was never made quite clear to them.  The afternoon tea was very elaborate and the Italian pastries were delicious.  The boys found themselves surrounded by elegant ladies who peppered them with questions but were exceedingly agreeable.

Their speaking engagement was at the Armoury on Park Avenue, which proved to be an enormous arched building like a railway station.  Stephen was spellbound by the spider’s web of girders and arches that held up the massive roof under which it seemed the Olympic could have berthed.  Thankfully however it was in the smaller Veteran’s Hall where they were to speak.  This was an altogether more luxurious chamber with costly panelling and glass.  They were told that the building had been privately constructed for the militia drawn from New York’s finest families.

Martin refined his speech and emphasised how the German’s must not be allowed to win the war for the sake of ‘civilization’ as he put it.  Stephen spoke of the sense of comradeship and purpose he found in his men and for himself.  He did feel moved to say something about the horrors of the front, but he could tell that his audience were not heeding this in their excited thirst for action.

“Is it true you have taken your servant as your batman, Col Poole?” asked one.

“No, I don’t have a batman as I am now mainly in London,” he answered honestly, “but Captain Knight-Poole’s valet is his batman— and a courageous fellow he is too.”

There were several questions about the progress the Allies were making which Martin deflected by saying that America’s help was vital in driving home the modest gains they had made since the Somme Offensive and that the Germans were retreating to what they called The Hindenburg Line.

There were questions about poison gas and rationing at home.

“How did you get your medal, Captain?” called out one.

Stephen fearing this would be asked, was truthful but modest: “I helped rescue my men who were under a surprise attack from German machine gunners while we were building a floating bridge.”

“Did you kill ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that your King is German and that he’s the cousin of the Kaiser?”

Martin answered: “Yes that is so, in that his grandfather was born in Germany.  I have a German grandmother myself and I imagine many families in this city have German relatives. Our fight is with the German military, not the German people,” he concluded, wondering if he believed this himself.

The boys sat down while another speaker urged men in the audience to enlist.

They had accepted an invitation to dine at Mrs Frederic W. Rhinelander’s and there sampled her famous punch made to a secret recipe.  The source of their wealth and the origins castle that they owned near Oberwesel on the river that was their namesake also remained politely elusive and connections with Germany were not alluded to as they were out of fashion at this moment.  Once again, the Marquess of Branksome was required to make a little speech, which he did, giving an abbreviated version of one he had made a few hours earlier.

It was with some excitement that the boys departed early from 5th Ave and took a taxi down to W. 28th Street.  They were a little conspicuous in evening clothes, but less so than had they worn British Army uniforms.  The Everard Baths was a small building of three storeys and distinguished by a pair of green lamps on either side of the door.  A wooden staircase led upwards to where a clerk asked if they were members.  When they replied they were visitors, a book was thrust their way and Mr Smith and Mr Jones’ names, joined their legion of cousins, and for a dollar they passed inside.  They put their clothes in a locker and wrapped themselves in towels.  They went to the upper floor which was dimly lit.  Off the steam room was a series of private cubicles with narrow benches.  They each occupied a cubicle and presently Martin heard a soft tap on his door, which was ajar.  A middle-aged man appeared.  “I saw you come in,” was all he said.  He dropped to his knees and removed Martin’s towel.  He pleasured Martin with his mouth and worked his own cock with his right hand.  He spilled but Martin hadn’t. “Do you want me to finish you off, buddy?” he asked.  Martin shook his head, but was afraid to speak.  The man leant down and kissed him on his lips and then he was gone.

Martin sat there and could hear noises from Stephen’s cubicle.  There were moans and the sounds of someone gagging.  Clearly Stephen was receiving the same treatment.  Martin hardened.  Another tapping announced a young man—a lad about his own age.  Martin found him more attractive.

“How ya’ doin’ pal?”

Martin smiled and this time it was he who boldly pulled the boy’s towel away, revealing a nice cock.

“Ya got nice mitts, buddy,” said the boy, “real soft.  Ya don’t work in the tannery that’s for sure.”

Martin pleasured him until he said to stop.  Then he knelt down and sucked Martin.  He was very good and Martin felt himself getting close.

“Let it out, pal.  Give it to me,” said the fellow and quickly resumed his actions.  Martin spilled and the man seemed satisfied.  He then straddled Martin who reciprocated.  He spilled and used his own towel to wipe up the mess.  “That was swell.  You’re a real gent, I can tell.”  There was no kissing and he departed saying he was on night shift.

There was another knock, but this time it was Stephen.  “I’ve had two visitors, Derby,” said Martin, “They don’t waste time here do they?”

“I’ve only had one, but I thought he’d chew me to the bone.  He was starving.  Do you want to go?”

Martin nodded.  They had just left their cubicles when the door of another one opened.  A small man scuttled out like a beetle and then Carlo emerged.

“Good evening your lordship, Mr Stephen,” he said.

“Good evening Carlo,” said Stephen. “Are you having a nice time?”

“Fair to middling sir.  I was just thinking of returning to the hotel.”

“So were we, come and help us dress.”

Martin took off his towel and let out a howl.  “Look,” he said, “I’m all covered in chewing gum.  He didn’t even bother to take it out of his mouth!”

Carlo and Stephen exchanged amused glances. “I believe ice and scissors will do the trick, sir.  Wait until we get home,” said Carlo.

They found a taxi at 6th Avenue. “How did you come to be there, Carlo?” asked Stephen.

Carlo felt he could have asked the same question but answered:  “I was recommended it by someone at another establishment in Lafayette Street, sir.  Perhaps you might care to go there another evening, but tell me first to prevent any social awkwardness, sir.”

“No awkwardness Carlo,” said Stephen rubbing his knee, “at least not on my part.”

“Hear, hear,” said Martin.

“Thank you,” said Carlo, “but I was thinking of myself.”

At the Plaza hotel they worked on Martin and freed him of the chewing sweet.  His newly cropped blonde pubic hair was then fashioned into a portion of a star, in honour of the United States, and then he was put into the bath.  Stephen stripped off and got into the warm soapy water with him.  He commenced to slowly soap Martin’s body.  Carlo knelt at the side of the tub and washed their hair.  He was getting terribly wet. “Take off your clothes, Carlo. You might enjoy it more,” said Stephen.  Martin nodded in agreement and Carlo pulled off his shirt and removed his trousers.  He was hard very quickly.  Martin used his soapy hand to pleasure Carlo as he rinsed Stephen’s hair, Carlo finding it hard to concentrate.  All of a sudden, as Carlo was leaning over to reach the tap, Stephen pulled Carlo in.  There was a big splash and water flooded the mosaic tiles, but Carlo was in both their grips and was laughing.

“Don’t tell Mr Chilvers, please!”

It was a tight squeeze, but the Plaza had not skimped on bathtubs.  Martin sat astride Carlo who was sitting on Stephen’s legs. “Lets make him spill, Derby,” said Martin, quite excited.

Martin rubbed his hairy chest and bobbed up and down, letting Carlo’s cock explore the cleavage in his buttocks.  Martin had a mischievous glint in his eye and rose a little higher and inserted the soapy member into his own rectum.  Carlo’s eyes widened as Martin settled down, coming to rest on the wiry hair of Carlo’s thighs.  Carlo tried to do the same on Stephen’s cock, but it couldn’t be accomplished.  “Go easy, Carlo,” said Stephen, “I just about had it chewed off tonight.”  Still Carlo persisted and it was fun trying.  Stephen put his arms around Carlo’s chest and held him while Martin supplied the movement.  Eventually Martin pulled off and he and Stephen set to work with their hands until Carlo spilled in the water.

“That was a good load of cream, Carlo,” said Stephen in admiration.

“I think it’s all the ice-cream I’ve been eating.  I had something called a ‘banana split sundae’ just this afternoon in a chemist shop of all places.  It was delicious and I have obtained the recipe to take back home.  A very nice young man behind the counter gave it to me.  It was he who took me to Lafayette Street.”

Carlo and Stephen dried Martin and, once again, admired their handiwork with the scissors. Carlo dried himself and was just collecting his trousers when Martin stopped him. “Would you like to sleep with us, Carlo?  It must be awfully lonely in your room without Glass.” Carlo said he would like that very much and climbed under the covers.  Stephen picked up Martin and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed, Carlo rolling clear in the nick of time. Then Stephen jumped in between them.

“You’re still wet, Derby!  I hate it when you do that.”

“No he doesn’t, Carlo; he loves it,” Stephen said, as he rolled on top of Martin, squashing the air out of him and kissing him as he struggled.”

“I think I need to show Carlo, how much I love you, Mala.”

“Oh sir, I’ve seen.  You love him very much and quite a number of times.”

“This is better than France, eh Carlo?” said Stephen.

“Yes, that seems to be another dark world far, far away, sir.” 

***** 

The week flew by.  Carlo kept their uniforms in perfect order, making sure that Stephen and Martin did not disgrace the British Empire on the platforms and in the drawing rooms of New York.

There was a mid-day engagement in a drill hall in Brooklyn, which was filled to capacity by men anxious to enlist lest the conflict should be over.  The boys came back on foot by way of the magnificent suspension bridge and, at the invitation of Mr Bourne of the New York Yacht Club, who had been president of the Singer Company, and Mr Frank Woolworth of Glen Cove, they toured the enormous towers that these man had caused to be erected on the tip of the island. By the time they emerged into the street from the Woolworth Building, their heads were spinning from facts such as the miles of piping and telephone wire, the number of stenographers who worked there, weight of paper clips used annually, the speed of the lifts and so on.  They then took a ferry to Staten Island where they obtained a view of the famous statue standing on its plinth on Bedloe’s Island in the harbour.

“You once said you’d be the unhappiest man in England if you were free of everything, Mala, remember?”

Martin did.  It had been their first quarrel and it was down by the swimming place at Branksome-le-Bourne. “But that statue isn’t about freedom, Derby; they have it wrong.  I think it’s about belonging—about finding a home, don’t you think?  How can you breathe free if you do not have a refuge?”

Stephen leant on the rail.  The wind flopped his silky black hair over his left eye.  He pushed it back and said:  “I’ve lost faith in this war.  I think it’s wrong to keep it going.  Don’t you think it would be better to let the Germans just have what they want and go home?  It couldn’t be any worse than sending 60,000 men to their death in one day for no gain at all.”

“But wouldn’t the Germans just keep coming— taking all of France and then England—even America?” 

“Would they? Perhaps, but I’m sure they just want to go home too.”

“You won’t say that to the Americans—especially about the 60,000?”

“No, of course not, “he said with weary resignation.  “They can’t be expected to understand. We have to keep fighting until the end I suppose.”

“We should never have got to into this position, should we Derby?” said Martin, quite upset that his friend seemed so distressed.

“Do you mean us being here or Britain?”

“I meant Britain.  I don’t think what we’re doing is wrong, Derby.  America fighting may bring the war to an end sooner, if not, I imagine it going on for…I don’t know, could it go on forever?”

“Let’s hope not.  I’ll try to think that way.”

They passed by the statue for the second time and gave a salute.  The other people on the deck applauded the British visitors and someone took their picture.  Stephen smiled radiantly.

There were speaking engagements in New Jersey across the river and in the borough further north called The Bronx.  They went out to Westchester and took the train to Buffalo where they detoured to see the falls.

On their free evenings they went to dinners and dances.  They proved to be very popular with American girls who loved to dance.  Martin and Stephen also found their hands ached from having them so heartily wrung, sometimes a slap on the back or even a blow to the skull substituting when the crowds were dense.

Carlo was kept busy noting the names of important people they had met and writing thank you notes.  Very often invitations came at the last minute by telephone—something unheard of in London, but acceptable in casual America.

It was just such a call that Stephen received asking if he could he please come out to New Rochelle.

“Where is that?” asked Stephen.

“It’s a town in Westchester County, just beyond the city.  I want to draw you.”

The urgent voice belonged to a commercial artist, explained Stephen to Martin when he hung up the receiver. “He wants to do my portrait for a recruiting poster.  He saw my photograph in the newspaper.  He said he’s the man who does the illustrations for the magazines— and for Arrow Collars—we’ve seen that one in Times Square.  Can we go?”

“Well, we’d have to cancel lunch at the Yale Club.  Why don’t you go?”

“Mala, I think this sounds quite…interesting.  You’d best come.”

They followed the directions and took the electric line at the end of the subway and within an hour they were at Joe Leyendecker’s studio.  Leyendecker was a small dark complexioned man- born in Germany but brought up in Chicago. He shook their hands and showed them around.  The illustrations were wonderful, much more interesting than the paintings in great galleries, thought Martin.  There were advertisements for commercial products as well as colourful magazine covers, often featuring ‘college boys’ or sophisticated young men on yachts, with polo ponies or lounging in clubrooms.  He certainly had a way of capturing handsome young men.

Another man entered the studio as they were talking.  He was about 30— several years younger than the artist—and was tremendously good-looking—almost as good looking as Stephen, and indeed could have been his older brother.  He was introduced as Mr Beach and then Martin realised that for many of the illustrations Leyendecker had used Beach as a model—often with slight alterations to hair colour and such, but always with Beach’s broad shoulders, strong chin and steady, clear gaze.

Before they knew it, Stephen was stripped down to his trousers and Leyendecker was doing a pencil sketch and annotating the colours he would use.  Beach took Martin out to the kitchen and made coffee.  It was clear that Beach lived in the house too.  Martin could barely take his eyes off him and blurted out: “Stephen lives with me in England.” He went red.

Beach smiled lazily and said: “I live with Joe.”  He handed Martin two cups and they returned to the studio.  Now Stephen was squeezed into and American officer’s uniform and Lyendecker was drawing him.  Martin sat down with Beach and the fell to talking about Chicago to where they would shortly be going.  Soon Stephen was posing in very short knickerbockers and sleeveless vest, holding aloft an imaginary rowing shell. “Joe will have to get his eraser out; the Saturday Evening Post will never allow all that to be shown on their front cover.  Are all you British guys hung like that, Lord Branksome?”

“Oh yes,” said Martin. “Stephen is one of the smaller ones, poor devil.”

“Huh?” said Beach and then he realised. “You’re just kidding me, right?”

Lastly Stephen was dressed in American football gear, with a jersey that was torn on the right shoulder, exposing the leather protective pad worn by footballers.  Stephen had to stand with his legs apart and the ball at rest between his boots.  He was looking to his right in a challenging pose.  Beach assisted in getting the uniform and pose correct, as Stephen was unsure of how the game was conducted.

“Stephen, we have an engagement in somewhere called The Bowery, and then we must pack. I’m afraid we have to get back to the City, Joe,” said Martin after half an hour.

The artist was disappointed but the boys promised to return when they were back in New York before they sailed.

“There is one pose I’d like to see,” said Martin and had a hurried conversation with Leyendecker.  So it was arranged.  Beach took his shirt off and Stephen was just left in his breeches.  They stood side by side and the viewer’s made comparisons.  Then Beach grabbed Stephen and kissed him scorchingly on the mouth.  They were both strong and almost wrestled in their passion.  Their hands went down and each seized the other by the privates.  After a minute, Stephen’s amused eye caught Martin’s and he pulled apart, laughing.  Beach was chuckling too.  “Now I’d sure like to see that on the cover of ‘Collier’s’,” Beach said, gasping for air.

To be continued... 

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you. 

Posted: 03/07/14