to blot out their debts with blood.”
“That is a fine, poetic way of putting it. A man of the book, you are, Daniel. But not every action is motivated by money. Some are driven by temperament. You of all people should know that.”
Kohn blushes and heat rises to his face. The book has always been a problem for him, as a boy and a man, the Hebrew letters never standing still long enough for him when it was his turn to read them at Krius ha toire. Even now words still jumble and rearrange themselves on a page if he is tired or lacking in concentration. He has noted in the past how much longer it takes for him to read an account in a newspaper compared to other reading men and he does not think he has ever handed over a message or drafted a bill of larder without it being blighted with misplaced letters and ill-spelled words. No man of any goddamn book, that is for certain, Danny boy. He does not say this and Molloy has no idea of it.
Instead, Kohn gives Molloy what he has been fishing for. “Certainly, sir, the pleasure a man takes in rash action can be its own motivation. And before you ask, I have been somewhat rash, sir. I yesterday destroyed a chair that had not wronged a single soul. Poor chair.”
“You didn’t kill anyone, so? I am disappointed to hear it.” Molloy smiles. Kohn’s furies have ever been a source of delight for him though it is a long time since he has properly relished anything.
Kohn is aware of this and pleased that he has amused Molloy, if only for a moment, with his recklessness. “No sir, I have made valiant efforts to restrain myself, though I have met more than one who could use killing.”
“There is a hardly a day goes by in this life that we don’t, Daniel. If only we could oblige them. Have you offered a reward for the return of the ledgers? You have said there are more Irish here on post than bedbugs in a whore’s mattress. And where there are Pats and Micks in abundance, there are chuck-a-luck debts to be paid and bark juice to be bought. The prospect of windfall will turn the account books up if they are not yet ash and scrap.”
Kohn laughs. “I’ve offered fifteen of your hard-earned greenbacks for their return. We shall see what happens.”
“And have the brass hats been welcoming, Daniel?”
“As if we’ve brought the cholera with us in a bucket. Colonel Carrington thinks we are here as spies sent by General Cooke, with our investigations as mere bluff for the purposes of reporting back just what kind of a no-count show he is commanding here. He has given me . . . given us freedom of the camp of sorts but he is no help otherwise and insists I bring anything I find to his attention. At the same time he doesn’t appear to have any interest in encouraging anyone in the camp to speak to me, including his wife. So welcoming, no. We are the least of his worries with his men dying or deserting by the day, but we are a worry to him nonetheless.”
“His wife?” Molloy lights his cheroot, filling the air with aromatic smoke. He begins to cough then, a heavy, liquid hack that tells of corruption of the lung, of cold journeys and possible pleurisy. It is the most common sound in every bivouac, camp or fort Kohn has ever set foot in and he is not unduly concerned by it.
When Molloy has finished coughing, Kohn says, “I was told I might want to speak to a serving girl working for the colonel’s good wife. An Indian who used to work for Sutler Kinney.”
“As?”
“She is a pretty girl, despite her injuries, so you can imagine yourself, sir.”
“The colonel’s wife with a whore for a serving maid? She would not have her, surely, if she knew.”
Kohn shrugs. “I don’t know, sir. The Carrington woman seems a kind soul, a Christian woman.” He thinks of a phrase Molloy often uses himself. “There are no flies on her, as you would say. I reckon she knows well what the girl did for Kinney. But she is good to her, you can see that and she did not let me speak to her so there is no point I can see in pursuing it. She said something about ‘being held to account for