that followed, Arthur stood his ground for one of the few times in his life with his father. Beatie, if not happy, at least resigned herself to the event, and two weeks later, they all journeyed down to Pittsburgh in the Colonel’s private railcar to attend a Polish wedding.
It became an awkward affair for all concerned, in no small part because, beforehand, Beatie had told everyone that Xenia was the daughter of a Polish count, which was not exactly the truth. At the reception, as the groom’s small party stood aside from the throngs of Polish guests, Colonel Shaughnessy coarsely wondered aloud whether they should have brought a pound cake. Beatie felt grateful that Mr. Kzwalskci had ordered an orchestra to play classical music (even if it was Chopin) and she managed a nice chat with Mrs. Kzwalskci about tatting lace. Afterward the couple took a brief honeymoon to New Orleans, which neither of them had seen. Then he and Xenia went back to Boston, where he joined the company full-time. All this occurred in 1903.
Seven months later, Katherine Shaughnessy was born, and two years afterward Timothy Gray Shaughnessy came into the world. Arthur never regretted his decision, and as the years went past considered himself one of the world’s lucky men. Xenia’s finishing school in Pittsburgh had given her an abiding interest in literature, music, and the arts. They were a good fit, the Polish girl and the orphaned descendant of whatever-kind-of-immigrants, both just a generation or so removed from poverty and servitude. “Only in America,” as the Colonel was fond of saying.
TEN
I n the drawing room Arthur tired of waiting. He walked outside just in time to hear Beatie, who had returned from a walk on the beach, cry, “Oh, no, John! Not before lunch!”
“Pull!” the Colonel shouted, and snapped off two roaring shotgun blasts, powdering a double of clay pigeons out over the water. Beatie clapped her hands over her ears and Timmy Shaughnessy put his hands to his own.
“Now you try it,” said the Colonel.
The Colonel wasn’t at all satisfied with the way his grandson was developing, which he long ago concluded was a direct reflection on Arthur. The Colonel’s granddaughter, Katherine, going on thirteen and a true blond beauty, was coming along just fine. She rode with distinction, shot, fenced, and played a spectacular back on the girl’s field hockey team. Katherine was immensely well poised for her age—everyone said so—and, except for her blondness, it was easy to see the resemblance to her mother. She was going to be tall—was already tall, in fact—a “leaf-eater,” as the Colonel was fond of saying. She had gone immediately to the stables where one of her two black geldings was kept.
“Pull!” the Colonel shouted again, and Bomba, who was wearing a seersucker suit and a Panama hat, let loose two more clay targets. Colonel Shaughnessy easily blasted them into little wisps of black dust.
“John—must you?” Beatie wailed. “We were so enjoying the quiet of the morning.”
Bomba glanced back, noticed Arthur standing on the terrace, and broke out into a big grin. Arthur had long ago concluded that Bomba understood everything on earth.
Bomba had been hired—if that was the word for it—thirty-three years earlier when Colonel Shaughnessy fell off his yacht while drunk one night during a marlin-fishing trip in Samoa, and Bomba, then a sixteen-year-old dockhand, jumped in and rescued him. For this the young Samoan was rewarded with the splendors of the Boston world.
The Colonel had read too many stories about anarchist assassinations in Europe and figured it wouldn’t be long before the practice reached across the Atlantic. As the owner of a railroad, he feared he would be a prime candidate, so he felt he needed someone around to act as a bodyguard.
Bomba wasn’t his real name but the Colonel bestowed it on him because whatever he was called in Samoa was unpronounceable in English but one part of
It became an awkward affair for all concerned, in no small part because, beforehand, Beatie had told everyone that Xenia was the daughter of a Polish count, which was not exactly the truth. At the reception, as the groom’s small party stood aside from the throngs of Polish guests, Colonel Shaughnessy coarsely wondered aloud whether they should have brought a pound cake. Beatie felt grateful that Mr. Kzwalskci had ordered an orchestra to play classical music (even if it was Chopin) and she managed a nice chat with Mrs. Kzwalskci about tatting lace. Afterward the couple took a brief honeymoon to New Orleans, which neither of them had seen. Then he and Xenia went back to Boston, where he joined the company full-time. All this occurred in 1903.
Seven months later, Katherine Shaughnessy was born, and two years afterward Timothy Gray Shaughnessy came into the world. Arthur never regretted his decision, and as the years went past considered himself one of the world’s lucky men. Xenia’s finishing school in Pittsburgh had given her an abiding interest in literature, music, and the arts. They were a good fit, the Polish girl and the orphaned descendant of whatever-kind-of-immigrants, both just a generation or so removed from poverty and servitude. “Only in America,” as the Colonel was fond of saying.
TEN
I n the drawing room Arthur tired of waiting. He walked outside just in time to hear Beatie, who had returned from a walk on the beach, cry, “Oh, no, John! Not before lunch!”
“Pull!” the Colonel shouted, and snapped off two roaring shotgun blasts, powdering a double of clay pigeons out over the water. Beatie clapped her hands over her ears and Timmy Shaughnessy put his hands to his own.
“Now you try it,” said the Colonel.
The Colonel wasn’t at all satisfied with the way his grandson was developing, which he long ago concluded was a direct reflection on Arthur. The Colonel’s granddaughter, Katherine, going on thirteen and a true blond beauty, was coming along just fine. She rode with distinction, shot, fenced, and played a spectacular back on the girl’s field hockey team. Katherine was immensely well poised for her age—everyone said so—and, except for her blondness, it was easy to see the resemblance to her mother. She was going to be tall—was already tall, in fact—a “leaf-eater,” as the Colonel was fond of saying. She had gone immediately to the stables where one of her two black geldings was kept.
“Pull!” the Colonel shouted again, and Bomba, who was wearing a seersucker suit and a Panama hat, let loose two more clay targets. Colonel Shaughnessy easily blasted them into little wisps of black dust.
“John—must you?” Beatie wailed. “We were so enjoying the quiet of the morning.”
Bomba glanced back, noticed Arthur standing on the terrace, and broke out into a big grin. Arthur had long ago concluded that Bomba understood everything on earth.
Bomba had been hired—if that was the word for it—thirty-three years earlier when Colonel Shaughnessy fell off his yacht while drunk one night during a marlin-fishing trip in Samoa, and Bomba, then a sixteen-year-old dockhand, jumped in and rescued him. For this the young Samoan was rewarded with the splendors of the Boston world.
The Colonel had read too many stories about anarchist assassinations in Europe and figured it wouldn’t be long before the practice reached across the Atlantic. As the owner of a railroad, he feared he would be a prime candidate, so he felt he needed someone around to act as a bodyguard.
Bomba wasn’t his real name but the Colonel bestowed it on him because whatever he was called in Samoa was unpronounceable in English but one part of
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