The Richmond Saga, 1.1
Written by Andrew V.
Richmond, Virginia
August 20th, 1899
The trolley slid along East Main Street, dust heavy in the August heat, with the bustle of downtown Richmond alive and thrumming into the late morning. Carriages lined the wide lane—still yet to be properly paved—and in the elegant light on Richmond’s newest street, the ghostly facades of long-destroyed factories and depots just a few blocks away could almost be forgotten.
Preston Kirby spun his bowler in his sunstained hands, looking hot and uncomfortable in his pinstriped suit—rather like he had been poured into it by an unsteady hand. He tapped his dark, leather soles on the floor of the trolley, one at a time, mirroring the electric rattle of the car that glided eastward along the tracks.
Several gentlemen across from Mr. Kirby held large copies of the Richmond Times aloft, masking their faces. He stole glances at the headlines with an unpleasant expression and puffed his graying moustache, sighing as he leaned back and looked about the many shops and storefronts.
He recalled, the with some amazement, the transfiguration of the city since the war—with the skeletal ghosts of burned-out buildings appearing on occasion between the alleyways. Quite the contrast, he mused as he fished for his pocketwatch, from the aftermath of those horrific fires so many years ago.
The operator rattled an angry buzzer at a cloister of negro children playing stickball in the street, and they scattered wildly with contagious laughter just before the car reached them. He puffed his moustache again.
Soon enough, the trolley left the lovely avenue, with the large women’s hats and men’s bowlers drifting far to the distance as the trolley climbed and reached its junction at the base of Libby Hill. There was a café at the base of the hill, just off the station, that Mr. Kirby would have stopped to enjoy a late breakfast any other day of the year. He sighed as he left it, and his stomach felt it even worse. He heard his wife chastising him, even now—and felt that all the same, perhaps it was a time for cutting expenses at the Kirby household.
The walk up Libby Hill was wonderful indeed, even on a hot morning—as a glimpse of the entire valley rose steadily as one ascended toward the ballpark. From a certain vantage, one could place a hand over the James River and see Richmond’s rolling forests as God must have made them. With the hand removed, however, one witnessed an industrial desolation along the banks of the James—a labyrinth of train cars and clumsy barges, all smoking and chugging and drifting out into oblivion in the skeleton of those dead buildings near the river.
Cresting with some effort, Kirby noted the sharp pain in his knees and lack of air in his lungs. He pushed that aside, removing his hat to wipe the sweat from his pate and look on to the entrance of that wonderful stadium.
Libby Hill Park was indeed a rare beauty—not unlike Mrs. Libby Monroe, in her youth—for whom both the hill and park were named. A splendid, spacious infield with an emerald green and wide, spacious grandstands. Simple and elegant, like Virginia. Beyond the right field wall, Michael Monroe’s mansion loomed high against the sky, with the large, single cupula commanding a wide view of the field.
Try as he may as he looked out at this splendid ballpark he had called home for five years, Mr. Kirby could not push a singular conversation from his mind—one concluded not three weeks ago here at Libby Hill Park.
He was leaning against the wall of the clubhouse, under the ballpark. The season was over, and the fellows made their farewells. Players stopped to shake Cooper Fowler’s hand, patting him on the back, releasing their wisecracks, and moving on. Soon, only Cooper and Mr. Kirby remained—two ballplayers too old to play ball.
“Mister Kirby,” Cooper Fowler said at last, when just the two were left in the clubhouse. Cooper sat on the pine bench, looking briefly up to Kirby as he began to unlace his shoes. “General Manager, here to speak with me. What’s the occasion? My retirement?”
Cooper was tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven, with tan skin and a square jaw. He was articulate, when he spoke—which was rare, except to offer a word of praise or advice to a younger player. Recently, he had a faint limp in his gait, and these past years, pain in the corner of his eyes. It was time to go.
“Quite the send-off,” Preston Kirby said at last, a newspaper rolled in his hand. Cooper gave a small, ironic smile and shook his head. He ran his hands over his knees, wincing.
“Lord almighty, if I was twenty years younger when this all started.” Cooper sighed.
Kirby nodded, a soft smile. “You and me both, brother.”
“Now Mister Kirby,” Cooper noted in his rolling Richmond accent, looking up from his laces, “I don’t think you’re here to talk about my retirement.”
Nodding, Kirby was silent for a moment, working his jaw thoughtfully.
“They found out.” The ballplayer continued, removing one shoe after the other and setting them neatly in his worn, leather bag. He shrugged, looking up expectantly at Kirby. “So what?”
“Ain’t that simple, Coop,” Kirby replied distantly, waving a fly away with his free hand. “This is Richmond, Virginia.”
“Yeah,” Cooper answered emptily, throwing his loafers on each foot and slamming the bag hard down on the wooden planks. “Richmond, Virginia. My home.”
“You knew what you were doing when you came here.” Kirby’s tone hardened, and he pushed himself off the wall with his shoulder, folding his arms and looking hard down at Cooper.
“Oh yeah?” Cooper rose—a head taller than Kirby. He looked the smaller man up and down. “What about you, Mister Kirby? How many ‘Chief’s from Cuba and Montana you think there are in this here Legacy League?”
Holding his gaze for a moment, Kirby sighed, dropping his hands and shaking his head. “God damn it Coop, I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“No,” Cooper answered, snapping the bag shut. “You didn’t.”
The ballplayer paused for a long moment, looking over his shoulder at the clubhouse. In the silence, which seemed to go on an eternity, he drew in a breath and looked to the windows that led to the ballpark.
“I remember that home run against Boston like it was yesterday,” he said quietly, a distant expression out toward the sunlight. “You remember that? My first in the League. Like watching a star go back into the sky.”
“You only ever hit ‘em against northern clubs,” Kirby answered with a small, wry grin. Cooper grunted pitifully at that.
“Howd’ they find out?”
“Baltimore Courier,” Kirby answered. “Fella from Baltimore who said he drove rail with you on the seaboard line.”
“Could be a hundred different fellas,” Cooper answered, and he shook his head. “Is what it is.”
“Is what it is,” Kirby echoed.
“Well,” Cooper said, shouldering the bag and looking Kirby over with an appraising expression. “So long, Mister Kirby. You’ve been alright. Just alright.”
With that, Cooper strode out of the Richmond clubhouse forever.
“Just alright.” The statement lingered with Mister Kirby as he sat in the waiting room of Mr. Monroe’s lavish offices, a grandfather clock in the corner chiming out ten o’ clock. It sounded like a funeral knell.
He was ushered into the office of Michael Monroe—a wide, large-windowed chamber overlooking home plate. An elegant pool table was staged in the corner, where the Richmond Rifles Chief Executive, Henry Watson, leaned with his arms crossed and provided Kirby with a glare that could curdle milk.
Mister Monroe—the ancient general himself—sat quietly, thin and well-kept, dressed in an aged but fashionable suit and reviewing several notes that lay neatly categorized on his large bureau. The loud shut of the door behind Kirby nearly startled him, and he adjusted his tie.
“Mister Kirby,” Monroe said at last in his low, rolling voice—the perfect narration of an aged Virginia gentleman. Mister Watson, from across the room, dabbed at his large, bald head with a kerchief and maintained his scowl.
“Why don’t you tell us why you’re here.”
Monroe had several offices downtown—but on Wednesdays, he worked from the ballpark—to the lament of his large staff, Mister Watson especially. But the old Confederate General had his ways—and he usually got what he wanted.
Kirby considered, then threw down his newspaper on the old man’s desk—a Baltimore Courier from five days ago.
“Cooper Fowler’s a negro,” he answered calmly. “Half-negro. Father was a laborer on the Swansboro line.”
Watson smoldered, and Monroe looked up calmly at Mister Kirby.
“Yes,” the old general answered, resuming his notes with a wide hand—the pen streaming along in his papers. “Cooper Fowler is a negro. A negro who has, these last five years, manned a spot in your outfield.”
“Said he was part Indian,” Kirby answered with a shrug. “They don’t exactly come with pedigrees, Mister Monroe. Hell, I found Ezra Fisher in a china den in Norfolk.”
“You knew,” Watson hissed, his face beaded with sweat. “You always know, Kirby. You’re a god damned sage with your club, aren’t you? Know everything about ‘em, you say.”
Monroe held up a hand to Watson, and he silenced, leaning back against the pool table.
“Mister Kirby,” Monroe began thoughtfully, removing his spectacles and folding them with a gentle hand. “Do you know why I brought a ballclub to Richmond?”
Hell if I know, you mummified sonofabitch, Kirby thought. Monroe looked on like a patient professor.
“Money,” Kirby answered at last, his shoulders lowering.
“Correct.” Monroe set the glasses down on the desk. “Investments, Mister Kirby. Capital growth. White men, with their white families, take the trolley I built to the ballclub I built, to watch the team I bought play games I pay for.” He stared hard at Kirby, his gray eyes hard. “Money.”
“White Leagues. Sons of the Revolution. Jesus Christ Kirby, the god damned Daughters of the Confederacy want a full page in the Times.” Watson rose again, throwing his hands over his head and looking out, exasperated, over the ballpark.
“I thought we owned the Times.”
“I own the times.” Monroe answered, tapping the copy of the Courier on his desk. “But that won’t stop anyone else.”
“You’re gonna fix this, Kirby,” Watson declared, circling behind Monroe’s chair and leaning on the desk. “You made this mess, you’re going to clean it up.”
“Henry, with all due respect, you can take your orders straight to hell, if you can manage the walk.” Kirby leveled his eyes at the man, who glowered back at him—but once again, Monroe held up his hand.
“What Mister Watson means, Mister Kirby, is that you will evoke your General Manager rights at the Winter Meetings.” He ran a hand over a portfolio on his desk, sliding it toward Kirby. “You will move to have Cooper Fowler’s statistics stricken from the records.”
For the first time, Kirby’s expression lost its cool demeanor. Watson glowered from behind the desk, folding his arms.
“Like hell,” Kirby answered—nearly a low growl. He worked his jaw. “With all due respect, Mister Monroe, like hell I will.”
“I thought you might express that sentiment, Mister Kirby,” Monroe offered with a sigh, reaching for another portfolio. “Henry. Leave us for a moment, will you.”
With a brief look of surprise, Henry nodded, retrieving his suit jacket and stomping out of the office.
When he was gone, Monroe slowly rose—with some effort—and lit a cigar with a long match, offering one to Kirby, who refused, still glaring. Monroe looked out over the field.
“Lovely morning,” he said, puffing on the cigar. He heaved a sigh, leaning back and placing one hand in his breast pocket. “I know what it’s like to be an outsider, Kirby.” The old man nodded his head toward the rosary beads hanging from the wall. “I know your quality, despite your frontier scent. But I know men like you. Better than you know yourself.”
He turned to face Kirby again, his cigar wafting toward the second portfolio.
“Let’s not resort to barbarism, Kirby. I think you know what I mean.”
Kirby’s eyes slid down to the sealed portfolio, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he clenched his jaw, sweat building on his brow.
“Fine.”
“Good,” Monroe said calmly. He nodded. “Review the documents in your hands this week.” He waved Kirby away, like he had Watson, and turned back to face the field again.
Red-faced, Kirby clenched the folder, turning on a heel.
“Oh—and Mister Kirby?” Monroe called as Kirby placed a hand on the door, half-turned.
“Should you choose to fall on your sword—after your inevitable divorce, you’ll spend the rest of your life teaching baseball to Indians in Washington country.”
Without a response, Kirby left the office—the halls—the ballpark—hands glued to the portfolio. He observed the statue of Robert E. Lee, below the hill, with a rueful expression.
Just alright.
He walked all the way home.
