It was the whip-end of an era-when innocence died and
money
lust was-'enthroned. The new generation of Kents was
locked in
a feverish race for wealth-even as Europe's
millions poured
stacr the seas, to change the face of our nation and reap
its
forgotten promise among the pushcarts of Mulberry
Street, the c hardnosed docks of Boston, the
steaming Barbary Coast.
Gideon Kent, his health failing, fears for the
future of his lost dynasty. His
actress-daughter, Eleanor, learns what
it is to love an alien in the land of the free.
Con-man Carter drifts cross-country in search
of a lazy fortune. It falls to young Will, broken
by his mother's madness, to redeem Philip Kent's
American dream.
The Americans
At the turn of the century, America waltzes in
the grand ballrooms of the Vanderbilts, prints
yellow journals that can steer a nation with lies, and
opens its arms to the Old World's fugitive children.
It is electrified by a young Dakota rancher named
Teddy Roosevelt and believes that the giddy rush
of champagne and power will never, never end . . .
The Kents-Eleanor, Carter, Will-are heirs to this
land they have never earned and a faith they are bound
to keep. It is they who must face the challenge of
immigrant America, of dark-eyed strangers who
cry for justice in the slums, who claim the golden
name of THE AMERICANS
THE KENT FAMILY CHRONICLES, Volume
VIII
The
Kent family Chronicles
With all the color and sweep of American history
itself, THE AMERICANS continues The Kent
Family Chronicles-a mighty saga of heroism
and dedication, patriotism and valor, shining spirit and
abiding faith.
Here is the story of our nation-and an amazing family
living in the turbulent times that make up the
American Experience.
This magnificent series of novels is more than
absorbing, entertaining reading-it is a resounding
affirmation of the greatness of America.
NOVELS IN THE SERIES THE BASTARD 1
THE REBELS 2 THE SEEKERS 3 THE
FURIES 4 THE TITANS 5 THE
WARRIORS 6 THE LAWLESS 7 THE
AMERICANS 8
THE KENT FAMILY CHRONICLES VOLUME
VIII
JOHN JAKES
  A JOVEBOOK His
Copyright
[*copy]
1980 by John Jakes and Book Creations,
Inc. Produced by Lyle Kenyon Engel. All
  rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
  Requests for permission to make copies of any
part of the work should be mailed to: Permissions, Jove
Publications, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue,
New York, NY 10016
  First Jove edition published February 1980
  10 987654321
  Printed in the United States of America
  Jove books are published by Jove
Publications, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue,
New York, NY 10016
For Nina
Chapter VI Chapter VH Chapter VIII
Chapter DC Chapter X Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Contents
Prologue LOST
Book One
THE CHAINS OF THE PAST
AT THE RED COD 29
BRAWL36
CAUGHT44
HEARST51
AT HOME ON
BEACON STREET60
MIDNIGHT VISITOR69
DEFIANCE77
EBEN'S FATE83
THE GREEK WOMAN91
CAMPAIGN YEAR99
THE SECRET DOOR112
A FATHER'S FEAR119
vii
Chapter XIVA VIOLENT LESSON** be
Chapter XVA DETECTIVE CALLS1
Chapter XVITHE NOTE
were'
Chapter XVHTHE PROMISE3
Chapter XVIHCARTER'S CHOICE1
Book Two
THE JOURNEY OF WILL KEN-
Chapter IUNHAPPY HOMECOMING 1
Chapter H ELEANOR AND LEO1
Chapter m WELCOME TO THE
BAD LANDS2
Chapter IVA TILT WITH
MR. MAUNDERS2
Chapter V8HASTEN FORWARD
QUICKLY THEREFF"2
Chapter VI THE HORSE CORRAL2
Chapter VH AMBITION2
Chapter VIH NIGHT THUNDER2
Chapter K THE VICTIMBLEB
Chapter X OLD DOC DEATH- 2
Chapter XI A PLAN FOR THE
FUTURE2
Chapter XH MAUNDERS AG2

Chapter XIV A SUCCESSFUL MAN283
Chapter XV JOURNEY'S END292
Book Three
THE UPWARD PATH
Chapter IIN GALVESTON299
Chapter IIBEHIND BARS306
Chapter m JO310
Chapter IV THE STUDENTS318
Chapter VTROUBLE AT
MADAM MELBA'S330
Chapter VI MARCUS- 336
Chapter VH THE PENNELS343
Chapter VIH THE LIONESS350
Chapter DC A DOCTOR'S DUTY359
Chapter XLAURA'S VICTORY366
Chapter XI CASTLE GARDEN greater-than 374
Chapter XH BIRTH383
Chapter XIH "THE WRETCHED REFUSE OF
YOUR TEEMING
SHORE"392
Chapter XIV THE ONLY HOPEBLEDJJ
IX
THE
WATERS ROAR
Chapter I
THE
TROUPERSBLEDAG
Chapter H THE OTHER CHEEKBLEDBF
Chapter I'll A DREAM IN THE RAINBLEDCA
Chapter IV ATTACKBLEDDB
Chapter V STRANDEDBLEDDI
Chapter VI ADRIFT ,bledeg
bar
r
Chapter VH DANGER ON A
1* DARK STREET460
Chapter VHI THE WEAPONBLEDFI
Chapter DC THE BLIND BOSSBLEDGH
Chapter X STEAM BEERBLEDHE
Chapter XI PUNCHER MARTINBLEDID
Chapter XH THE DELUGE504
Chapter XIH FLOOD TIDE510
Chapter XIV FIRE IN THE WATER516
Chapter XV CONFESSION525
Chapter XVI "NOT KNOWN
TO BE FOUND'*536
THE MARBLE COTTAGE
Chapter I SUMMER OF '89553
Chapter II QUARREL562
Chapter IH NEWPORT570
Chapter IV THE SHACKER577
Chapter V MAISON DU SOLEIL584
Chapter VI WHISPERS593
Chapter VH LOVE AND HONOR' 600
Chapter VIII ACCUSATION609
Chapter IX SUMMONS615
Chapter X PARTING621
Book Six
THE EDUCATION OF WILL KENT
Chapter ITHE BEND635
Chapter HUNEXPECTED HELP640
Chapter in "ONE NOTCH
ABOVE HELL"648
Chapter IV WARNING654
Chapter VTHE POLICEMAN " 660
Chapter VI STALE BEER668
Chapter VII THE TENEMENT678
xi
r
Chapter VIII JO'S CONFESSION 685
Chapter IXTHE RAID690
Chapter XULTIMATUMBLEFII
Chapter XIQUESTIONS707
Chapter XIIWHAT FENNEL SD8713 bar
Chapter XfflCARNAGE720
Chapter XIVUNDER THE KNIFE, 731
Chapter XVLAURA'S CONFESSION740
Chapter XVIREUNION747 bar
Chapter XVHSOMEONE WAITING752
v
Chapter XVHI THE SECRET7592AR
Chapter XIX THE BROKEN PROMISE 767
Epilogue
. . . AND MAKE A MARK 783
XII
"But as you already know your rights and privileges so
well, I am going to ask you to excuse me if I
say a few words to you about your duties. Much has
been given to us ... and we must take heed to use
aright the gifts entrusted to our care. It is
not what we have that will make us a great nation; it is the
way in which we use it. I do not undervalue for a moment
our material prosperity; like all Americans, I
like big things; big prairies, big forests and
mountains, big wheat fields, railroads . . .
big factories, steamboats, and everything else.
But we must keep steadfastly in mind that no people were ever
yet benefited by riches if their prosperity
corrupted their virtue."
July 4, 1886:
Hon. Theodore Roosevelt,
addressing the first
Independence Day celebration
in Dickinson,
Dakota Territory.
Lose
Forty,
Gideon Kent thought.
Before the year's over, I'll be that old. The country
-
and the Kents
-
have survived a great many disasters in that time. So have
I, for that matter. But what about the next forty
years? Will I live that long?
Of late he'd begun to wonder. He'd been
experiencing some pains that alarmed him; pains about which
he said nothing to anyone else. His father had died at
a relatively young age. And he was already edging
close to the limit of an average man's life
expectancy-forty-seven years and a few months.
The approach of his fortieth birthday merely
emphasized that fact.
still
may have only a few years left to set things in
order. And once I'm gone, who will bear the burden
of leading this family?
Above all other worries, that one beset him almost
constantly. During the day it ruined his concentration, and
during the night it ruined his sleep. Again this evening-
the close of the first day of January, 1883-x made
him uneasy and restless.
A half hour after the evening meal was over, he
looked in at the door of the sitting room belonging
to his wife Julia. He told her he needed a
bit of air. Her concerned expression and wordless nod
said she understood some of the turmoil he was going through.
Downstairs again, he flung a long muffler around his
I neck and set an old top hat on his head.
In recent years he'd taken to wearing a
full beard. Along with the leather patch on his blind
left eye and the gray streaks in his tawny hair, the
beard lent him a piratical air. He looked as
if he belonged in some deadfall near the docks rather
than in the splendid, brick-fronted residence on
Beacon Street from
which he emerged into swirling fog.
still
i
The night was damp but exceptionally warm for
January. He turned eastward without a conscious
thought. His solitary walks always took him to the
same destination; a place which usually brought
solace, and the answers to whatever questions had driven him
to walk in the first place.
Lately, there seemed to be no answers anywhere.
He was upset about the country's drift toward
materialism and sharp dealing. The worst excesses
of the Grant years were growing pale by comparison.
Only success mattered, not the means by which a man
achieved it. Appearances counted for more than substance,
which seemed not to count at all. Newspapers,
including his, were guilty of paying more attention to the
guest lists for opulent dinner parties than to the
plight of the poor starving in urban slums.
It seemed that in America, a man's highest
ambition was no longer to live in liberty, at peace
with his conscience, but rather to be accepted by, and live in
the thrall of, a few elderly women who ruled what
everyone called Society.
Gideon realized he might be cynical about
Society because he would never be admitted to it no
matter how long he lived. It was human to dislike
what was denied you. But even if Mrs. Astor had
kissed his foot and begged him to attend one of her
fancy balls, he still would have loathed Society and
all it represented. He might have gone to the ball,
though. Just to smoke a few cigars, sing a few old
cavalry songs, and ruffle the hostess.
But his most pressing concern these days was a caret
rift he saw in the family. A drift that might
well presage the decline of the Kents.
He was far from young. The pains were a telling reminder
of that. He was beginning to fear that when his mortality
finally caught up with him, no one would be ready
to take over the leadership of the family. And he
feared no one had the desire.
He strode up the sloping street toward Charles
Bulfinch's magnificent State House. Its
great dome dominated Beacon Hill and the
city's skyline. The building was one of those which led people
to call Boston the Athens of America. But tonight
Gideon was oblivious to the attractions of the local
architecture and all but unaware of the emptiness of the
streets. Last night, they'd been thronged with
noisy revelers welcoming the new year.
As he approached a hack standing at the curb, he
reached into his coat for a cigar. The hack driver
sat motionless on the high seat, an indistinct
figure in the fog. Gideon struck a match.
By its light, the cabman recognized him:
"Why, hello, Mr. Kent. Foul evening for a
stroll."
"Oh, it isn't too bad, Sandy. Looks like
business is slow."
The driver surveyed the empty sidewalk and
chuckled. "You might say. But last night I did
double my usual, so it all works out. Thank the Lord
I didn't forget my best friend when I left home
in Roxbury."
From his lap robe he pulled a pottery bottle
shaped like a coachman complete with whip, greatcoat,
and top hat. When he tugged on the hat, it came
away from the neck of the bottle with a pop. The
cabman tilted the bottle and swigged. Then
he held it out to Gideon:
"Care for a tot, Mr. Kent? I short myself on
a lot of things, but never on bourbon."
"Don't mind if I do."
He reached up for the bottle. The picture he must
have presented-a Beacon Street Bostonian
tippling on the curbstone-amused him. Such
behavior was one reason the Kents would never be
welcome in Society. One reason, but not the main
reason, he thought as fragments of the McAllister
Incident of two years ago flickered in his mind.
The whiskey slid down smoothly, but was still powerful
enough to make him blink and catch his breath. "Very fine
stuff, Sandy."
"It's Kentucky, Mr. Kent. The best."
"Easy to tell that. Thanks for sharing it."
"Don't mention it, sir. Just send me a fare if
you come
across one."
Gideon waved and walked on. The bourbon made
him feel a bit better, and a bit ashamed of his own
pessimism. Why couldn't he be content? he
wondered as he continued eastward. He had a wife
he loved deeply, and who loved him. He had a
thriving publishing house, a successful
newspaper, a very large fortune which continued to
increase
thanks to rising profits and prudent investment. And
he was lucky enough to live in what he considered to be
one of the world's finest cities-the first American city
his ancestor, Philip Kent, had seen when he
stepped off the ship from Bristol.
The Kents had been back in Boston since
1878. Gideon loved the place as much or more
than he loved New York. From the Common and the
adjacent Public Garden to the new
neighborhoods of the expanding South End, it was a
bustling blend of the traditional and the modern. The city
had a healthy economy produced by foundries,
rubber and shoe factories, and the commerce of a harbor
always filled with ocean vessels, coastal
packets, ferries, barges, and the new steam tugs.
In such a prosperous setting, culture flourished.
Boston was a fine book town, for example. One
bit of evidence was just ahead, at the intersection of
School and Washington Streets. William
Ticknor's famous Old Corner Book
Store. Gideon paused to look at several
titles from Kent and Son displayed in a window.
One of the volumes was an expensive
fifteenth anniversary edition of Louisa May
Alcott's
Little Women,
a favorite ever since its publication. Miss
Alcott wrote fiction appropriate for the whole
family under her own name, and more lurid material under
pseudonyms. She was one of Gideon's
neighbors on Beacon Hill. Others included
elderly Mr. Whittier, the Quaker poet; Dr.
Holmes, the physician and author of popular
light verse; and Mr. HoweLls, the editor,
critic, and novelist.
Boston was a good theater town, too. Top touring
companies regularly played the Tremont, where
Dickens had lectured on his second American
tour in "67, and the Boston, said to be New
England's largest playhouse. There was vaudeville
to be seen at the Howard Athenaeum, and fine music
to be heard at the Music Hall opposite Park
Street Church.
Gideon loved music; all sorts of music,
familiar or new. Just a little over a year ago he
and Julia had been among those at the Music
Hall when George Henschel conducted the Boston
Symphony in a performance of the Symphony
Number Two by Henschel's friend, Johannes
Brahms.
Gideon thought it a splendid, stirring work. Yet
many people had walked out during and immediately after the
allegro non troppo.
The Kents had stayed through the remaining three
movements, and later some of their friends had teased them
about their taste for modern music; had jokingly
called them "brahmins" because they'd liked the
symphony.
Gideon also shared the city's affinity for sports.
He liked
nothing better than to stroll along the shore of the
Charles at twilight and watch the Harvard rowing
team working out'in swift-moving sculls. He'd
become a strong partisan of the college football
team, especially in its intense rivalry with
Yale. The first game between the schools had been
played in '75, Harvard emerging the winner. Since
then, Yale had won every game. But hope still drew
Gideon to Holmes Field on Saturday afternoons
in the autumn.
Though he seldom brought up the subject with
Julia, he enjoyed less respectable forms of
athletics as well. Like most
Bostonians, he'd become a bare-knuckle
prize fight addict in the past year or so; the
country's reigning champion,
twenty-three-year-old John Lawrence
Sullivan, had been born in nearby Roxbury,
and had knocked out his first opponent on the stage of a
Boston variety theater when he was nineteen. The
preceding February, Gideon had ridden a
succession of trains to reach Mississippi City,
Mississippi, to see Sullivan take the crown
from Paddy Ryan in nine rounds. Gideon didn't
think much of Sullivan's often-stated contempt for
foreign fighters. But there was no doubt that the handsome,
hazel-eyed Irishman could indeed punch hard enough
to fell a horse-even when he was half drunk or
hung over, which was often. The Boston Strong Boy
had a notorious passion for spiritous liquors and
barroom brawling.
At the intersection, Gideon crossed
brick-paved Washington Street and walked north.
At State he turned east again. He could smell
the waterfront now, the salt of the sea penetrating the
fog. How he'd miss Boston if he were ever forced
to leave!
He could hardly count all the things he'd
long for. The great metal tea kettle, big enough
to hold over two hundred gallons of water, that
hung in front of the Oriental Tea Company on
Court Street. The convivial meetings of his two
literary clubs, the Saturday Club and St.
Botolph's. The animated conversation of the members
of the Ladies' Visiting Committee who
frequently met at the Kent house; Julia was
on the charitable society's board of managers.
He'd miss the equestrian statue of Washington
at the entrance to the Public Garden. The tower
clock, and the noise of trains shuttling in and out of
Providence Station. The sight of the glowing beacon
atop the Custom House; the smells of the flower and
vegetable shows at Horticul-
tural Hall; the taste of the hot rolls at the
Parker House hotel-
Of course he'd have to give it all up one of these
days. The months kept racing by. Much faster than
they had when he was young, it seemed. There would come a
moment comperh sooner than expected-when he would have
no more time.
And who would lead the family?
Gideon Kent loved his daughter, his son, and his
stepson. That didn't prevent him from
recognizing the problems each one faced. Problems
which might well prevent them from carrying on the
family's tradition.
Eleanor, for example, was preoccupied by the demands
of her profession. She was an actress-which
automatically barred her from full respectability
for the rest of her life. greater-than -She was
currently being courted by a member of her troupe, a
young Jewish actor whom she'd known for some years.
If she wanted to fall in love with a Jew, that was
her business. But Gideon understood the temperament
of a good number of Americans. Should Eleanor's
liaison become a permanent one, it could lead
to difficulties. Perhaps heartbreaking ones.
There was something else about Eleanor that disturbed
Gideon. A secret hurt he believed she'd
suffered on the night in 1877 when his New York
mansion had been invaded by a mob of roughnecks. His
first wife, Margaret, had died that night. And something
had happened to his daughter. Something about which she never
spoke. But it kad scarred her, of that he was
positive.
Then there was his younger child, W. A vigorous boy, Will
would be fourteen this year. He had an innate
decency and a trusting nature, but he thought
poorly of himself. Gideon saw evidence of that almost
every day.
Will's lack of confidence left Gideon feeling
inadequate as a father. Inadequate and guilty.
The guilt was heightened every time he tried to bolster his
son's faith in himself. He never succeeded.
Gideon feared that, left uncorrected, Will's
feeling of inferiority could blight his life.
Will's relationship with Julia's son, Carter,
bothered Gideon, too. Carter had been a
companion for Will at a time when Will most needed one.
But now the younger boy had become dependent on the
older. And Carter wasn't exactly an ideal
model for anyone's character.
Oh, he had good qualities. He was
intelligent, and certainly not without courage. But he
tended to glibness, he was headstrong, and he had a
calculating streak. His father, Louis Kent, had
been a Civil War profiteer, an unashamed
opportunist all his life. Gideon detected
signs of a similar disposition in Louis's son.
Furthermore, Carter's tendency to resist
authority made his school career a disaster. Only
repeated intervention on Gideon's part had
prevented his dismissal from preparatory
school, the exclusive Adams Academy out in
Quincy. Now Carter was barely hanging on at
Harvard. He hadn't survived the social winnowing
which traditionally took place during the sophomore
year; he hadn't been chosen for the first of the clubs
by means of which a student made his way
up the school's invisible social ladder. Of
course the fault
was in part Gideon's; all the prominent families
that sent
sons to Harvard knew of what Gideon mentally
referred to
as the McAllister Incident
Academically, things were even worse for Carter.
He was having particular trouble with a professor of
German,
a bad-tempered fellow whose dictatorial manner
clashed
with Carter's dislike of any and all rules. The
professor was determined to see him dismissed from the
college-or so Carter claimed.
In his own way, Gideon loved Eleanor, and Will,
and Carter. But that love hadn't prevented him from
losing
faith in the ability of the three young people to hold
the
family together in the years ahead. None of the three
showed the slightest interest in the ideals by which several
generations of Kents had tried to live. Eleanor was
too busy. Carter was too reckless and
irresponsible. And Will-the one among them who might
offer the best hope of leadership-Will's character was being
warped by his low self-esteem, and his worship of his
stepbrother.
How shameful of me to think so poorly of them.
Yet Gideon was powerless to do anything else. And
he couldn't explain away his loss of faith
by reminding himself that as people grew older, they always
developed a skepticism of the young, thus acting out
one of the eternally recurring patterns of human
life.
With a start, he realized he'd reached the waterfront
Down a dark lane, a concertina squeaked faintly.
To his right, he heard petticoats rustling but
couldn't see the
whore because of the fog. Ahead, men bellowed a
chantey behind sulphurous-looking windows of bottle
glass. The singing came from a notorious dive
called the Red Cod. Ever backslash week or
so. someone got knifed or beaten there.
He walked slowly out along a pier. There were at
least two hundred such piers in Boston now. But
many of the oldest ones were gone, including Griffin's
Wharf where Phillip Kent had gathered the tea which was
kept in the small green bottle that stood on a
mantel at home. Griffin's had been buried by the
landfill that had expanded the cit greater-than along the
waterfront and the Back Bay.
A steam tug chugged out on the water, its engines at
dead slow and its bell ringing a constant warning. Its
running lights were barelv visible in the heavy fog.
Amid the reek of fish and cordage, Gideon
stood shivering in the dank air. Europe, the
family's homeland, lay out there somewhere But it was
hidden.
Just like the tug-
Just like the future. his
Fear surged through him. Fear that the family
traditions would wither, the familv's dedication
to principle evaporate in the climate of
materialism settling over America-
He shivered again. Despite the mildness of the evening,
his hands and legs had grown cold and stiff. He
rubbed his upper arms and stamped his feet. The pilings
of the pier creaked.
Could he somehow change things? He wasn't sure.
He feared there were already forces at work too powerful for
him to overcome.
But he
had
to overcome them; struggle against them until he set
each of the younger Kents on the right road-
Tonight, it was hard for him to feel any confidence in his
ability to do that. In this cold, forlorn place, his
spirits had sunk to their lowest point in a long time.
Suddenly a dart of pain pierced the center of his
chest. Pierced and spread outward, toward the edges of
his breastbone. The pain quickly became a tight
constriction; a heavy weight pushing against him. He
had trouble getting his breath. For the ten or fifteen
seconds in which the pain persisted, he was terrified.
When it passed, his cheeks were bathed with sweat. What
was the cause of the pain? Was he going to be struck
Sown by the same kind of heart seizure that had
killed his father, Jephtha Kent, at a
relatively young age?
He couldn't permit that to happen. Not with the family in
its present state of disarray. Upset and anxious,
he gazed to the east. What would Philip have done?
Old Philip, that self-assured,
faintly truculent man who stared out from the ornate
picture frame in Gideon's study.
From the dark and the fog hiding the Atlantic, no
answer came.
God forgive him for having lost faith in the younger
Kents and their ability to take command of the future,
instead of letting it take command of them. The
hopelessness was growing in him like a disease. He knew
the real reason for it. The children weren't to blame; he
was. He had lost faith in himself. He had lost
faith in his own ability to stop or redirect forces
already in motion-
Sudden footsteps. He turned and saw an old
seaman outlined against the light of a tavern door; the
Red Cod again. The door had been opened so that two
men could throw a third out into the fog. His chin struck
the cobbles and Gideon heard the snap of a bone
breaking. The men inside shut the door with a muffled
bang. The darkness hid the man lying motionless, and the
old seaman too. But Gideon heard the latter's
drink-slurred voice address him:
"Ye don't look like ye belong in this part of town,
mate. Are ye lost?"
Gideon chuckled; a hard, humorless sound.
"Completely."
"Can I help ye out?"
"By God I wish you could. Thank you anyway."
Gideon walked by the old man and headed back in the
direction of the city. His words, spoken quietly but
with the fervor of desperation, made the old seaman
scratch his head and stare after him long after
Gideon's form was lost in the fog.
Book One The Chains
Of
The Past
At
the Red Cod
OF ALL THE WATERFRONT dives in
Boston, none looked meaner or dingier inside than
the Red Cod-and none was more dangerous.
The place catered to the rough men who worked the fishing
boats, and to others who cleaned, cut up, and packed
ice around the fish the boats brought back. There was
also a smaller group of patrons even more reckless
and amoral than the first two. These were the men and women
who lived off the fishermen and the packing house workers.
It was a female in this smaller group whom Carter
Kent had decided to visit tonight. The visit was
possible only because Carter had hoarded his allowance for
several weeks. Like many parents of young men
at Harvard, Gideon was generous with his stepson;
perhaps overly generous. Carter often thought with great
amusement that if his stepfather knew how the so-called
pocket money was being spent, there would be no more of it.
Unlike Gideon, Carter did not go to the docks
for peace and contemplation, but for excitement and
physical gratification. He liked the Red Cod
because it was so distinctly different from his college
surroundings. There was an air of casual disregard
of the law, a refreshing contrast to the discipline under which
he suffered as a student. He found the atmosphere
of barely suppressed violence exciting, though he
was well aware that it was risky for Harvard men to set
foot in the tavern. Few did. Even his friend
Willie Hearst, who also had a liking for
excitement, didn't come down to this part of the city.
Tonight-Washington's birthday, 1883-the Red Cod
seemed unusually crowded. The stench of sweat, beer,
gin,
and fish hit Carter like a bludgeon as he stepped
inside, feeling, as always, the quickening of his pulse that
accompanied a visit here.
The tavern was noisy and the constant calls for service
almost uniformly profane. The landlord, a graying
runt named Phipps, looked annoyed by the
commotion. When he recognized Carter, his gaze
grew even more sullen.
Carter slid past a table of rowdies to an old
deacon's bench that had just been vacated near the
smoky fireplace. At a table behind the bench and
close to a little-used side door sat Tillman,
an obese fisherman who worked for Carter's sometime
drinking companion, Captain Eben Royce.
Tillman waved his battered pewter mug. Carter
grinned and returned the greeting. Phipps,
meantime, came out from behind his serving counter with three
tankards in each hand. "One side, one side, you
damned lazy louts."
Carter spied the serving girl he hoped to engage for a
few minutes later on to relieve the tension that had
built up recently. Josie was illiterate, and
rather stout, but still in her twenties, and good-natured.
She had breasts of positively amazing dimensions.
She was displaying them by leaning over while she served a
table in back. Carter saw the redness of a nipple
showing above the line of her none too clean blouse.
She in turn saw Carter watching, and smiled.
Phipps gave his girls time to make a quick dollar
or two, and in return for his generosity he
collected a portion of their earnings.
A number of patrons gave Carter surly, even
hostile looks. At twenty-one, he was a
broad-shouldered, handsome young man with jet black
hair and eyes. His skin had a swarthy cast-a
heritage from his paternal grandfather, an officer in the
Mexican army. His coloring might have induced some
to take him for one of the Portugese fishermen who
frequented the tavern, except that he didn't
move or speak like a sailor; his upbringing in a
wealthy household gave him a certain polish and
grace he couldn't entirely disguise. And although he
always wore old clothes to the Red Cod, they were
cleaner and neater than those of the other patrons.
He reached the high-backed bench and dragged it across
t he dirty floor to a place immediately next to the
fire. He
was chilled. It had been a long walk down from
Beacon
Street, through streets wet with the melting of last
night's heavy snow. Phipps, on his way back
to the serving area, passed close to Carter.just as he
moved the bench. The landlord reacted with a loud
exclamation:
"Leave the damn furniture where I put it,
boy."
Carter's face darkened. He knew Phipps
wouldn't have picked on him if he were one of the
regulars. Phipps despised Harvard students.
Last fall, several of them had come in, ostensibly
for ale, and had uncorked bottles of bugs
especially collected for the occasion. Even the
patrons of the Cod, who were familiar with vermin of
all sorts, still talked of the prank. The bugs had
numbered in the hundreds-the count depended on the
source-and Phipps had been violently
antagonistic toward the college crowd ever since.
Still, Carter automatically resented the order. Then
he remembered what sort of place he was in, and
smiled the bright, charming smile that was one of his few
assets:
"Mr. Phipps, I'm damn near numb from the
trip down here. Can't hurt to let me sit by your
fire a min-was
"Leave it where 1 put it!"
Phipps shoved him aside and then pushed the bench
back to its original position. Chairs scraped,
heads turned, and men snickered at Carter's
expense.
Anger consumed him then. But instead of giving into it, as
he wanted to do, he had the good sense to call
on his only real talent, one he'd discovered years
before. He had a certain quickness of mind and facility
with words which made it easy for him to speak
persuasively. And he had that charming smile, which
somehow gave credibility to even his most outrageous
statements.
"What a thing to do to a frozen patron-especially in
this city and on this day!" he said with a grin, quite aware
of the splintered bung starter Phipps kept in his
belt. The landlord was resting his hand on it, as if
hoping to find an excuse to use it on his young
customer. But Carter's remark confused him.
"This day?" Phipps repeated, blinking.
"The first president's birthday! Old George
fought for freedom, and on his birthday, in the town that
was the very cradle of liberty, I should think a man
would be free to move a bench a few inches when he's
frozen his ass to
come here and give you his money. Seems to me you're not
a very proper, liberty-loving American, Mr.
Phipps."
The glibness of the words caught the fancy of some of the
previously hostile patrons, who laughed and
applauded:
"He's got you there, Phippsy!"
"Let Harvard put his bench where he wants it."
Phipps eyed the crowd, and Carter, with disgust.
"Ah, do it, then." He pivoted away. Carter
kept that glowing smile in place and executed a
mock bow to the man:
"President Washington thanks you, and so do I-was
He was bent over at the bottom of the bow, and thus his
face was hidden from the landlord as he added in a whisper,
"You ignorant jackass"
Suddenly he bunked. That was it. The solution he'd
been seeking for weeks-ever since it had become
clear that his nemesis, Eisler, would give him
failing marks this year, too. In this distinctly
unlikely setting, old Phipps had
inadvertently triggered the answer to Carter's
problem.
Royce's fat cohort, Tillman,
congratulated him on winning the battle of the bench.
Carter grinned again, thanked him and sat down,
barely able to contain a new kind of excitement. The
scheme for revenge had jumped full-blown into his
mind. His friend Willie, one year his junior but
already a connoisseur of pranks, would love it. The
only question was-did Carter have the money and the nerve
to ,carry it off?

He'd completely forgotten Josie. He realized
it when he felt her big breast pressing against his right
shoulder; she had come up beside him at the end of the bench,
feigning a pout:
"Hello, Carter my sweet. I thought you'd come
to see me, an' then all at once, you looked a
hundred miles off."
He grinned and pulled her down on his knee. He
ran his hand up beneath her skirt-she never wore
drawers-and fondled her.
"Ah, that feels lovely," she laughed, wiggling.
"But you know Phippsy don't allow samplin' of the
goods."
"He doesn't allow much of anything," Carter
grumbled, withdrawing his hand.
She giggled again. "You showed him up good. That tongue
of yours is a wicked instrument."
"Of course you speak from experience-was
She batted at his nose in feigned anger. In an
age in which the stern and upright British queen set the
moral tone for the entire Western world, tavern
sluts liked to mock then: upper-class counterparts;
this Josie proceeded to do with elaborate gestures,
sniffs, and grimaces. But she hadn't the
talent to carry it off more than a few seconds, and
Carter soon grew bored:
"I mustn't be too annoyed with Phippsy. He
gave me a splendid idea for getting back at
Eisler."
"That German still giving you fits, is he?"
"He's out for my balls-academically speaking, of
course."
Again she laughed. "Trouble with you, sweet-you can't stand
to have anybody tell you what to do."
"You've discovered that, eh?" He bussed her cheek.
"Well, that may be. On the other hand, Eisler
can't do anything
but
tell people what to do-was Suddenly dejection overcame
him. "I really don't belong in that damn
college, Josie. I don't know whether I'm more
inept scholastically or socially."
- "My, my," she sighed, "what a lot of big
words. You act like they're all mighty important.
You'll feel a lot better as soon as you decide
they aren't."
He gave her a long, thoughtful look. "I think you
may be right. There's one thing I'm going to do well
at Harvard, at least. I'm talking about
paying that bastard back."
"I know something you do very well," she said, leaning over
to kiss his ear. His cheek itched from contact with a
piece of her false hair. The hair was made of
tow, he suspected. On occasion his mother wore
expensive natural hair imported from France, but
tavern harlots couldn't spend that kind of money just
to enchance a hairdo.
Phipps banged his palm on the counter. "Josie!
Get back to work. He don't get to feel till
he pays up."
"Told you," Josie whispered with a resentful glare
at her employer. She slid off Carter's lap,
causing him to lose the pleasurable stiffness he'd been
enjoying ever since she plumped her hefty
buttocks into his lap. What a pity that
stiffness was all he'd enjoy this evening. He had
decided to dispense with Josie's services. He'd
need every cent to rent the equipment necessary for carrying out his
splendid scheme.
"Be ready for me soon?" Josie asked as she
started off.
"I imagine," he replied in a vague way.
"Right now
bring me a pot of beer, will you? And tell
Phippsy to go to hell."
While another patron grabbed Josie's wrist and
engaged her in conversation, Carter noticed the
leather-faced Phipps watching him through the slow-moving
smoke. Garter would have liked to smash the landlord's
face for him, but he was determined to avoid trouble
tonight. He wanted to concentrate on planning his
revenge against the man he loathed above all others.

Associate Professor Edmund Eisler
taught German. He had given Carter failing
marks twice the preceding year, had failed him again
at the end of the first term this year, , and had made it
clear that he intended to fail him a fourth time in the
spring. Carter had asked university officials
why, when he was required to repeat the introductory
German course, he was put back into Eisler's
section. The answer was blunt: Eisler had
requested it.
In Carter's opinion the man belonged in the
Prussian army, not in a classroom. His curly
blonde hair lay over his forehead in damp,
effeminate ringlets. He had protruding blue
eyes, and a superior manner, and loved to strut in
front of his classes with a gold-knobbed
cane in hand. He issued study instructions as if
they were military orders, emphasizing them by whacking
the cane on the desk.
What had really precipitated the trouble between them was
a tea Eisler and his dumpy wife had given for the
professor's students during Carter's first term
at Harvard. There Carter had met the Eislers'
daughter, a yellow-haired, dumpling-shaped girl
whom some of Carter's fellow students said would take
on any boy who asked. Over hot tea and lemon
snaps, Carter asked-but not softly enough; the
professor was standing just a step behind him.

Eisler's daughter protected herself by pretending
moral outrage. And from then on, Eisler was the
foe.
He missed no chance to demean Carter. It was
widely known in Cambridge that Eisler's wife
had social pretensions, and curried the favor of
women considered to be leaders of Boston society.
Once, after a particularly heated exchange,
Eisler had sneered:
"Why should I expect anything but boorishness from you,
Heir
Kent? I know, after all, what your stepfather
did to McAllister."
The more Eisler bore down on Carter's
deficiencies as a student of language- "You
speak German as if you were an immigrant from the
moon. And a rather dim-witted immigrant, at
that."-the more Carter resisted. When Eisler assigned
homework due the next day, Carter finished a day
late. When Eisler doubled the assigned work as a
means of reprisal, Carter handed the assignment in
a week late-or not at all.
In class, they argued over everything; Carter had a
talent for that. They went round and round on subjects
as diverse as the pronunciation of the umlaut and the
worth of the campus humor magazine, the
Lampoon,
the efficiency of Boston's Metropolitan
Horse Railroad and, not many weeks earlier, the
music of Richard Wagner, which Eisler adored.
Knowing absolutely nothing about it, Carter
classified Wagner's work as turgid and bizarre,
two words he'd read in a newspaper article about
the composer. This last, supreme insult had
provoked an outburst from Eisler which reminded
Carter of where he stood:
"You are an idiot, Herr Kent." He
always
said
Herr
Kent-the pompous ass. "You speak with the experience of
an infant and the intelligence of a flea. You don't
care what you say so long as you can, bully and wheedle
others into believing it-was That was true enough. "comand you
are not fit to be a Harvard student. I shall not rest
until I see your repulsive presence removed
from this campus."
So there they stood, clear enemies. For weeks,
Carter had been hunting for a way to avenge himself against
the unremitting abuse. The encounter with old
Phippsy had done the trick.
"Jackass," he whispered again, savoring the word as
much as he savored the beer Josie brought him a
moment later-just before the real trouble began.
backslash
CHAPTER H
Brawl
BY THE TIME CARTER finished a second pot of
beer, the chill had left him. Josie was sending
questioning looks his way, as if to ask whether he'd
forgotten about going upstairs. He was spared the need
to invent an excuse by a flurry of cheerful
greetings at the front door. When he saw who
had come in, he smiled too.
Captain Eben Royce was a small, trim man
who made his living with his own fishing smack.
Boston-born and raised, he was fifty or more, but
only his lined face and graying hair gave away that
fact; he had the energy of someone half his age.
Royce and Carter had struck up a conversation the first
time Carter had visited the Cod. They'd gotten
along well, becoming occasional drinking companions.
Royce was a tolerant man. Hearing that Carter
attended Harvard, he'd smiled and shrugged:
"If you prove yourself worthy in other ways, we'll
not hold that against you."
Royce had a good many friends in the tavern, and each
wanted a bit of his time. This proved a little awkward
for his companion-a stunning dark-haired woman about
ten years Carter's senior, and four inches taller
than Royce.
The woman had high cheekbones, a full mouth,
smooth skin, and shining dark hair that fell across the
shoulders of her threadbare cloak. The cloak
emphasized rather than concealed the lines of the large
breasts which heightened her aura of robust
sexuality.
Carter had never seen the woman before. But he knew
her name was Helen Stavros, and that she was Greek.
Royce had formed a liaison with her about six
months before. He bragged about her constantly: "A
beautiful, an36
gelic face-and a disposition to match." From a man
toughened to the ways of the world and the disappointing weaknesses
found in most human beings, it was a compliment indeed.
Gazing at the woman now, Carter understood what his
friend meant. He envied Royce.
Royce socialized with acquaintances a moment
longer, then took the woman's arm and guided her to a
table at the very back of the tavern. He ordered bowls
of chowder and pots of beer, then began to circulate
again. Soon he reached the fireplace. He shook
Carter's hand with great warmth:
"Didn't expect you here. Thought you'd be
celebrating Georgie's birthday up at Harvard
Square."
"The girls up there aren't my land," Carter
shrugged. "I must say, Eben, your lady is all
you said she was."
Royce beamed. "Aye, she's a beauty, ain't
she? Never thought a female could persuade me to think
about changin' my bachelor status."
"I wouldn't expect a woman that handsome to be
unmarried."
"She wasn't till her husband died. Two years
ago it was. She and Stavros came from a little
village called Poros, on an island near
Athens. Her husband sickened in our climate and
died pretty quick. But their town was a fishing town-which
is why she don't mind the way I smell."
He cast an almost worshipful look toward the
woman, who sat calmly surveying the rafters of the
room. Carter surmised she was intentionally avoiding
the gaze of the other men. Many were watching her
closely.
"She says she's right fond of me, Carter. Right
fond- and I guess that makes me the luckiest
man in Boston."
"I agree with you that she's beautiful," Carter
told him, meaning it.
"G'wan, now-she's taken," the fisherman laughed,
knuckling Carter's shoulder in a good-natured way.
"How you getting along with all those perfessers?"
"Worse than ever."
"Well, my offer stands. If that stuff gets too
disagreeable, I'll put you to work on the
Atlantic Anne.
Hard work keeps a man out o' trouble."
"I can find other ways to stay out of trouble,.
Eben." Carter said it with a smile, but he wasn't
entirely joking.
Royce shrugged, and walked behind the bench to speak
to his employee, Tillman. Helen Stavros was
spooning chowder from a cracked bowl. The Cod
wasn't the sort of place a decent woman would
dare enter alone. But with Eben present, no one
molested her-and Carter's estimate of the woman's
character increased even more when he saw that she did
absolutely nothing to give the captain cause for
jealousy.
  Carter frowned suddenly. The noise level had
dropped all at once. Heads again turned toward
the front door. Carter looked that way and saw a
man enter. He had never seen him before, but
obviously many of the other patrons had.

  The man was stouter than Eben Royce, thicker of
waist and arm. Carter reckoned him to be about forty.
His bar clothes were old, drab, and dirty. A
small gold ring, badly tarnished, pierced the
lobe of his left ear. Shiny black hair curled
out from under a woolen cap. He had a curving
nose and a petulant mouth. From the stranger's
clothes as well as from his expression, Carter formed
an immediate impression. This was a man who cared about
neither his appearance nor the feelings of anyone else.
  Never had Carter seen a crowd so instantly
divided as when the man swaggered toward the bar.
Phipps and many others sent dark looks at the new
arrival. But friends greeted him, and Carter heard
one call:
  "Hello, Ortega. Where's your brother tonight?"
  "Stoking a boiler somewhere between here and
Liverpool," the man answered in heavily accented
English. "Be back in a month or so."
  Ortega, eh. Spanish, Carter guessed.
Later he discovered his guess was wrong, and that
Ortega was the Portuguese version of the name; in
Spain it would have been Ortegas.
  The man stepped up to the serving counter. Carter
saw no sign of a weapon, but the patrons on either
side of the stranger made room-clear indication that
they feared him. The new arrival smiled at
Phipps in an insincere way:
  "A mug of your usual.
@l una porcaria."
When Phipps shook his head to show he
didn't understand, the swarthy man grinned all the
wider. "Your usual.
r
Swill. Pig slop. That's all you serve in this
place. I wouldn't come here except that some of the
company is interesting."
He pivoted, leaned on his elbow and let his eyes
rest on the Greek woman. Evidently he'd
spotted her as he was coming in. There was no mistaking
his interest. Above him a sperm-oil lantern hanging
from a beam cast the sharp shadow of his nose across the
upper part of his cheek. Just below the shadow-line,
Carter noticed what he hadn't noticed before-a
small white scar in the shape of a fishhook.
The man's eyes raked the Greek woman's face
and torso. He paid no attention to the pewter mug
Phipps slid to him, calling out:
"Eh, puta, trabalhas aqui?"
She avoided his eyes and kept silent.
"Can't speak Portugee? I asked
if
you work here."
"Leave her be, Ortega," Phipps said, though
ttiVyoice was none too strong. "She come here with
Eben Royce."
Phipps turned, as if to point out the fisherman.
The startled expression that appeared on his face
made Carter lean out past the end of the deacon's bench
and look behind him, where he expected to find Royce
talking to a crony.
The fisherman was nowhere in sight. For the first time, the
Greek woman saw that too.
I

"Where the hell'd he go?" Carter whispered to the man
at the table nearest the bench. The man hooked a
thumb at the side door:
"Slipped out a couple of minutes ago.
Tillman had some- "pin to show him."
Carter turned back, saw Ortega scrutinizing
the area around and behind the bench. Seeing no one he
recognized, the Portugee smiled in a smug
way and walked toward the table where the Greek woman
sat rigid with tension. Carter decided Ortega
wasn't a sailor like the brother sorrieone had
mentioned; he didn't have the recognizable gait of a
man accustomed to tilting decks.
The woman looked past the Portugee and searched the
room, fear showing clearly on her face now. Her
eyes touched Carter's.
Oh, no,
he thought.
I'll have no part in this quarrel.
But those eyes held him-begged him-and he knew that
if he looked away, she'd think him a coward.
Besides, Royce was a friend, she was Royce's
woman, and she was in trouble. If he could just delay
any trouble for a few moments, surely Royce would
return.
He waited another few seconds to see whether
anyone else would get up. No one did. He
swallowed hard, tried to ignore his suddenly tight
stomach and stood.
IV
Phipps" eyes warned him not to interfere. So did
a patron who plucked at his sleeve as he
passed and whispered, "Leave him alone, lad.
He's half crazy."
Carter heard, but he was committed. Ortega reached
the Greek woman's table and stopped there. Behind him,
Carter walked past goggle-eyed men at the serving
counter. The Portugee heard Carter's
footsteps. He turned and gave him a
quizzical smile, as if he couldn't believe
anyone could be so stupid as to challenge him.
With contemptuous politeness, the Portugee asked,
"Do you want to get through here? Do you want me to step
aside so you can reach the place you obviously belong?
The outhouse, I mean."
Someone snickered. Carter tried to keep his voice
steady:
"I just want you to leave that woman alone."
Again that raking scrutiny. The man scratched the
fishhook scar with one grime-crusted fingernail.
"Your name Royce?"
Desperate, Carter called on the talent that had
sometimes served him well before:
"I'm Eben Royce's cousin." He heard
murmurs of surprise; hoped the reaction of the
crowd wouldn't give him away immediately. The Greek
woman was staring at him. He hurried on, "There
are a lot of Eben's first and second cousins in the
neighborhood, so if you bother his woman, you'll have
a lot of people down on your-was
"Mentiroso8*
Ortega interrupted, his crooked white teeth shining
when he grinned. "In case you don't understand
Portugee, I said you're a damn fucking liar.
Captain Royce is a man with no relatives,
that much I know."
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of a
heavy chair. "But I don't know who you
are-except a very stupid young man."
Still grinning, he whipped the chair up so fast Carter
had no time to react before the Portugee smashed it
against the side of his head.
Carter crashed backwards, and would have cracked his
skull on the serving counter except for the men standing
close by, who pushed him away. He struggled
upright, rage and fright warring within him as Ortega's
hand slid under his tattered coat. Someone gasped when
the Portugee's hand flashed into sight again, a short
length of metal glinting in it.
Ortega's face looked unhealthy in the lantern
light. He licked his lips, anticipating his
pleasure as he began to move the knife blade in
a small, provocative circle:
"Come on,
meu amigo.
Let's show the lady what you're made of, eh?
I'll cut your insides out and strew them all over
this, floor."
Ortega lunged then, and Carter heard shouting-most
of it directed against the Portugee, but some in
support of him. Carter dived to the floor
to avoid the slashing blade. He landed on his belly
and Ortega checked his lunge. The Portugee
raised his right heel and brought it driving down toward
Carter's neck.
At the last instant, Carter rolled, escaping the
blow that might have crushed his neck. It glanced off his
collar bone.
"Bastardo!"
Ortega yelled, and raised the knife in preparation
for a downward slash at Carter's exposed throat.
Carter was trying to roll again when he saw a chair
sail into sight, smash a hanging lantern, then
strike the Portugee on the side of the head.
The impact staggered Ortega. He would have fallen
on top of Carter-impaling him with the knife-if
Carter hadn't twisted onto his back and rammed his
boot hard into Ortega's groin. The Portugee
let out an involuntary cry. Men laughed. One
or two clapped. Ortega turned red from
humiliation as he lurched away. Carter saw
blood oozing in the man's curly black hair.
The chair had struck harder than Carter had thought.
The Portugee was still off balance. He fell, and
Carter rolled wildly to avoid the knife. He
got out of the way just as the other man crashed
to the floor, the point of his blade
penetrating the pegged boards where Carter's head had
been a moment earlier.
Above him, vengeful and powerful-looking despite his
small frame, Eben Royce-who had evidently
flung the chair-attacked Ortega from behind with an
ash-blackened poker. Ortega was groggy but he
saw the weapon, and frantically crawled under a
nearby table. Down came the poker, so hard that the
flimsy table broke in the center. Ortega covered
his head as wood rained down.
Carter struggled to his feet. Fights had broken
out all over the tavern. Pro-Ortega patrons
were punching and kicking those who were against him; Carter
saw paunchy Tillman grab two men by their
collars and ram them headfirst into the fireplace.
Only when they screamed did he let go and seek
someone else to punch.
Phipps rushed back and forth, vainly trying to break
up the fights. He protested once too often, and
someone broke an oak trencher over his head.
Wailing obscenities, he folded and hit the
floor.
Royce turned his attention to Carter. "I shouldn't
have gone outside with Tillman an' left
her alone. "Predate your steppin" in when you
did. I owe you for that. Now get out of here "fore the
coppers show up."
Queasy all at once, Carter nodded. He was
beginning to realize what had almost happened to him.
Under the broken table, Ortega was floundering as he
tried to raise himself. Suddenly his bleary eyes
fixed on Carter.
"Cagaol"
he said through clenched teeth. "I'll see you again, that
I swear."
A tankard came flying from the back of the room, where
the Greek woman had pressed herself against the wall.
Royce raised the poker and batted the tanker
aside like a ball player. In the distance Carter
heard clattering hoofs and shrill whistles-a
police wagon on the way.
"Get out of here and don't come back for a
whileea*" Royce urged. Carter needed no more
prodding. He turned-and in dismay saw hah* a
dozen men fighting between him and the door. He turned
sideways, slipped between two of the men, absorbed a
glancing blow from a third, gut-punched a fourth, and
finally made it into the damp darkness as the police
wagon came charging toward
the head of the pier, the manes of its two heavy
horses standing out behind them.
Carter ran the other way, miscalculated, and
plunged off the edge of the pier.
He dropped into the icy water with a great splash,
went numb as the water closed over him, and in
panic, fought his way to the surface.
He broke into the air, sputtering and splashing
loudly until he realized how much noise he was
making and strove to keep quiet. Fortunately the
commotion up at the Cod- cursing, shouting, whistles
blasting-smothered his own sounds. He paddled to a slimy
piling directly under the edge of the pier and clung
there, out of breath. He shut his eyes and shuddered.
He'd almost lost his life in that damn place.
How in God's name did I get into this?
He knew very well. He'd gotten into it by being a
failure at Harvard, and by coming to a dive like the Red
Cod. Before, he had always enjoyed observing the
sometimes violent doings at the tavern. Tonight he'd
involved himself in them to help a friend-and quite suddenly, the
Red Cod's atmosphere of violence was not
titillating, but terrifying. He'd never go back
to the place. Especially not after the Portugee's
warning.
Carter pulled himself up out of the water and slipped
away, shivering. He was too soaked to go home
to Beacon Street. Trying to put the frightening
memory of Ortega out of his mind, he headed instead
for the dormitory room of his best friend, Willie
Hearst. He could get a drink there. And Willie
was always happy to hear about his escapades. And
Carter was sure that when he described the scheme for
vengeance which he'd conceived, Willie would be delighted
by it.
Of course, the prank was risky. But Carter hated
Eisler so much, he no longer gave a damn.
Caught
CARTER WAS RIGHT. Willie Hearst had loved the
scheme. But he'd bet his friend twenty-five
dollars that he would never go through with it.
Now, sixty days later, Carter was finally ready
to undertake his revenge against Eisler. By this time
Willie was accusing him of cowardice, and demanding his
twenty-five dollars. Carter assured
him
he had no intention of paying. Eisler would get his
comeuppance, and precisely according to plan.
All the elements had to be right, though. That took
time. First he had to hire equipment for a
particular night. A bakery was willing to rent its
delivery wagon and the horse that pulled it, but because
Carter was a student, and told the bakery owner he
wanted the wagon so his social club could take an
excursion in the country, the price was double what the
bakery man first quoted him. Harvard students were not
famous for respecting property-their own or others'.
Carter found it a bitter experience to have to pretend
he was a member of a Harvard club. He hadn't
been chosen for the Institute, the quasi-literary
organization which dated from 1770, and which inducted about
thirty-five percent of the sophomore class every
year. The chosen ones were grouped into tens, and the tens were
ranked. This ranking was posted at the college, and
also published in the Boston papers. The social
elite at Harvard were not destined to remain
anonymous.
Rejection by the Institute meant there was no chance for
Carter to be taken into D.k.e., the secret
society which comrepresented the next step up the
social ladder; all the mem-
hers of Decks, as it was sometimes called, came from
the Institute list.
  Willie was a member of D.k.e., of
course. He would advance from there to one of the
waiting clubs-most of which were chapters of national
fraternities-and then to the pinnacle: one of the two
final clubs, A.d. or Porcellian.
Willie wanted Porcellian. And here Carter
was- only able to pretend that he was a member of that
elite. He played the role well enough to convince the
bakery man, which only enhanced his bitter feelings of
isolation. But those feelings made him more determined
than ever to pull off his prank.
  Obtaining the animal to be hidden away inside the
wagon was more difficult. Carter canvassed the
stables in the area and thus learned of a drayage firm
that used mules for some of its wagons. He was
eventually able to buy an old, spiritless donkey that had
almost outlived his usefulness. Cost of the donkey and a
stable stall for him-$22.
  Carter's financial reserves were at this point
exhausted. He was forced to ask Willie for a loan.
Again complaining about stalling tactics, Willie
nevertheless gave him the money.
  The final necessary element was a faculty meeting which
would keep Eisler away from home most of the evening.
After Carter had made all his other arrangements,
he waited for such a meeting. Finally one was scheduled
for late April.
  The morning of the meeting Carter left home in a
state of excitement, having told Gideon and
Julia that he'd probably be playing cards with
Willie and some other students until very late.
  He skipped all his classes that day except
Eisler's. His hopes plummeted when the
professor was even more ill- tempered than usual
thanks to an aching tooth. Carter asked him about it.
The teacher was instantly suspicious:
  "What's this,
Herr
Kent? Sympathy? For me? How unusual.
You'll pardon me if I don't take you
seriously. Are you trying to delay class recitation
because you're unprepared again?"
  The professor threw his shoulders back and
sniffed. "Be assured,
Herr
Kent, a little thing like a toothache will not
incapacitate me in the least. Nor prevent me from
asking to see the exercises you were to prepare for today-was
Without warning, he whipped his cane down on the
desk, inches from Carter's hand. "I'll see them
now, if you please."
Hate in his eyes, Carter growled, "I
don't have them."
Eisler's smile was more of a sneer. "I thought not."
He
pivoted away. Silently, Carter cursed him.
But he had the
answer he wanted. Eisler was well enough to attend the
faculty meeting. So tonight was the night.
u
At a few minutes past nine, tense and
perspiring, Carter turned the hired wagon into the
mouth of the alley which ran behind Eisler's modest
residence on Berkeley Street, in
Cambridge. The horse was docile, easy
to control. The donkey inside the wagon was another
matter. From time to time Carter heard hoofs slam
against the rear doors. Old as the donkey was, he
resented confinement.
Slowly, making as little noise as possible, Carter
drove the wagon down the alley, which was quite dark. The
only illumination in the vicinity came from gas
lamps burning in the back rooms of houses.
The balmy spring night smelled of earth still wet from
an earlier shower. Through a break in the trees,
Carter discerned Eisler's house not far ahead.
Lamps glowed in the kitchen, front
parlor, and two rooms upstairs. Of course the
Professor's wife would be home-and his bitch of a
daughter, too. Carter knew the latter for a
certainty when badly played pianoforte music
drifted from an open parlor window. The wretched
music was a blessing of sorts. If he were careful,
and the donkey gave
him
no trouble, no one in Eisler's house would hear
him.
He held his breath as he approached the small
outbuilding at the rear of Eisler's large lot.
Carter had surreptitiously inspected the building
by daylight some weeks earlier. He knew the
professor kept his horse and ancient buggy
inside, and that the main doors opened onto the
alley.
. Just as Carter was reining the horse to a walk, the
donkey kicked again, harder than before. The noise
seemed to resound through the spring darkness like a gunshot.
"Sssh, damn it!" he whispered. As if the
donkey could

x
actually understand him, the animal kicked the
inside of the wagon again. Carter winced and begged
whatever unseen forces controlled the universe to stop
the donkey from being so cantankerous. Carter had
accomplished nothing worthwhile in nearly two years
at Harvard. He felt that if he didn't succeed
tonight, his presence at the school would have left no mark
at all.
  When he was honest with himself, he had to admit that his
whole life up until this moment was eminently
forgettable. He had been living in Boston since
1878 with his mother, his stepfather, and his stepbrother Will-the
only human being besides his mother that he truly cared
about. His stepfather was a rich and successful
businessman. He operated a local book
publishing house as well as a daily newspaper in
New York, the
Union.
Carter's mother also had a career. The name Julia
Sedgwick Kent was well known in the nation's
lecture halls. She spoke and wrote on
behalf of the American Woman Suffrage
Association.
  Thus Carter had grown up among people who amounted
to something. True, the Kents would never be admitted
to so-called Society. But they were
accomplished and successful in their own way.
Carter's repeated failures were a galling
contrast-and one of which he was very aware.
  As far as he could tell, he had only one
talent: his facility for persuading others. He thought
part of that talent was inherited, and part acquired from his
surroundings. Gideon enjoyed his ability to sway
opinion by means of the
Union,
and of the books he published. Julia did the same
thing from the platform; several times, Carter had watched
admiringly as his mother converted a hostile audience
to an attentive one, and then to one which was noisily
enthusiastic about female suffrage-and about her.
  Equally important, Carter knew he was
descended from a woman who had always gotten her
way. His paternal grandmother, Amanda Kent, was
revered in the family as driving and dominant-someone
who didn't know the meaning of failure. So perhaps he
came by his talent naturally.
  He often daydreamed about finding a career in which he
could wield power and influence as the elder Kents
did. Realistically, he knew it to be a hopeless
ambition. He couldn't stand discipline, and his Harvard
experience had taught him that he didn't have
a very good mind, at least in
the formal sense. He could work hard if "necessary, but
he hated doing that. All he had was a certain
canny understanding of what motivated people, and an
instinctive, though as yet undeveloped sense of how
best to play on those motivations with a word, a look,
a smile-
So success tonight was crucially important. If he
couldn't succeed in the classrooms of Cambridge,
he could at least create a legend Harvard students
might talk about for years to come.
Sweating again, he braked the wagon, then tied the
reins and climbed down. He crept toward the double
doors of the stable. They were closed. Did that mean
Eisler hadn't gone to the faculty meeting?
Carter's heart pounded as he slid one of the doors
aside. He winced when its rollers squeaked.
He held his breath and looked into the dark interior.
Finally his eyes adjusted. He grinned-
Empty! The horse and buggy were gone. With his
passion for order, Eisler had shut the doors after
driving out, that was all.
Carter allowed himself a moment of congratulation, then
started around toward the rear of the wagon, and the hard part
of the night's work.
*

Before opening the wagon doors he listened to be sure
Eisler's daughter was still assaulting the pianoforte.
She was. If he made no unusual noise,
he could pull it off. Suddenly soaring confidence
told him that.
When he opened one of the wagon doors, the donkey
stamped and brayed. Not loudly, thank God.
Murmuring soothing words, Carter reached in and
removed the planks down which the donkey would have
to walk. Then he lifted out the cardboard sign. With
that in hand, he shut the wagon doors again.
He carried the sign into the stable, whose interior he
could discern now that his eyes were accustomed to the darkness.
The place was far too tidy for its function-
Eisler's German temperament again. There was a
single
f " stall. The only light was a weak glow from
under the narrow door leading to Eisler's back lawn.
f
He was surprised that he didn't have to struggle
to get the donkey out of the wagon. The animal'
didn't balk or even bray. Perhaps he was glad
to escape his confinement.
Carter led him down the planks to the stable door and
got
him inside with so little fuss and noise that he began
to think the gods were smiling on
him
at long last.
He left one of the alley doors standing open.
Carefully he tied the donkey's rope to a post
at the end of the stall. He felt sure this would
precipitate more kicking and braying, and when it
didn't, he was almost beside himself with jubilation. All
he had to do was hang the sign over the donkey's
neck and get away, and the thing was done.
"Gently. Gently, now," Carter whispered as he
lifted the rope over the donkey's head and long,
floppy ears, admiring the Gothic lettering it had
taken him so long to ink on the cardboard. But the
final effect-the size and clarity of the message-was
well worth it. Wait till Eisler opened the
stable door and read it:
Ich bin ein deutscher Esel. Jetzt gibt's
zwei unseresgleichen.
"You certainly are a German jackass, my friend,"
Carter whispered. "And now there are indeed two of
you-here, hold still," he grumbled as the rope
slipped down over the donkey's neck and the sign
swayed under his muzzle. Unexpectedly, it was the
touch of the rope-the feel of the sign-that ruined everything.
The donkey began to shy and pull against the rope.
Carter tried to calm him, to no avail. Within
seconds, the donkey was braying. Then he turned
and kicked out against the side of the stall-
bangl
It sounded like a mortar going off.
"Don't do that," Carter pleaded, his euphoria
gone, re* placed by desperation. The donkey
replied with three more swift kicks-
bang, bang, bang.
"Oh, God," Carter groaned. He heard
another, more distant bang-a door-then someone's
voice: "Who is there? What is that noise?"
Eisler! Surely that couldn't be. Carter inched the
back yard door open and then his heart seemed to hit
the bottom of his stomach. The familiar haughty
figure was silhouetted against the lamplit windows
of the house. Eisler was
storming toward the stable with his gold-knobbed cane in
one hand and an ice bag in the other. He was holding
the bag against his swollen jaw, and instantly, Carter
knew that a foolish assumption had undone
him. It was Eisler's wife who was using the buggy-and
contrary to the professor's assertion, the bad tooth
had kept him home.
He turned to run to the alley. The donkey lunged
forward so hard his rope broke. Carter stumbled against
the frantic animal. Without thinking, he shouted,
"Get out of my way!"
Eisler, coming fast, heard him:
"I recognize that voice. What are you doing on
my property, Kent? What are you-?"
The thunderous question broke off as Eisler yanked the
door open. He loomed in the opening, a huge,
frightening figure, somehow. Carter, frozen in place
by fright, darted a look over his shoulder. Eisler's
pop eyes popped even more. He saw the donkey.
He saw and instantly understood the sign-a moment
before the donkey brayed one last time and ran away
into the alley and the darkness beyond.
"You damned arrogant whelp!" Eisler shouted,
dropping the ice bag as he leaped inside. Holding
his cane by the ferrule end, he whipped it into a
hissing arc. The huge'gold knob would have struck
Carter's temple if he hadn't broken his terrible
paralysis and stumbled backwards. The knob hit the
side of the stall and wood splintered.
He's crazy,
Carter thought.
He's liable to kill me-if I let him.
The cane was swinging in another murderous arc. Carter
ducked away, and out the door. He was halfway to the
bakery wagon when Eisler emerged from the building
and, with his long arm helping to extend his reach, smashed
the knob of the cane against the back of Carter's right
leg.
Carter cried out, falling against the bakery horse.
The frightened animal leaped forward. Carter slid to the
ground and the horse's right front hoof nicked his
forehead. He covered his head to prevent further
injury as the horse tore away down the alley.
Panting, Eisler reached for Carter's shirt to drag
him up-
He was trapped-caught-an unbearable feeling. Like
a man escaping a jailor, Carter pushed Eisler
violently, and thus sent him spilling into a hedge
bordering the alley. Eisler ranted and cursed-in
German now.
Carter struggled to his feet. He saw a sickening
sight at the far end of the alley. The bolting horse
turned left into the street but now there was no guiding
hand to control the wagon. The traces
broke. The wagon tilted on its side, crashing
over and splintering apart as the horse ran away.
Carter fled toward the wrecked wagon while
Eisler's bellowed threats filled the dark behind him.
In nearby houses, windows were raised and people called
out anxious questions.
Carter's chest began to hurt as he passed the
wagon. It was in ruins. Everything was in ruins now.
What the consequences of this night's disaster would be,
he didn't dare contemplate.
CHAPTER IV
Hearst
CARTER RAN TO THE left along the darkened
street connecting Berkeley and Garden. At Garden
he turned right, dashing across to Cambridge Common.
Ahead, old red brick buildings rose in the
darkness, most of them partially concealed by the huge
trees of the College Yard. A mongrel yapped
in the April night.
Clouds were scurrying across the moon. A hack
hurtled by, crowded with noisy undergraduates who
had no doubt been over in Boston, gorging themselves
on wine and lobster; Willie Hearst did that often.
In the north, there was a brief peal of thunder.
Disheveled and badly shaken, Carter
paused at the east side of the Common, listening. He
heard no sounds of pursuit comno outcries from that
hateful voice, either in English or German. For a
moment he experienced a delicious relief.
Then he grimaced. He was not only a bungler,
he was a fool. Of course Eisler wouldn't come
rampaging after him.
The professor would collect his wits and realize
he had other, more effective and certain means of
punishment at his disposal.
  Carter wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.
The night was a failure. The whole scheme,
planned for so long, was a failure. He didn't
want to face that, and he didn't want to go home
to face the family-particularly Will, who looked up
to him. He k8ew he had to start thinking about the
defense he must mount against Eisler, but before that he
wanted a drink.
  Where to get it? The Red Cod? Too far-and too
risky. Heeding Captain Eben Royce's warning,
he hadn't been back since the night of the trouble.
  He glanced at the trees rustling in the Yard.
Maybe Willie was in his room, instead of taking
supper with some little shop girl over in the city or
sitting with cronies in a box at the
Howard, awaiting the right moment to begin pitching custard
pies at the actors. He'd welcome
Willie's company right about now, even though he would
be forced to tell his friend that he'd failed.
  Carter limped across the brick avenue, through the
gates, and turned right after he passed the end of
Massachusetts Hall, the oldest building on the
campus. He fervently wished he were anywhere in
creation except Boston.

  Light showed beneath the door of Willie's
dormitory room. Willie still lived in
Matthews, in the Yard, but he was talking about moving
next term to one of the more fashionable dormitories
on Mount Auburn Street- Dunster,
Fairfax, Apley, or one of the others that were starting
to comprise a so-called Gold Coast that attracted
the elite of the student body.
  To judge from the tangy smell of cheese in the
hall, Carter's friend was cooking an evening snack.
He knocked. A high-pitched, almost girlish
voice invited him in.
  Willie was stirring a pot on a gas ring. He
waved and grinned at his visitor in that ingenuous way
Carter liked so much. There were some things about
Willie which the older boy didn't like at
all.8His pranks that took innocent and
unsuspecting people as their victims, for example.
Still,
Willie was always diverting, and a stout comrade once
you breached his initial shyness.
William Randolph Hearst hailed from
California. He had spent almost a full
academic year in Cambridge, yet he didn't
have many close friends. Carter suspected one reason
was his peculiar appearance. Quite tall and skinny, he
had unusually large hands and feet and a startling,
baby-pink complexion. He parted his long yellow
hair in the middle and sported a silky mustache.
Neither feature could offset his awkward-looking
physique, or the oddness of his eyes. Blue-gray
irises were all but lost in immense whites.
"You're just in time, Carter. The Welsh rabbit's
almost done." Willie pointed a dripping spoon
at an armoire. "The beer's in there."
Carter slumped in a brocaded armchair. All the
furnishings including the books on the shelves had
been chosen by Willie's mother, Phoebe Hearst.
She'd accompanied him to Cambridge for the opening
of the school year. Willie liked his mother,
yet he'd once spoken unenthusiastically to Carter
about being an only child.
"As a sprout, I was dragged all over Europe
with a tutor caret and my friend Gene Lent. I
wouldn't be so stinking spoiled if my parents had
produced more than one youngster. Mother wanted more but
somehow it never worked out. There are times when I wish it
had."
Now Willie took two mugs from behind a stack of
textbooks. He handed one to his friend.
"What's wrong, Carter? I thought you'd be
buoyant after your triumph. And impatient
to collect twenty-five dollars."
Carter glanced up. His black eyes caught and
held tiny reflections of the room's gaslights.
With sarcasm, he said:
"The triumph, Willie, ended in a rout.
Mine."
Twenty-year-old Willie Hearst blinked, his
delicate lashes momentarily hiding those peculiar
yet curiously compelling eyes. Then he sprawled
in another chair and draped a stork-like leg over the
arm. He looked totally relaxed, as if he
worried about nothing and wanted for nothing comwh, in
fact, he did not.
When he'd arrived at Harvard, Willie's
reputation-and especially the names of his father's various
mines-had preceded him. George Hearst had started
life as a Missouri dirt farmer. But in the last
two decades, he and an assort53
ment of partners had wrested several fortunes from the
American earth, just as Amanda Kent had taken the
bulk of the Kent family fortune from the California
gold fields. Hearst hadn't struck it rich
until he was forty. After that, bar bonanza had
followed bonanza. He owned the Ophir in
Virginia City, a silver mine that was part of the
fabulous Comstock Lode. He owned the
Homestake in the Dakota Territory-gold.
He owned a small Montana silver mine, the
Anaconda, which had ultimately revealed its
true riches-an incredible vein of copper.
"Have a cigar and tell me what happened,"
Willie said in
a sympathetic way. This evening he was, as always,
well
. dressed: checked trousers, a plain but
obviously expensive
I linen shirt, and one of the large, garish cravats
he fancied.
Carter reached for a costly rosewood cigar box.
He lit up
1 and said through a blue haze, "Things went fine at
first. I
got the jackass into the stable with no trouble. But then
there was some noise, and Eisler came storming out
to see
about it."
"You mean he was still at home?"
"That's right. He had a toothache and didn't go to the
faculty meeting."
"Did he see the sign?"
"Yes, right before the donkey ran off."
"Then technically you won the bet," Willie said
with a delighted expression. "By God, I'd have
loved to have seen that Dutchman's face."
"No you wouldn't. He recognized me before I got
away."
Willie's smile vanished. "My stars. No
wonder you look so glum."
"He'll have me hung up by the balls," Carter
said. The words made Willie look uncomfortable;
he never swore or used offensive language.
Carter carried his mug toward the armoire, speaking
around the cigar in his teeth:
"At the very least I'll be in trouble with the college.
At worst Eisler will haul me into court on some
charge or other. If he doesn't, the bakery owner
will. I wrecked the wagon I hired for the night.
And the horse ran off-God I knows where."
Willie whistled softly. Carter went on:
"I'll have to deal with my mother and stepfather, too.
And I don't make a habit of lying to them. It
bothered me a lot when I had to tell them I'd be
playing cards tonight. I don't know what the hell I
can tell them about Eisler, except the truth."
He paused, a hand on one of the armoire door
handles. The gaslight accentuated the olive cast of
his skin. Even bedraggled, he was a handsome young man.
Thick arms and a slim waist testified to his fine
physical condition.
"I'll take my winnings whenever you care to pay
me," Carter added. "That wagon will cost a small
fortune-and while I get a pretty decent
allowance, it isn't the same as getting a nugget as
big as a baseball shipped from California once
a month."
Willie smiled an obligatory smile, alth.the
campus joke which had been invented to explain his
large and constant supply of money was growing
stale. Carter jerked open the door of the armoire.
He leaned down toward the zinc tub containing a pail
of beer sitting on a block of ice. He was too
preoccupied to really see the tub until something beside
it stirred.
"Jesus Christ!"
he cried as a three-foot alligator roused and
opened its tooth-studded jaws not six inches from his
hand.

That brought another laugh from Willie. "Oh, the
devil. I forgot Charlie was asleep in there."
Carter quickly stepped away. "Like hell you did."
caret Willie walked back to the gas ring. "Go
ahead, get your beer. Charlie won't bother you.
I got him drunk again tonight."
Warily, Carter leaned down and dipped his mug in the
pail. Champagne Charlie, as Hearst's pet
alligator was officially named, regarded Carter with a
sinister eye for a moment. Then he lowered his head
lethargically. Carter slammed the door.
He sat down and sipped the beer. It didn't do
much to raise his spirits. Nor did the hot, zesty
cheese dish Willie served. The young Californian
folded himself into a chair again. He spooned
up some of the rabbit. Tapped a napkin against his
lips, then said:
'I don't blame you for feeling rotten. I knew
right after we met that we were peas from the same pod.
Must be why we get along so well. We both
hate the unexpected-unless, of course, we engineer
it to surprise somebody else. And we like to hold the
reins. Can't stand to let another person control
things, am I right?"
  An emphatic nod from Carter. Willie
continued:
  "I'll tell you something else. Personally, I
can't take much more of the regimentation around here.
Chapel. Roll calls. Lesson recitation-I
doubt 111 ever get my degree. I wanted to go
into the theater like your stepsister Eleanor. Mother wouldn't
hear of it. But it's the theater's loss-was
  To cheer his friend, he jumped up, threw his head
back and yodeled. Then he executed one of the quick,
deft minstrel show dance steps he admired. With his
beer mug raised and his other fist cocked on his
hip, Willie grinned at Carter:
  "It's the theater's loss. I'm pretty good,
don't you think?"
  "Wonderful."
  "Don't strain yourself with enthusiasm." Willie
faced the wall, as if an audience sat there. He
bowed from the waist several times. "I love
applause-was
  "It isn't the applause you like, Willie, it's
being around actresses."
  "Well, that too," Willie admitted, smiling
again. He flopped back into the chair. "You know,
maybe we're both simpletons for wasting our time
here. I know Harvard's the finest school in
America. "But I've already dropped more courses
than I'll finish this year, and there isn't a blasted
thing in the curriculum I give two hoots about."
  He hunched forward. "The only thing that interests
me is a problem Gene's going to inherit next
year." Eugene Lent was the son of one of George
Hearst's business associates. He was the friend with
whom Willie had traveled in Europe when both
were younger.
  "What problem?"
  'The poor chump has agreed to be business
manager of the
Lampoon.
Thankless job! Humor doesn't sell very well
at this pious institution. And the business
manager has to make up any operating losses out
of his own pocket."
  Carter whistled. "I didn't know that.
  It's true. I'd like to help Gene. I don't
mean with loans.
I mean by thinking up schemes to get people to read the
magazine. Stunts, contests, maybe a
parade-I'd enjoy that."
"Because you'd be controlling things."
"Things and people." Willie grinned. "Without letting
'em know I was doing it. That's part of the game,
too."
He ambled to the armoire. Helped himself to beer.
Champagne Charlie again raised his deadly-looking
head and scrutinized his owner for a few seconds before
returning to sleep.
Willie knocked foam from his mustache after he
drank. "That's the real charm in life, Carter.
Holding the reins. That and a good joke. Pa isn't
much for joking, but he surely likes the other. I
expect that's why he's so eager to go to the Senate."
Carter had heard a good deal about George
Hearst's political ambitions. A loyal
Democrat, Hearst had bought the foundering
San Francisco Examiner,
the unofficial newspaper of the local party
organization. He'd pumped money into it in the hope
of furthering his political career. But the effort
hadn't been enough to earn him the 1882 Democratic
endorsement as the candidate for governor. He'd
lost the primary by a narrow margin. Undiscouraged,
he was searching for a stepping-stone to Washington.
All at once, Willie fixed his friend with one of his
disconcerting stares:
"Pa's going to make it some day. Then he'll handle
the reins smartly. That's what politics is all
about. Maybe you should try it. You could start by passing
out handbills, or running errands for a boss. You
might enjoy it, and that silver tongue of yours would
take you a long way, I think."
Carter momentarily forgot Professor Eisler.
"In which party?" he asked.
"Why, the Democracy, I suppose."
"The Kents are Republicans."
Willie waved his mug. "A sinner can always reform.
I tell you, for a fellow who likes to be in charge,
politics is a natural."
"Then why don't you try it?"
"With this voice?" Willie let out a loud yodel.
"I'd be laughed off the platform. Even my
looks are against me."
He swigged beer, then finished with what sounded like
perfect confidence, "I'll find some other way. But
I'll pull the reins, too, you can count on that."
The more Carter thought about Willie's suggestion, the more
it intrigued him. Politicians wielded immense
influence. Disbursed huge sums of patronage
money and col-
lected rewards in turn. Sometimes those rewards
took the form of bank drafts or stock
certificates. A great many
important Americans were constantly in need of
favors
from Washington, which helped explain why most
top-level
politicians could afford large wardrobes, lavish
homes, and
frequent European vacations.
Of course there were risks in politics. Look at
what had
happened to poor Garfield two years earlier. But
he could
handle the risks, he decided.
The conclusion came easily because of the beer. He
investigated
and found there was plenty left in the armoire.
This time Champagne Charlie didn't even raise
his head. Carter helped himself, anxious to let the
beer ease him into forgetting he'd been unable
to control anything or anyone
tonight.
He lurched back to his chair, his confidence ebbing
rapidly.
If he couldn't carry off a student prank, how the
devil
could he ever hope to maneuver his way into political
office?
He couldn't buy his way, obviously. He stood
to inherit only a token sum from the Kent fortune; his
mother had already informed
him
that the bulk of Gideon's estate would go to Eleanor
and W.
Well, he'd get around those obstacles somehow.
He and Willie finished the food and then guzzled more
beer, talking non-stop between drinks. The drunker
they
got, the more fanciful became the careers they spun for
themselves. Carter rose from dispenser of political
leaflets to big-city machine boss.
Willie graduated from circulation manager of a
humor magazine to newspaper reporter. In a
final step, he became a publisher more influential
than
Gideon Kent of the
Union,
and more ambitious than Joe
Pulitzer, the St. Louis newspaperman who was in
the process
of buying Jay Gould's moribund
New York World.
Willie was, at the end, a publisher whose
impact was felt
far beyond San Francisco; a publisher who shaped
national opinion and influenced national policy-and
knowing his friend, Carter believed that was exactly what
Willie would be one of these days.
Carter lost track of time. He put Eisler, the
aborted prank, and the wrecked wagon completely out
of his mind. Sometime after midnight a thunderstorm
broke. By then he was asleep in the armchair. When
he awoke, gray light showed outside the
rain-speckled window. He was brutally sober.
  He sat up and groaned. Willie raised his
head. He'd been asleep on the couch, a
full-sized coverlet barely reaching from his neck to the
mid-point of his calves. He yawned, then
scrutinized his friend:
  "You sick?"
  "Yes. I just remembered what happened last
night." His bones creaked as he pushed against the arms
of the chair. "I have to go home."
  "We could send out for more beer."
  Carter grew dizzy suddenly. Speech was
difficult:
  "I-need some air. Thanks for the hospitality,
Willie. I like your idea about politics. But first
I have to get by the old professor."
  "Use that silver tongue," Willie advised in
a sleepy voice. "Talk your way out."
  "Just the ticket," Carter nodded as he stumbled
to the door. "Why didn't I think of that-?"
  Then he told a lie:
  "It'll be easy."
IV
  Carter trudged toward the Charles River in a
dawn that smelled of the rain that had already moved out
to sea. A pebble in his shoe bedeviled him. When he
reached the Cambridge Street bridge, he took
off the shoe, inverted it and held it out beyond the
rail to shake the pebble loose. The shoe slipped from
his grasp and fell to the water.
  He bellowed an obscenity that brought a reproving
shake of the finger from the driver of an early horse car
just traveling into Cambridge. For a moment Carter
watched the shoe go bobbing away downstream. Then he
limped on toward Charles Street.
  What was he going to tell his mother and stepfather? He
thought of several unbelievable stories, and rejected
them all because they were ludicrous, and because they were
lies. He loved his mother, but he also respected
her. She was too intelligent to be fooled by invented
stories. And as he'd told Willie, he
didn't lie to Julia or Gideon. Not often,
anyway. That was just about his only remaining point of
honor.
"Just swallow the medicine," he muttered to himself as
he walked slowly and wearily eastward along
Beacon Street, through a dawn awash with familiar
smells of fish, cordage tar, and the lump coal
smoke plumed from scores of household chimneys.
The morning was chilly. His teeth began to chatter.
He clenched them, then raised his head and squared his
shoulders. He could take the worst that Edmund
Eisler had to offer. The very worst. Didn't
Gideon always say the Kents were, above aUs,
survivors?
But unconsciously, he began whistling "Pop
Goes the Weasel" to keep his courage up.
CHAPTER V
At
Home on
Beacon
Street
MORE THAN FIFTY MILLION people inhabited the
United States in 1883. Only a few
hundred belonged to what was termed Society. The
Kents did not. Although they were one of the richest
families in the nation, wealth alone had not been enough
to get them an invitation to the social event of the
year-Mrs. William K. Vandefbilt's
costume ball. The ball had been held on the
night of March 26. By any standard, it exceeded
anything yet offered for the approval of those who
comprised Society.
In prior years Mrs. Astor's annual ball
in January had always been considered the season's
paramount event. The Vanderbilt affair changed that.
Conservative estimates said it cost the hostess a
quarter of a million dollars to stage her
I
little party. The opulence of the costumes of the guests was
matched only by the cleverness of some of them. Another
Vanderbilt, Mrs. Cornelius, had come arrayed
in white satin and diamonds, representing the
electric light. And although elaborately costumed
and choreographed quadrilles were no novelty at
formal balls, Mrs. Vanderbilt's quadrilles-
especially the Hobby Horse Quadrille
featuring realistic, life-size representations of
horses which were attached to the dancers" waists-had
been talked offor days afterward. No wonder the
established leader of Society, Caroline Astor-
the
Mrs. Astor, as she preferred to be known-had been
forced to recognize Mrs. Vanderbilt at long
last. Before the ball, Mrs. Astor had discovered that
her daughter was rehearsing for the Star Quadrille but
had not received a card of invitation. The significance
of the omission was clear. There would be no invitation
unless Mrs. Astor paid her respects to Mrs.
Vanderbilt, even though the latter was theoretically
inferior in the social ranking.
Putting her daughter above her pride, Mrs.
Astor ordered up her carriage and drove
to the Vanderbilt chateau at 660 Fifth Avenue in
New York. She sent one of her blue-liveried
footmen inside with her card. In recognition of her
eminence, it bore only the words
Mrs. Astor.
She didn't personally enter the mansion, or even
leave the carriage. But she had humbled herself
sufficiently. The invitation was in her daughter's
hands soon afterward.
No symbolic act of reverence could have secured an
invitation for Gideon and Julia. The list of
reasons was an extremely long one.
Julia's family credentials-she had been born
a Sedgwick-might once have entitled her
to consideration, but they no longer did. Not since she
had divorced one Kent- Amanda's son-and married
another. The women who ruled New York
Society did not divorce. Not even if their
husbands slept with other women, which most of them did.
Julia was also on the disapproved list because she had
publicly espoused the causey of female
suffrage.
Gideon had even more against him. First, he'd served
on the Confederate side during the war. After
Appomattox he'd associated himself for a
time with the labor movement. His newspaper and his
publishing house were considered scandalously liberal.
And lie was "in trade," the contemptuous term for
anyone who wasn't a gentleman of leisure,
I
living off a business income but doing nothing to earn
it. Gideon actively involved himself in his
business, and had even been known to repair a broken
book press if the schedule of Kent and Son
demanded it.
His recent history was cloudy, too. His first wife
had died in a fall from a window of the mansion he'd
formerly owned on upper Fifth Avenue. His
daughter was in a disreputable profession, and his younger
brother had a reputation for outrageous behavior.
In Europe, Matthew Kent's paintings were making
him famous, but his escapades had long ago made
him
notorious in his native land. Added to this was
Gideon's murky role in the 1877 shooting death
of the Chicago railroad magnate Thomas
Courtleigh. All in I all, the head of the Kent
family had a reputation as a radical and a
roughneck. Definitely not good social material.
There was one other event which absolutely
assured the Kents' ostracism. This was what
Gideon privately referred to as the McAllister
Incident. Two years earlier he'd had a sharp
encounter with the man who served as Society's
unofficial prime minister, responsible for drawing
up the guest lists for the balls which the great ladies
gave, and for planning the themes and costumes of the
quadrilles performed at those balls. Mentally-and
sometimes openly-Gideon called that gentleman the
little toad.
In Gideon's estimation, Mr. Samuel Ward
McAllister
was undistinguished
in
intellect as well as appearance. He
a
-
was remarkable only in that he managed to prosper by
* being no more than a parasite. It disgusted
Gideon that a
born Southerner would thus debase himself. Perhaps that
was why, during a chance meeting at Gideon's club
in New
York, things had gone badly.
After introductions, someone had happened
to mention Gideon's war record. This brought a
sniff from McAllister.
"I'm from Savannah, as you may know. But at least
I was never a traitor." He eyed Gideon's
chin. "Your beard led me to briefly mistake you
for a member of the Grand Army of the Republic."
"I don't know what led me to briefly mistake
you for a man, Mr. Make-A-Lister."
Society's prime minister turned purple when
Gideon applied the scornful name the newspapers
had given him. But he had no time to utter a
protest because Gideon immediately knocked him down with
one punch.

Gideon usually rose before sunup. His work day
seldom ended until nine or ten at night. This
evening was no exception. After a light supper, he
retired to the library of the splendid three-story
Federal brick house that he'd purchased when he and
Julia returned to Boston in 1878. He had
paid the exorbitant asking price solely because
Philip and Amanda Kent had both owned the
residence during their lifetimes. Gideon intended
to see that the house never slipped out of the family again.
On Beacon Street below the library
window, gas lamps glimmered, as they did above
Gideon's large desk. Immediately after moving in,
he'd taken over the library and converted it to an
office.
Wires hung from several holes in the plaster. The
house would presently be electrified with some of
Mr. Edison's lamps. And Gideon planned
to install a telephone as soon as long distance lines
were available between Boston and New York. At
present he could only phone long distance to Lowell.
Who the hell wanted to call Lowell?
Puffing on a cigar, he settled down to work just about
the time Carter was leading the donkey into Eisler's
stable. Gideon's own son was upstairs in his
room, studying, Gideon presumed Will attended the
excellent Boston Latin School; Carter's
wayward behavior at the Adams Academy had
put the name Kent in such disfavor, Will could not
possibly have gone there. Gideon reminded himself
to look in on his son later.
Over the library mantel hung the sword and
rifle Philip Kent had collected in the early
years of the Revolution. The rifle was the kind
commonly called a Kentucky; the sword, a
French grenadier's briquet. On the
mantel itself stood the original green glass
bottle of tea Philip had brought home from Mr.
Adams' tea party.
All the other family mementoes were displayed in the
library as well. A glass case contained the
medallion struck by Gilbert Kent, Philip's
second son, as well as the bracelet of tarred
cordage from Old Ironsides, on which
Philip's grandson Tared-Gideon's grandfather-had
served. Nearby hung the oil portrait of
Philip himself, painted
when he was an affluent, middle-aged Boston
printer. On the wall opposite, Gideon had
put the framed Auguste Renoir cartoon
depicting Matt and his wife, Dolly, dancing at
a Paris cabaret before their permanent separation.
Dolly was now teaching school at an army post in
India, and raising her son, Tom.
Next to the cartoon hung Gideon's
contribution-a decidedly inferior one, in his
opinion. Strictly speaking, he had contributed
nothing, merely rediscovered a memento left
by another. When he'd moved in, he had come across it
in a packing crate that had evidently been abandoned
in the cellar years ago. Now it was
displayed as befitted a treasure-nestled in a
velvet background under glass contained by a thick
walnut frame. It was a splinter of wood, four
inches long.
He had found the splinter wrapped in oilskin and
shoved in among rotted garments in the packing case.
One moldering coat bore a legible label.
G. Kent.
From that, Gideon knew he'd found the lost piece
of the mast of Old Ironsides which Jared had brought
home to Gilbert from the War of 1812. Gilbert's
correspondence had referred to the sliver of wood,
but no Kent had seen it until Gideon chanced upon
the crate.
For a moment he felt tired, reluctant to attack
the papers piled on his desk. Very little had changed
since New Year's night. He'd made no
progress in solving the problems which had sent him
wandering the docks that evening and many evenings since. If
anything, one of the problems had grown worse. Carter
had taken to roistering more and studying even less.
Gideon hadn't suffered a recurrence of the chest
pain, though. That was the only part of the situation which had
unproved.
With a sigh, he picked up the first paper.
It was a detailed cost estimate from the Herreshoff
Company in Bristol, Rhode Island. John
Herreshoff and his younger brother, Captain Nat,
built steam launches for the United States and
torpedo boats for other countries. Lately they'd
introduced a new kind of pleasure boat-a
small steam yacht noteworthy for its speed and
economy. Gideon was negotiating for construction of
an eighty-five foot vessel that would
incorporate one of the Herreshoffs' innovative
triple-expansion engines. He could easily have
afforded one

it
of the much larger floating palaces of the kind skippered
by Astor, Gould, and Bennett. A Herreshoff
yacht was more to his taste. He intended to christen it
Auvergne,
after the region in France where Philip had been
born.
He studied the estimate for ten minutes, wrote
several questions on the margin and approved the total,
appending a note to the Herreshoffs asking them
to proceed with all speed.
Next he read a memorandum from his
banker, Joshua Rothman. It informed him that the
New England Telephone and Telegraph Company
could now make service available between his home and the
Rothman Bank. Except for communication between
cities, Gideon considered Mr. Bell's
telephones an impractical novelty. But he
liked to surround himself with the latest gadgets, so he
scribbled a note to the bank officer who handled
details of his account. The note authorized
installation of a line. To the first note he pinned a
second one approving a new roof for the family
home at Long Branch, New Jersey, where his
father's widow, Molly, a near-invalid now, lived
the year round.
He turned to a belated letter of appreciation from the young
Irishman, Oscar Wilde, with whom Gideon and
his Beacon Hill neighbor, William Dean
Howells, had shared a delightful evening at the
Kent dinner table the preceding year.
Boston had been one of the stops on Wilde's
American lecture tour. Gideon and
Howells-both of whom favored the new, more
realistic approach to literature which Howells
practiced in his novels-had jumped at the chance
to entertain the young aesthete. The country's
chief defender of old-fashioned literary virtue,
Edmund Clarence Stedman of New York-"The
Mrs. Astor of poesy," Gideon called him with
great sarcasm-had been outraged by some of Wilde's
earlier pronouncements, and had written the Boston
newspapers in an effort to persuade the literary
community to ignore him when he came to town. In
response, Gideon invited Wilde to dine.
He'd asked Howells to join them to make sure
Stedman was properly affronted.
Oscar Wilde had turned out to be a moon-faced,
brown- eyed chap. He had lank, dark hair which
hung around his ears, and a manner that was languid and
faintly decadent. But there was something delightful about
him, too. Entering the United States, he'd
told them at the dinner table, he
had been questioned by customs officials. "I replied
that I had nothing to declare except my genius."
After reading Wilde's letter, Gideon put it
aside to save. Then he turned to the competitive
newspapers delivered every day by special messenger
from New York. He spent an hour with the papers.
Buried in a back column of the
Times
he found an item about a new type of
outdoor pageant being tried out in Omaha
by Buffalo Bill Cody. Something called a
Wild West show. The
Times
was too dignified to give it more than a paragraph,
but Gideon quickly got on the telegraph
transmitter which served in lieu of a telephone. The
private wire linked the house with the editorial
rooms of the
Union
down on Park Row.
Gideon had taught himself telegraphy so he
wouldn't have to rely on intermediaries to transmit
confidential instructions. He clicked off his
message. Five minutes later, he received
confirmation that a reporter would be dispatched to Omaha
to see the outdoor show and write an article about it.
The
Union
needed a steady supply of colorful copy. Theo
Payne, the paper's superb editor, was nearing
seventy, but his judgment was as keen as ever. He
constantly reminded his employer that competition among
New York dailies was intensifying every day. Neither
Payne nor Gideon was as smug as some
newspapermen about the arrival of Joe Pulitzer,
who was taking over the
World.
Like Gideon, Pulitzer was something of a crusader.
But Pulitzer also had fewer scruples about printing
items of a sensational or sordid nature. He
knew how to get a newspaper read by those who counted
most-ordinary people. Now Gideon proceeded to write
down some thoughts for a long, long letter to Payne on the
subject of trying to enliven all sections of the
paper.
A last glance at the
Times
brought a smile to Gideon's face. Eleanor was
mentioned in the column headed
Theatrical Gossip.
In fact she was referred to as "one of the country's
most talented young actresses." In the next line,
her name was linked romantically with one of her fellow
players, "the handsome Mr. Leo Goldman."
Leo Goldman had pursued Eleanor ever since
they were young members of an amateur theater club in
New York City. Leo would marry Eleanor
eventually, Gideon supposed. He admired
Leo, who was talented, ambitious and
bright. But he hated to think of Eleanor being forced
to deal with bigotry all her life, as she surely
would be if she became the wife of someone of the Jewish
faith.
And of course, the more deeply she involved herself in the
theater, the less interested she would be in the affairs
of the Kents.
His last task was to write a special editorial
for the
Union.
It had been stewing in his head for weeks. In three
quick paragraphs, he reiterated the
Union's
endorsement of the Pendleton Act, which had become
law over President Arthur's signature in
January. The act removed about twelve percent of
Federal jobs from the realm of patronage and made
them subject to competitive examinations. It also
established a commission to oversee the civil
service. The snivel service, as one of the act's
disgruntled opponents, Senator Roscoe
Conkling, called it.
The act had been passed as a direct result of
President Garfield's assassination in '81.
The president had been shot by a man named
Charles Guiteau, who had expected a Federal
patronage job and failed to get it. Gideon's
editorial lashed the Congress for waiting for a
tragedy before passing needed legislation. He headed
the editorial
Must Someone Always Die?
He feared he knew the answer to the question. Congress
seldom acted swiftly or decisively until
jolted by some disaster.
On a scrap of paper he scribbled a reminder
about another editorial he ought to compose soon.
Something had to be done to set up better machinery for
presidential succession. The Constitution was vague
on the procedure, and while Garfield lay dying
with a bullet in him, the country had in effect been
leaderless for three months.
A small clock showed Gideon the hour. Almost
eleven. He hadn't heard Carter come in yet.
No wonder the young man was failing most of his
courses.
A frown on his face, Gideon climbed the
stairs to the second floor, passed the door to his
wife's sitting room and looked in on Will, who was
under the sheet devouring a paper-covered ten cent
novel about Bill Cody.
"Time to put out the light," Gideon said. His
voice still bore traces of the soft, rhythmic
speech of his native Virginia.
Will yawned. He was a stocky boy of fourteen with
I brown eyes, brown hair, and features that
favored his late
I- mother. When he lost the adolescent fat still showing
in his
cheeks, he'd be good looking-though never as handsome
as Carter, of course.
"All right, Papa."
"Did you finish your school work before you turned to great
literature?" Gideon asked with a smile.
"Yes, sir. Barely. The math gets me down.
I can't do it."
"Of course you can! A person can do anything if he
puts his mind to it."
Will looked doubtful. Gideon was sorry he'd
snapped. "Did you ride today?"
"For an hour. The mare almost threw me, though."
"Ask them to rent you a different horse next time."
"All right." From the boy's expression, Gideon
knew he probably wouldn't have the nerve to make the
request.
"You have the makings of a fine horseman,
W. Maybe you'd like to learn to drive
four-in-hand."
Will's face lit up. "Yes, sir, I surely
would." Hesitancy then. "At least, I'd like
to try to learn it-was
Gideon pretended he hadn't heard the last
sentence. "Good. We'll do something about that.
Coaching's a coming sport."
"That's what Carter said a few days ago."
Gideon scowled. No statement was ever true unless
it bore Carter's imprimatur.
"Is Carter back yet?" Will asked.
In spite of Gideon's good intentions, the scowl
deepened. "No. Why?"
"I need to ask him a question."
"What about?"
"Oh, just something."
"Could I answer it?" I'd rather ach"k him. It's
something to do with fellows our
I I
I age."
His
"And a graybeard like me wouldn't understand?"
Will smiled back. "Your beard isn't gray.
Well, not very."
"What about your question?"
Again the boy's eyes shifted elsewhere. "It can
wait until I see Carter."
"AH right. Good night."
Gideon leaned down and squeezed his son's arm.
The boy had grown self-conscious about being kissed
by his parents.
As Gideon left the bedroom, he tried not to be
annoyed by Will's blind affection for his stepbrother.
Perhaps Will owed that to Carter. After all, it was Carter
who had moved in with the Kents after Margaret's death and
given Will the comradeship the younger boy so
desperately needed. Carter had done what no
adult could. By serving as a brother and surrogate
father combined, he'd restored a little of the zest for living
which Margaret's crazed behavior had driven out of
her son.
But it was disturbing to Gideon that Will had become
dependent on Carter for the answer to virtually every question.
He ought to discuss the situation with Julia, and soon.
Will's lack of confidence was a problem already beyond
solution, Gideon feared. It was also a mystery he
suspected he'd never solve; Will absolutely
refused to discuss it. What on God's earth had
caused the boy to think so poorly of himself?
CHAPTER VI
Midnight Visitor
THE ANSWER TO GIDEON'S question lay hidden in
the past. Not all of Margaret Kent's cruelties
and deceptions had died with her, on that July night
in
1877 when the mansion at Fifth Avenue and
Sixty-first Street, New York, had been
invaded and ransacked by men sent by one of Gideon's
enemies.
Just before Margaret fled from the men and accidentally
plunged through a second floor window in a fall that
took her life, her mind had cleared. For a moment
or so she was blessedly free of the all but ungovernable
madness which, combined with the effects of her alcoholism,
had made her concoct schemes to drive a wedge between
her husband and Eleanor.
In that brief period of clarity, Margaret's
long-suppressed maternal love reasserted itself.
She warned Will to remain in his room with the door
bolted.
Seconds later, the invaders appeared at the end
of the hall. Margaret ran from them, and died-
Leaving a frightened and bewildered boy of eight crouching
behind a locked door. His mother's last
lucid act had been totally unlike the behavior
she'd exhibited toward him for the past several
months.
It had become a game, her tormenting him. No,
worse than a game, for in each of their encounters she
managed *ffccvey a loathing for her son. She
reinforced that loathing with an instrument that filled Will
Kent with utter terror-a rod cut from a stout
hickory limb she had somehow secured from Central
Park.
Margaret beat him with the rod whenever he displeased her.
And she arranged situations to insure that he would
displease her. On each occasion, she warned Will that the
slightest mention of the rod would be punishable by even
worse reprisals. Over a period of a year or
so, the boy suffered beating after beating because of a
misguided and desperate hope: by putting up with
pain-by enduring Margaret's abuse-he thought he
could win the approval and the love he seemed unable
to win merely by being her son. Will took what his mother
gave, and said nothing to anyone.
There had been one final encounter with her on the af-
I ternoon of the day she died. Of all the encounters,
it was the one he remembered most vividly, andwiththe
greatest pain.
About three-fifteen, Margaret rang for a pot of
tea. Everyone on the household staff knew she
never drank tea, only the liquor she kept
hidden in her room. But the staff
members always humored her rather than risk her
irrational fury.
Through the speaking tube to the butler's pantry,
Margaret said she wanted Will to bring the tea up
to her. By now the boy was accustomed to the harrowing
routine. But knowing what was going to happen seldom
made it any easier to bear.
He walked upstairs, not like an eight-year-old
going to greet his mother for the first time that day, but like a
grown man shuffling stoically to his own execution.
Margaret's bedroom was dark and fetid, as always.
Will could barely stand the smells of airless corners,
soiled bedding, whiskey, unwashed flesh.
He set the tea tray on a small marble table,
then immediately turned to leave. Margaret pointed to the
tea cup's rim:
"There's a smudge on the cup, young man."
He looked at her sadly. Her hair was
unkempt. Her eyes lacked focus. "Mama-was
he began.
"Do you expect me to drink out of a filthy
cup?"
The cup was spotless. He was sick with despak.
"Mama, there isn't any smudge on-was
"There is. There is! Are you blind?"
Now her eyes had that irrational glint. She was
starting the cruel game again. But much as he loved
her-much as he feared and pitied her-today something in him
rebelled:
"Mama, the cup is clean. If you'll just look,
you'll see."
"Don't tell me what I see and what I
don't!" She pushed him. He fell against the table,
upsetting the tea pot and shattering the cup.
"Oh!" Her mouth curved down in disgust. Her
gleeful eyes made him cringe. "See what you've
done, you stupid child."
She was sometimes quite graceful when she'd been drinking;
this was such a time. With a smooth, supple motion, she
bent and snatched the hickory rod from its hiding
place beneath the bed:
"Turn around and lean over."
"Mama-was
"Lean over, I say!"
"Mama, don't." He fought back tears. She
never struck him on bare skin; she
didn't want any marks to show. The worst blows
weren't delivered by the rod, in any case.
"Mama, it was an accident. And you punished me
only yesterd-was
"You were clumsy yesterday," she interrupted. "That's
why I punished you. Again today you were clumsy, so you
must be punished again.
Lean over."
He bit his lower lip until he tasted blood.
He couldn't stand to cry in front of her. His eyes
were dry as he bent forward at the waist. The rod
rose above her right shoulder. Her forearm brushed against
a spiky strand of her unwashed hair. He heard the
beginning of the litany which by now had become familiar:
"Perhaps one of these days you'll show me you can do something
right, Will Kent."
Her timing was exquisite. The rod came down as
she spoke, and it struck him precisely as she
uttered the word
right.
Then it flashed upward again.
"You'll be a bungler all your life!"
She struck.
"You'll
never-was
Struck.
"comamount to anything!"
She beat him faster then. Faster and harder, her words
becoming thick and running together. Her mouth filled with
saliva as she cried:
"Never! NEVER!"
In a minute or so the orgiastic frenzy passed.
She flung the rod under the bed and collapsed onto
the mussed covers, weeping and moaning. He stole
out.
He was still too young to understand why she behaved as she
did; that it was her loathing of herself which, in her misery
and delirium, she transformed into a loathing of him.
As he cowered in his room, a whipped animal, he
returned to a conclusion he'd reached long before. His
mother might be disturbed, but she couldn't be wholly
irrational. She was his
mother.
In his scheme of things, that made her well nigh
omnipotent. Thus, he concluded, she must have a very
good reason for everything she said and did. The reason
could only be that he was, indeed, worthless.
That night, she died.
In the aftermath of the attack on the house,
Margaret's diary was discovered. In the
book she'd kept a secret account of her
deception of her husband. The disjointed, sometimes almost
incoherent, narrative revealed the way she'd
deliberately played father against daughter so that
Eleanor came to hate Gideon for a time.
Margaret's mistreatment of her son was nowhere
written down-except on the tablet of the boy's
mind.
With the finding of the diary on the day Margaret's things were
removed from her bedroom and consigned to a bonfire,
Eleanor and her father were set on the road
to reconciliation. But nothing could undo the damage
done to W.
Suffering silently, he concluded that the memory of his
mother, already badly tarnished, could stand no further
staining. He decided he must say nothing about the
beatings.
Someone had certainly found the hickory rod and
tossed it on that bonfire without guessing the
purpose to which it had been put. There was no point in
accusing his poor mother after she was gone. She'd suffered
enough. And she could no longer hurt him.
Or so he thought.
You'll be a bungler all your life.
Months later, he still heard it in
nightmares, or in waking daydreams in which he watched
the rise and fall of the terrible rod.
You'll never amount to anything.
NEVER.
As the years passed, he continued to hear that voice and
never let on. Sometimes the voice was faint, sometimes
it was quite loud. But either way, he never misunderstood
what it was saying.

Gideon walked into Julia's sitting room. The
two of them kept separate quarters for working, but not
separate
Xrfv
beds. They were ideally matched, and found that the
approach of middle age had in no way diminished
their ardor. Gideon's only regret about their
marriage was that they'd been unable to have a child of their
own. One had been born-a girl; a sad,
blue-faced little creature who had gone to a nameless
death in forty minutes. On the advice of
doctors, Julia had never risked pregnancy
again.
She was writing at her desk by gaslight. Notes
for another lecture, he supposed.
The sitting room was jammed with furniture
and all sorts of ornamentation. That was perfectly in
keeping with current fashion, but Gideon had to be
observant to navigate. Reaching Julia's desk
was like running a maze, in and out among the matching
pieces of the rosewood set finished in gold
brocade. Other areas were occupied by a tall grandfather
clock, assorted whatnots, two pedestals bearing
marble busts of elderly Romans, a rubber plant,
two Boston ferns in expensive jardinieres, and a
pair of large cabinets holding Julia's
collection of cut glass.
Almost every other horizontal surface in the room was
equally cluttered. A cloth-of-gold lambrequin
draped the mantel of the small fireplace.
Several tables were almost completely concealed by long
fringed cloths. The cloths in * turn were nearly
hidden by books, picture albums, vases,
figurines and even a jar full of dried rose
petals.
Nor did the walls escape. Julia had chosen
all the decorations either because she liked them, or because
they had some family significance. They included
two Audubon prints, a large sketch of
couples strolling in the garden of the Tuileries which
Matt had done in 1879, two smaller
prints based on his etchings for the Kent and Son
book,
100 Years,
and the stuffed head of a fierce owl with yellow
eyes. The owl's head jutted from the wall near
three brown-
toned photographs showing the Parthenon on the
Acropolis,
the Colosseum in Rome, and Westminster Abbey.
Photographs were becoming quite popular as household
art.
A memento which the Kents especially prized had come
into the family at Christmas, 1880. One of
Gideon's favorite hymns was "O Little Town
of Bethlehem," which had been written and set
to music in 1868. The author of the lyric was the
Kents' friend Phillips Brooks, currently
head of the Episcopal Theological School in
Cambridge and for

mer rector of Trinity Church in Copley
Square. Julia had gone to Brooks and asked him
to copy the first stanza of the song, then sign it.
She'd presented the manuscript to her husband as a
surprise gift, and he in turn had
insisted she frame it and hang it in an honored
place in this room.
Julia put her work aside and stood on tiptoe
to greet her husband. Even so, she barely reached his
shoulder. She was just five feet, with a perfectly
proportioned figure, lustrous dark hair, and
flawless pale skin that heightened the vivid blue of
her eyes. She planted a kiss on his mouth.
"Finished?"
He pulled another cigar from the pocket of his
velvet smoking jacket. "Who's ever finished these
days? The world gets busier and busier."
"Or could it be that we get older and slower?"
They laughed. Julia was forty-three, older than
her husband by three years. As she sat down, she
noted his expression:
"Darling, you're worrying again."
He perched on a brocaded footstool beside the
desk. He described the little scene with W. When
he was through, she shook her head:
"I don't quite see why you're worried. The boys
have been close for a long time. That's natural for
brothers. To have secrets is natural too."
"It's a matter of degree. I feel Will
relies entirely too much on Carter.
Your son's a strong young man-temperamentally as
well as physically. Maybe Will needs-was
A gesture with the cigar. He groped for the words:
"Independence. Independence and toughening. So that when
he's on his own as a man, he can think and act for
himself, not run to someone else for suggestions about
everything from clothes to girls."
In silence, Julia considered that. After a moment she
nodded. "Very well. If you feel there's a problem,
we must try to find some way to solve it." She
sighed. "There seem to be problems everywhere.
Carter's going to be dismissed from Harvard at the end
of this term unless a miracle takes place at
examination time." Her tone said she didn't
anticipate a miracle. "I've failed
to direct him properly, Gideon."
He reached for her hand. "Nonsense. All boys his
age assert themselves. I did."
"Did you always try to impose your opinions and your
wishes on other people?"
"Sometimes," he said, though he couldn't remember
having been so single-minded about it.
"And did you absolutely refuse to accept
authority?"
He grinned. "Unfailingly."
"Gideon Kent, you're just trying to make me feel
better. You could never have served even one week in the
cavalry if you acted the way Carter does."
She shook her head. "Sometimes I see so much of
Louis in him. Louis's disposition. Selfish.
Willful-was
"He's a good boy, Julia. You mustn't start
believing otherwise, because he'll feel it." The
reminder was for himself as much as for her.
"He's also a man. Twenty-one years old. I
can't control him any longer. But it's evident that
I did a wretched job of raising him. In some
ways I fear he's still Louis's son."
"The past is gone. We ought to work on channeling the
talents he's got."
"What talents?" she replied in a melancholy
way. "A talent for smiling? For charming people? Shall we
encourage him to be another Ward McAllister?"
Gideon frowned. Julia took her hand from his,
covering her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't mean
to say unkind things about my own son. But lately
I've been very downcast about his future."
"That makes two of us. I've been downcast about
Will's."
She nodded. "Sometimes I fear Carter
hasn't any future, unless it's one like his poor
father's-was She patted her husband's hand. "But it's
good we got all of this into the open. It greater-than
may be that we each need the other's objectivity.
You think about Carter and I'll think about W. Perhaps
between us-was
A knock interrupted. The Kents looked up
to see their tall, rather austere butler, Crawford:
"Beg pardon, madam-beg pardon, sir. I
tried to discourage the visitor, but he was insistent.
He demands to see both of you."
Gideon jumped up. "He's got a hell of a
nerve demanding anything at this hour. Who is this
fellow, Crawford?"
"The gentleman claims to be from the college,
Mr. Kent.
He says he's driven alMhe way from
Cambridge, and he's in a perfect rage about
something. His name," Crawford added, "is Eisler."
CHAPTER VII
Defiance
EDMUND EISLER DEPARTED forty minutes later.
But as a result of his visit, the Kents were in no
mood for sleep.
The servants went to their beds down on the
ground floor. Gideon and Julia had the first
floor all to themselves. Around three-thirty, a heavy
storm broke, drenching the house and the Common. The
rain quickly slacked off, then stopped.
There was little conversation between husband and wife. Gideon
could tell how upset Julia was by the way she made
frequent trips to the front parlor window. The
rain- glistening slope of Beacon Street remained
silent; empty. Four o'clock came.
Four-thirty.
Five.
Finally, just as daylight was breaking and Julia was
urging Gideon to go to the police, a soggy and
tired-looking Carter have into view. It was Gideon
who spied him. He quickly dropped the drapery and
stepped away from the window.
"He's coming. Minus a shoe, but there's no other
visible damage."
Julia murmured her relief, then smoothed her
features and stood beside her husband, ready to deal with
her son.
Carter let himself in with his key and came to the parlor
door, where light spilled out. Gideon had
to admire the young man's brass. His smile was
confident and guileless.
"Still up? Hope I didn't worry you. The card
game lasted until just a while ago."
Julia fisted her hands at her sides. "Please
don't make matters worse by lying."
For an instant Carter's confidence cracked. Then the
all but irresistible smile slipped back in
place:
"Lying? I don't understand. I've been in
Willie Hearst's room all evening, playing
poker-only not for ten thousand a hand, the way his father
does-was
Gideon stepped forward. "Young man, you've caused
your mother no end of anxiety tonight. As she said-don't
compound it by making up half truths. We know where you
were, at least during the early part of the evening. Around
midnight, we had a caller." He paused to let
that sink in, then added, "Professor Eisler."
Carter sagged against the doorframe. "Oh,
Jesus."
"Kindly do not use that sort of language in
front of me," Julia said. "This is not a
saloon or a bordello." Then, in spite of
everything, a plaintive note crept into her voice.
"Why did you deliberately set out to humiliate
that man?"
Jaw thrust out, Carter retorted, "He had it
coming. He humiliates me every time I go to class."
"Apparently," Gideon said, "that is due in
large part to your failure to turn in the assigned
work."
Carter refused to answer the charge, exclaiming
instead, "He's made my life miserable for almost
two years!"
Julia's eyes filled with angry tears. "What
kind of son have I raised?"
"Mother, don't make such a damn to-do-was
"I should say we will make a to-do, as you call
it!" Gideon roared.
"But it was just a prank!"
"And a very costly one for you," Gideon retorted.
"Eisler said you drove a wagon to his house. A
wagon which was totally demolished. How in God's
name did you get hold of a wagon?"
Carter shrugged. "It was easy. I paid good money,
and I told the owner a good story about needing it for my
club."
Gideon seethed: "Just another little test of your
powers of persuasion? The ingenuity you've developed
in lieu of intelligence-?"
Nervous and defensive, Carter smiled.
The smile struck Gideon as utterly insolent.
He could barely keep from
II
storming across the Oriental carpet and hitting his
stepson.
"You might call it that," Carter answered finally.
"Do you mind if I say goodnight?"
"Not until we've finished with you. Stand up
straight!"
The younger man glared. But he stopped leaning against the
doorframe. Fuming, Gideon went on:
"You act as though rules are made for everyone but you.
As though life consists of nothing but challenges to your
cleverness. Apparently you never trouble to consider the
propriety or the consequences of your behavior.
What's become of the Carter Kent who helped his
stepbrother get into baseball games in Central
Park? When you persuaded those slum roughnecks
to let Will join in, you were doing something with a worthy
purpose!"
Carter looked baffled. "I helped Will because I like
him. And because I enjoyed wrapping those clods around
my little finger-was A glance at Julia. "Just the way
you wrap up an audience."
"It isn't the same!" she cried. "I'm
not playing some- some intellectual game. I mean
every word."
"I wish I knew what you were getting at, Mother."
"At being
responsible,
not merely successful," Gideon broke in.
"Somehow we've failed to make the distinction clear."
Julia caught his arm. Red-faced, he turned
away, struggling to draw another breath. Carter did
his best to act nonchalant.
"May I go to bed now?"
"You might as well," Julia said. "And there's no
point in getting up for your classes. Eisler
told us he's going to the administration first thing this
morning. I'm afraid you're finished at
Harvard."
Gideon had recovered and was breathing evenly again.
There was iron in his voice as he said, "Nevertheless,
Julia, I shall expect Carter at the breakfast
table one hour from now." He turned an implacable
eye on his stepson. "We will discuss the reparations
you must and will make to the owner of the wagon."
It was no satisfaction to Gideon that Carter finally
looked stunned by the news of his dismissal from
Harvard. He limped toward the staircase
without another word. His wet shoe squeaked in the
silence.
When he was gone, Julia leaned against her husband and
held onto him. "I really have failed to teach him
anything."
"The responsibility's mine too."
"What can we do with him?"
Gideon told her the truth: "I don't know."
He feared it was already too late to change Carter's
amoral approach to life. But he was obliged
to try.

Associate Professor Edmund Eisler
hadn't been uttering idle threats. The next afternoon
at four o'clock, a special messenger delivered a
notice from Harvard College stating that Mr.
Carter Kent," Beacon Street, had been
dismissed from the second year class and could not under
any circumstances be reinstated.
It came as no surprise. In fact, Gideon
had already planned his stepson's future on the
basis of an impending dismissal. At breakfast
he had presented Carter with a series of
ultimatums. He would take a job at Kent and
Son, and from his salary, repay the fair
price of the wagon in weekly installments. He would
pay for the horse too if it I failed to turn up.
Carter was required to call on the bakery owner,
admit his deception, and handle all the arrangements.
On every point, Carter quickly murmured an
agreement.
But Gideon feared the young man was secretly
unrepentant, and was only making a show to mollify
his mother.
No matter. He
would
pay for the damage he had done. Early the next
day, he was put to work carrying paper from the warehouse
to the pressroom of the publishing house. The paper was
heavy, the work tiring. Carter didn't complain. At
least not within Gideon's hearing. And although Carter
did face the bakery owner and work out details of the
repayment, Gideon was still suspicious that the change
in his stepson's attitude was merely temporary.
He was right. It lasted just two weeks.
On Tuesday, shortly after the noon break,
Gideon summoned Carter to his office on the
top floor of the building. Near the desk littered
with ledgers, bills, and galleys stood Mr.
Verity Pleasant, the stout, gray-haired
superintendent of the pressroom. Pleasant was the
great-grandson of Supply Pleasant, the editor of
Philip Kent's first newspaper, the

**m?
*SB-FCR
Bay State Federalist.
Verity Pleasant had begun his working career as an
apprentice at Kent and Son, and had quickly
advanced to his present position of
responsibility. He had come to Gideon with a
complaint which Gideon now presented to his stepson:
"Your work isn't satisfactory to Mr.
Pleasant."
Carter wiped an inky hand on his apron and
resorted to a dazzling smile.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Pleasant. I
thought I'd done everything you asked." For an instant
his dark eyes flickered with resentment. "Everything you
ordered."
"Oh, yes, you've done everything that was asked,"
Pleasant rumbled. "And quite a few things that were not."
He stabbed a thick finger at a folded sheet lying
on the corner of the desk. "I have shown that petition
to Mr. Kent."
"Oh." Carter eyed the sheet, pondered a moment,
then shrugged. "I'm sorry if the petition offends
you, Mr. Pleasant. Or you, sir. But I
definitely feel that fifteen minutes is not long
enough for a midday meal. Most of the other men share my
opinion, as their signatures on that paper should
prove."
Pleasant couldn't hide his contempt. Even
Gideon's relationship to the offender made no
difference.
"They share your opinion because you've palavered and
wheedled and talked 'em dizzy. Half of them
probably signed just to shut you up."
"No, sir, that's not true," Carter said. "They
agree with me. In fifteen minutes there isn't
even time to step out for a growler of beer."
Gideon laced his hands together. "Nor is it
allowed. I remind you that I set the rules in this
business, young man. I set them after a meeting with the
craft union once a year. At that meeting, the
men have an opportunity to ah" every complaint, whether
large or small. My employees are paid and
treated fairly. Better, in fact, than in most
printing houses. I admit the noon meal period
is short. But the men also get to leave
forty-five minutes early because of it. A year ago,
they agreed they wanted it that way."
"Oh, we want to keep that early quitting time,"
Carter nodded. "But we also believe the noon
interval should be stretched to half an hour."
The floor vibrated from the rhythm of the presses and
binding equipment. Gideon sighed and shook his head:
"Why do you do this, Carter? You don't really care
about working conditions at Kent and Son. Why do you
always have to try to take charge of a situation? Is it
because deep down you're doubtful of your own ability?"
Carter glared. "I don't know what the hell you're
talking about-sir."
"Nor do I," Pleasant declared. "All I know
is, I won't have troublemakers in my pressroom.
He cares for naught but the sound of his own voice,
Mr. Kent. Since he's your adopted son-was
He reached behind him to the strings of his apron. "comI
suppose you'll be wanting my resignation."
Gideon stayed Pleasant's hand. "Absolutely
not. When I brought Carter in here, his mother and I
agreed he'd get no special treatment."
Handsome as a marble statue, Carter stood motionless in
a beam of sunlight falling through the grimy window.
His defiant eyes seemed to be testing the
older man's determination.
How much of his lack of morality is my fault?
Gideon wondered.
And how much comes out of the past, from Louis?
Gideon rose behind his desk. "No special
treatment," he repeated, to make sure Carter
understood. "You're discharged."
For a moment, Carter looked hurt. Then he
stiffened:
"Sir-was
"You heard me. Go find a job on your own."
"What if I don't choose to find a job?"
"Then you can go to jail. I won't pay a penny of
what you owe for that wagon. Now get out of here."
"With pleasure!" Carter untied his apron and
flung it on the floor. Then he stomped down the
stairs.
Verity Pleasant started to offer an apology for
disrupting relationships in Gideon's household.
With a slashing gesture, Gideon waved him
to silence. Pleasant left. Only then did
Gideon raise one hand to cover his eye. He
trembled with impotent fury.
And he's to be one of the stewards of the Kent family
in the neeaxt century? If that's the best
we can offer, we're finished.
Ebens Fate
CARTER WAS MISERABLE about being fired from Kent and
Son. But he was damned if he'd let anyone
know, even though the firing created all but unbearable
tension at home. It was a source of bitter"
amusement to him that he realty loved his mother and, in his
own way, admired Gideon. But neither of them
suspected.
Gideon had said one thing that was completely true.
Carter did have a compulsion to control things, whether it
was the way Eisler conducted his classes, or the
way Gideon conducted his business. He wanted
to be in charge of whatever he did, whether the
realities of the situation made that feasible or not.
He didn't know why he felt such a compulsion, but
he'd long ago accepted it. The sooner Gideon
and Julia accepted it too, the happier they'd all
be.
He toyed with the idea of ignoring his stepfather's
latest warning. But if he refused to look for work,
he might indeed be jailed for failure to pay a
debt which he'd already agreed was his. The
alternative was to run away- something he was not yet
prepared to do. Still the idea had a certain
appeal. If others kept trying to control his
future comwell, who could say what would happen?
Reluctantly he set out to find work. He had no
luck. Jobs were scarce that spring, and a slight
weakening of the economy was being felt most keenly
among the , unskilled. After being turned away from the
hiring offices of several mills on the outskirts
of Boston, he reluctantly returned to the one
area where he thought he might be successful-the
docks. He hadn't been back since the night of the
trouble, and he was still a little fearful about the
possibility of encountering Ortega. The man
had
promised to repay him for his interference-
But necessity, and the memory of something Eben
Royce had said, overcame his fear. Late one
sunny afternoon, he went down to the pier where Royce
would anchor when he returned with the day's catch.
Instead of an empty slip, Carter found
Royce's boat tied up, her sails furled.
She looked as though she hadn't put out into the ocean
for days.
"Captain Royce? Tillman? Hello,
anybody aboard?" ,
Gulls swooped over the bright water of the
harbor, wheeling and crying. An old seaman mending
nets further down the pier shouted to him:
"Ain't nobody about. Read the sign."
He pointed to a notice board at the head of the
pier. Carter had passed it, but paid no attention.
Now he hurried back to it, and in seconds found the
hand-printed advertisement to which the old man had
referred:
To be sold at PUBLIC AUCTION
at her berth on Purdy's Wharf the excellent and
widely-known
FISHING SLOOP "ATLANTIC ANNE" Sale
by order of the owner, Capt. E. Royce
Carter stared at the notice for a long time; the date
of the auction was the very next week. An ominous
feeling came over him. What had forced the sale of the
vessel that was Royce's whole life? For an
answer, he turned back toward the end of the pier.
The old seaman, net slung over his shoulder, was just
stepping over the gunwale of a ramshackle barge.
"Ahoy there," Carter called, waving. "I see the
sign- but where's Captain Royce? Is he all
right?"
"Some say he's lucky to be alive," the old
man replied. "Others-me among
'em-think maybe he'd be better off if they done
the whole job, 'stead of leavin" him like he is."
Andwitha final suspicious stare at Carter, the man
disappeared into the barge's wheelhouse.
What the old man said unexpectedly brought an
image
m
to Carter's mind. He saw the vicious eyes of the
man with
the fishhook scar, and there in the bright sunshine beside the
familiar, sail-dotted harbor, he shuddered.

He walked a while before making up his mind to go to the
Red Cod. After all, how much harm could come to him in
the daylight? He knew from experience that there would be
few if any patrons in the Cod at this hour. And
he wouldn't be forced to explain his absence to Josie;
the serving girls didn't start work until six o'clock
or later.
A bell was tolling in a nearby church as Carter
opened the tavern door. For a moment he could see little
in the dark interior. Then an unpleasantly
familiar voice hailed him.
"Well, if it isn't Kent. Thought the rough crowd
in here had scared you off."
Carter leaned on the serving counter and thumped down one
of his last coins. "I'll have a beer,
Phippsy-without the insults."
While the wizened landlord filled the pewter pot,
Carter overcame his embarrassment and forced out the
next sentence:
"And if anybody in the neighborhood is looking
for help, I'd be glad to know that too."
Phipps served the beer, clawed up the coin and
deposited it in his grimy apron. From the rear of the
tavern floated the smell of the day's batch of
chowder. Phipps blinked and licked his lips.
"You mean you're hunting a job?"
"Correct."
"What happened to your fancy education?"
"I decided I had enough of Harvard."
"Or they decided they had enough of you?"
"Look, dammit-was
"All right, all right!" Phipps broke in,
obviously relishing Carter's plight. "I've
got nothing to offer here-was
And I wouldn't work for you if you did.
his
comb I hear the Northeast Fishery Company's
hiring. They're always hiring. It's dirty
work."
"Where is it?" Carter asked. Phipps gestured:
"The big building three squares north. Right at
the head of the wharf. Can't miss it."
"I'm in your debt," Carter said, offering a mocking
salute with the pot. He drank, then added, "I'd
hoped maybe Eben Royce would take me on, but
I see the
Atlantic Anne's
up forstsale. What happened?"
Phipps frowned. "It's too sorrowful to talk
about. You better ask him." He gestured past
Carter.
Carter turned and for the first time saw Tillman. The
fat fisherman was seated at the same table he'd
occupied on the night of the trouble with Ortega. He
regarded Carter with watering eyes. He was drunk.
Carter carried his beer toward the man, who stirred in
a slow, slothful way and drained what was left in his
own pewter mug. Most of it ran down Ris chin and
dripped on the stained table. Tillman looked
defeated and miserable- and Carter wasn't sure he
wanted to hear the answer to the question about Royce.
Something grim had happened, that much was certain.
111
Tillman wasn't too drunk to take
advantage of Carter's curiosity. Of course
he'd relate the sad story of Eben Royce-if
Carter refilled his mug. Carter sat down,
signaled Phipps and wrinkled his nose at the fat
man's sour smell. Presently, drink in hand,
Tillman unburdened himself:
"Goddamn shame, it is-fine man like Eben.
Happened eight, nine days after the last time you was in
here. Eben had his supper-that very table-and he was heading
back to the boat when three men jumped him and dragged
him up Hampshire Alley. They put a rag in
his mouth to keep him quiet, then they went to work on
him. They broke his legs, both wrists, and all his
fingers. His hands are like this-was Tillman formed a
claw. "And they'll never be right again. Takes him
two, three minutes just to pick up a spoon now."
Dry-mouthed, Carter swallowed and managed to say,
"Good God. Who did it?"
"Eben says it was Ortega and his brother, who was in
port a few days. Dunno the third man."
"What's anyone done about it?"
Tillman shrugged. "Nothin', lad. Down here we
don't have much truck with the damn crooks on the
police force. We settle things amongst
ourselves. But Ortega left town right after it
happened, an' no one's set eyes on him since.
His brother shipped out again. Round the world, this time.
Least that's the story. They say Ortega is down
in New York, but figures to come back when he
thinks it's safe. So you ought to be careful, too."
Carter shivered again. "Did Eben really have to sell
the boat?"
"He says he did, which amounts to the same thing. With
what they did to his hands, he surely can't handle
lines or the wheel or a net any more. And you know
Eben-a working skipper, and not content to be any other
kind. I'll tell you, Kent-he only seems
to care about one thing these days."
"What's that?"
Tillman made smacking sounds as he drank, then
squinted into the empty mug. Carter said he had no
more money with him. It was a lie but Tillman
accepted it with a sigh, then answered the question:
"Gettin' even. He's just waiting for Ortega
to show up. Oh, it's bad business-was Tillman
shook his head and gave Carter a melancholy
look. "It put the whole crew on shore, but
what's worse, it's did something terrible to a good
man. It broke more than Eben's bones.
It broke his spirit. He's always been sound and
healthy-but since they hurt him, he's acted queer.
We asked him to stay on as the owner of the
Anne,
and let us do all the skippering, but he wouldn't hear
of it. He just sits in his rocker in his little room,
talking wild talk about getting even with that
Portugee."
Back in the kitchen, Phipps querulously called
for more potatoes in the chowder. Carter heard a
scurrying along the wall on the other side of the
fireplace, but refused to look to see what kind of
creature was at large. The fading daylight through the
bottle glass window cast a deep yellow glow
on sections of the tavern floor.
Tillman roused again: "I think Eben would be
mighty glad to see you, if you'd care to drop in.
He doesn't get many visitors."
"Sure, of course." Carter nodded with a quick,
uneasy smile. "I'll try to get to his place
first moment I can. But
I'm in a tight spot, Tillman. I need
money. I'm trying to find a job."
"You take a job, you'll have to dance to somebody
else's hornpipe," Tillman said.
"That isn't your style, is it?"
"I'll make it my style-was Carter quickly
controlled the sarcasm, adding, "I'm certainly
sorry to hear about Eben. At least he has that
woman to care for him. She's beautiful, and she
loves him-that counts for something."
Tillman gave him another strange stare.
"Not as much as you might think."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing." Tillman heaved his huge body out of the
chair and lumbered toward the door. Carter asked
another question but the man wouldn't elaborate on his
remark. The door opened. Tillman Jooked like a
great black balloon against the brassy light of the
sky.
"Bear in mind what I told you," he called.
"They do say Ortega isn't gone for good. And those
who were around after the fracas that night said he spoke
your name nigh as often as he spoke Eben's. Have a
care where you walk."
The door closed, leaving Carter in the amber-tinged
shadows, the palms of his hands suddenly much too
cold for the spring day.
IV
He was soon on his way back to Beacon
Street. He glanced over his shoulder every block or
so, and walked wide of the mouths of unfamiliar
alleys enroute. Tomorrow was time enough to look into the job
at the processing plant; tonight he was glad to be
going home.
He knew Gideon and Julia would be gone by six
o'clock; some civic banquet or other. He spent his
last few cents for a large tin pail of beer, entered
the house by the rear entrance and took the back stairs
up to Will's room.
His relationskip with his stepbrother was the one bright
spot left in his life. The younger boy continued
to take Carter just as he was, faults and all.
He never mentioned the recent troubles which were common knowledge
even among the servants.
"Greetings, little brother," Carter said as he entered
Will's room. "Look what I brought."
He displayed the compail. Grinning, Will jumped up
from his desk.
"Beer?"
"Right you are. Lock the door. Some of the servants
are too blasted nosey to suit me."
Carter had given Will his first taste of beer only a
couple of months earlier. The younger boy didn't
care for the stuff, but he was anxious to make
Carter think he was grown up and worldly. And he was more
than happy to put his geometry text aside.
He liked his courses at the Boston Lathi
School about as much as he liked beer. Still, good
marks were necessary for admission to Harvard. Carter
continually encouraged him to go there, even after his own
dismissal. So Will studied hard. Without being fully
aware of it, he was already trying to disprove what the
voice from the past said about him.
He bolted the door. Carter propped a couple of
cushions against the black haircloth sofa and sat
down with his back against them. He swigged from the pail,
then handed it to the younger boy.
. "Where have you been all day?" Will asked. "Still
hunting for a job?"
Carter nodded. Then, sounding almost irritable, he
said, "Go on. Drink up or let me have it
back."
Will frowned. He lifted the pail to his lips.
Carter watched his stepbrother drink, wince, and
stifle a cough. But he didn't laugh. He
wouldn't have embarrassed Will for the world.
"That's good," Will declared without conviction. Carter
reclaimed the pail and gulped as the younger boy went
on, "I'm sorry you're having a hard
time finding work. I'm sorry you decided to quit the
publishing house."
"It was either that or be fired." He'd told Will that the
decision had been his. Gideon had never said
anything to the contrary in Will's presence. "I hate
to say anything against your father, but he acts pretty
high and mighty around that place. I got tired of
him ordering me around."
"Don't apologize. I'm starting to feel the
same way myself."
"Well, don't let me influence you."
Carter took another long drink. Will observed the
older boy's every move, admiration in his eyes.
"Gideon and Mother still have confidence in you," Carter
went on.
"They've given up on me. Mother thinks I'm too
much like my real father to amount to anything."
Will looked shocked. "She doesn't say that, does
she?"
Carter's answer was a truthful one: "No, never in
so many words."
"They why do you feel it?"
Carter's dark eyes seemed to search past the younger
boy into some lost time or place. "I don't really
know. But I'm positive she and Gideon
believe I'm a good-for- nothing-exactly like the
late Mr. Louis Kent."
"Maybe you feel that way because too many people have told
you how bad your father was."
A shrug. "Like father, like son. There must be something
to an old saying like that. Else why is it a saying in
the first place?" He gulped from the pail again.
Carter's dour mood upset the younger boy. Will sat
down beside his stepbrother and changed the subject:
"What are you going to do now that you don't have to go
to Harvard?"
"I hear there's a fish processing plant looking
for men. I'm going to inquire there tomorrow. What a
comedown for a member of the Kent family-smelling like
hake or market cod twenty-four hours a day."
"I didn't mean what are you going to do about working,"
Will said. "I mean what are you going to do for the rest of
your life?"
"It's easy to answer that." He smiled in a
humorless way. "I'm damned if I know."
Then he thought of Willie Hearst. The smile
grew cynical. "I'll probably wind up a
politician, or go to hell by some other, equally
direct route. I've finally realized I'm stuck
with talking my way through life because I
don't know how to do anything else." He held out the
pail. "Want any more?"
Will shook his head, his expression unhappy. Carter
noticed. Instantly, a smile spread over his
swarthy face:
"But don't fret about me, little brother. If I'm
headed for hell, I promise you I'll have a fine
time getting there."
Will refused to smile. He continued to stare at his
stepbrother for a long moment. Then he said very softly:
"Well, you'd better not leave Boston."
"What's that? Why not?"
"Because-was Avoiding Carter's eyes, he forced out the

"i
rest. "combecause I couldn't get along without you. You're
the only one I can ask for advice about important
things."
"Such as cigars and girls, eh?" Carter said. He
was secretly touched by the younger boy's words.
"I'm serious. Having you here is like having a real
brother."
"But you could get along without me. It's nice to hear
you say otherwise, though. One thing's for sure-was
He squeezed his stepbrother's arm
affectionately. "You don't want to follow my
example. You need to attend to your studies and
behave yourself. If you do, you'll get somewhere."
Carter scrambled to his feet. There was pain showing in
his eyes. Will saw it, but he didn't know what to do.
"Back to your lessons, little brother," Carter
admonished as he left. "Mother and Gideon
deserve at least one son who turns out right."
CHAPTER IX
The Greek
Woman
CARTER LIED TO THE man doing the hiring at the
Northeast Fishery Company. He said he was
experienced, and because he could say it with a show of
conviction, he got the job. He was scheduled to start
work the following evening, on the twelve-hour shift which
began at six, after the fishing boats returned.
So that he wouldn't be fired the very first day, he began
a search through the taverns in the neighborhood as
soon as he left the hiring office. Around ten that
night he located a whiskey-sodden derelict who
was pointed out as a former processing plant worker
discharged for constant malingering. Carter approached the
old man and gave him some money he'd borrowed from
W. The man called for a knife and a
rancid gray scrod from the kitchen. He showed
Carter how to chop off the head and tail and clean and
bone the fish-all that he needed to know to keep his
inexperience from being detected.
The effort-and the money-turned out to be wasted. Carter
was assigned to the bottom of the chute down which the
catches were dumped. The head of the chute opened onto
a dock at street level. The bottom was one
flight below at ground level-where the principal work
area of the packing house was located. Carter was one of
half a dozen men who hacked off the heads and
tails of the incoming fish, then threw the fish onto a
large, slimy table where four other workers sorted
them-onto moving belts powered by steam. By midnight
of his first shift, Carter was ankle-deep in stinking
fish parts.
He hated the sight of the eyes in the lifeless heads;
the dead fish seemed to be watching him in an accusing
way, as if he were the one who had deprived them of
life. He hated the smell even more. It was so
pervasive, he couldn't eat the supper he'd brought
wrapped in a piece of butcher paper. By the time he
went home, spent and nauseous, right after sunrise,
he was almost deliriously anxious for his first whiff of
fresh air. A long hot bath somehow
failed to cleanse the fish odor from his hands or
hair, though. Even Will made a face when Carter
saw him later that day.
He didn't think he could stand to go back to the
Northeast Fishery Company, but somehow he did.
He didn't encourage the other workers when they
attempted to strike up a conversation. They were an
illiterate, foul-mouthed lot. But they did impart
one useful piece of information. They told him he'd
stay cleaner if he wore gloves, a black
rubber apron, and high rubber boots, as they did.
He'd have to buy them for himself, though. That was company
policy.
On that subject, he had his first dispute with the
foreman.
To those around him, he began arguing that boots,
apron, and gloves should be provided for every worker. A
man shouldn't have to pay out part of his already low salary in
order to have the proper work outfit. The men needed to stand
up together and make their demand known to the owners.
He had little trouble persuading the other men to accept that
viewpoint-or so he thought. Then, on the first night

1.r greater-than
of his second week, the foreman, a
long-jawed lout named Kimpton, marched into the work
area and sarcastically called him down in front of the
others:
"Hear you been tellin" everybody they should make
some
demands
of the company."
"How'd you find out about that?" Carter exclaimed,
gesturing with his serrated knife without thinking. The
foreman grabbed his wrist and shoved it aside.
"Don't wave that damn thing at me, college
boy." Kimpton growled the words. "And listen
close. You're here to work, not think. You obey the
company rules as written, or go back
to Harvard."
He gave Carter's wrist a second shove,
pivoted, and left. Carter looked around and saw a
couple of his fellow workers snickering as they bent their
heads over the fish coming down the chute in a glistening
silver avalanche.
Someone had talked behind his back, that much was certain.
It gave him an eerie feeling to know there were company
spies within the work force-and that information evidently
flowed both ways. He'd told no one, not even the
hiring manager, that he was a former Harvard
student. But Kimpton knew, and now the others did
too. What else did they know?
The foreman's harsh words made him want to quit on
the spot. But he kept working-
chop the head, chop the tail, throw the fish
combecause of the large debt he still owed for the wagon. He
despised being treated like a slave, and forced to put
up with it, but reluctantly decided he'd have
to until he could work his way out of his present
difficulties. If the company didn't pay for the
boots, apron, and gloves, then he'd have to ask his
stepfather for a loan. Stifling his frustrated fury,
he plied the knife with savage
single-mindedness.
Chop the head, chop the tail, throw the fish-
At the end of the second week, he discovered that some-
j one knew much more about him than he liked. Each
worker at the plant had an old, wooden locker in
a dingy room near the employees' entrance. None
of the lockers could be secured against entry
by unauthorized persons; you stored your things and took
your chances. When he got off work early on a
Saturday morning he opened his locker and blinked.
A folded scrap of paper lay on the locker
shelf.
I
He unfolded the paper, read it, and hastily
folded it again. He leaned against the adjacent
locker, sick with fright.
He looked to the right and left. Men were stripping off
aprons, tugging off boots, chattering sleepily
about going home to their beds or their women or a
morning meal. Who had put the note in his locker?
A friend of Ortega's certainly-but who was it?
On the way to Beacon Street, he stopped and
studied the scrap of paper again. The message was
scrawled in pencil; the handwriting was terrible-perhaps
on purpose, to disguise it.
Ortega wil be glad to know backslash vher to find
you
Any anonymity he'd possessed when he started
work at the processing plant was gone. Someone-perhaps
more than one person-knew who he was.
Should he quit? Try to find another job in a
different part of town? It was the sensible thing to do,
perhaps, and yet he equated such a move with
cowardice. He didn't want to flee the docks
unless it became absolutely necessary.
Which it very well might, he realized as he limped
wearily on toward home, and sleep,
while the city woke around him.

At the end of a month-four weeks of hard work and
constant watchfulness-Carter concluded that the note
might have been nothing more than a malicious joke
perpetrated by one of the clods at the packing plant;
someone who knew of his trouble with Ortega, but had no
perspnal stake in it; someone who just wanted to make
him squirm because he'd gone to college.
Reassured, he started venturing into the taverns again.
He even returned to the Red Cod. No one had
seen Ortega or heard a word about him. Carter
began to think Tillman had been wrong, and that the
Portugee had left Boston for good.
disd
Soon he no longer hesitated to go anywhere after
dark. And although he was repaying the bakery owner, and
working twelve hours a night, six nights a
week, he had enough time and money left over so that he
could occasionally enjoy a beer and the favors of a whore
such as Josie.
On one of his free nights, he was ambling toward the
Cod when he spied a familiar figure half a
block ahead. Even at a distance, Carter could see
the cruel malformation of Captain Eben
Royce's hands. The fisherman hobbled along on a
heavily padded crutch braced beneath his left arm.
Carter stopped near a chandler's side door
to watch- Royce. He made good progress, yet
Carter couldn't help rubbing his stubbled chin, and
swallowing hard. Royce's left foot was
unmistakably twisted. It scraped the ground,
useless.
Royce was coming toward him. Carter stepped out from the
doorway, waved and called, "Eben? It's
me-Carter. I haven't seen you for-was
He stopped. With a strange, almost humiliated
look, Royce turned and hobbled out of sight down
a passageway. Carter ran to the passage and
peered into it. But it was so dark, he could see nothing,
only hear the dragging of Royce's foot.
The sound grew softer, then died. Carter shook his
head and turned back on his original course.
Later that week he ran into Tillman, who had a
new job as mate on another fishing boat. When
Carter mentioned the encounter with Royce, Tillman
told him Royce had become almost a complete
recluse. He lived near the Red Cod, but he
no longer went there or to any other tavern. He
only left his room to get food or
tobacco:
"He makes do with the money he got from the sloop.
All he talks about-all he lives for-is the chance
of seeing Ortega again."
Carter didn't say so, but he fervently hoped
poor Eben Royce never got his wish.
ru
Shortly after starting at the processing plant,
he'd learned why Tillman, during their first
conversation about
Royce's misfortune, had given him an odd
look when Carter mentioned the Greek woman. It was
Phipps who told him the woman had moved out of the
quarters she shared with Royce, shortly after Royce
sold his boat.
Carter supposed her action was understandable. Royce was
no longer a whole man. At least she'd helped
nurse
him back from the worst of his injuries.
When he said as much to Phipps, the landlord replied,
"Oh, yes, she's a regular Nightingale, that
one."
Carter resented the sneering tone. He assumed the
landlord had some grudge against the woman, whose
beautiful I dark eyes were often in
Carter's thoughts, and whose face he sometimes imagined
when he was making love to a whore. The Greek
woman remained an ideal; perfect- someone he
wished he could see again.
Eventually he did. It happened on another
Sunday evenings late in June. He had left the
tavern where he'd eaten supper and was bound for the Red
Cod, planning to take Josie over the jumps.
It had been three weeks since he'd been able
to afford her-the tension in his groin testified to that.
He was just passing an old man playing his concertina
while a trained monkey jigged at the end of a
rope. Suddenly, on the far side of the small
crowd, he saw Helen Stavros turning the corner
into a dark, narrow lane. He ran to catch up:
"Mrs. Stavros-wait." Excited about his good
fortune, he ran after her in the lane. He came
up beside her where she'd paused near the lamplit
doorway of an oyster house.
He raked a hand through his dark hair, wishing he were
better dressed.
"Perhaps you don't remember me-was
It was a warm evening. Above the scoop neckline of
her blouse, her cleavage was visible, shiny with
sweat. After one covert glance at it, he
was rigid.
She smiled. "Of course I do. You're the one who
helped Eben that night at the Red Cod. You
helped me too."
Her voice was low and pleasant, her English
smooth and only slightly accented. She gave him'
a smile whose unmistakable sexuality bothered him.
She was too beautiful to behave that way with someone she
hardly knew.
She touched his cheek then, adding, "I am
grateful."
He waved that aside awkwardly. "I haven't
seen much of Eben lately."
A remote tone came into her voice: "But you know
what happened to him."
"Yes. I can understand why you might not want to stay with
him
for good. But I heard that you stayed for several weeks
after he was hurt. I'd say that was very kind."
She shrugged. "No kindness about it. I stayed
until he sold the boat. He promised me part
of the money and I didn't want to leave without it."
He blinked, uneasy. "That's pretty
cold-blooded, Mrs. Stavros."
"Cold-blooded? What are you talking
about?"
"I thought you liked Eben."
"Hah!" Her dark eyes glinted, without warmth, and
Carter began to wish he hadn't chased her. The
face in the lantern light was as lovely as ever, and
yet he was beginning to notice wrinkles in it, and the
cratering of the pores in her skin. He supposed those
flaws had always been there. But now he
saw
them-just as he saw other things that surprised and upset
him.
"If that's how you feel, why did you stay with
him
at all?"
"Because he earned a good income before he got hurt.
I want to go home to Poros. I've wanted to go
home ever since Stavros died. Eben and I made
an arrangement whereby each week, he gave me
what I needed-money- and I gave
him
what he wanted. Just ten dollars more and I'll have enough
for passage to Greece. I feel sorry for
Eben, but he wasn't an attractive man. He
was old and he stank of fish. So do you-but you're young
and good looking."
Her words shocked and saddened him. Poor, lonely
Eben had talked so proudly about her angelic
disposition- assuming no one would ever discover he had
willingly paid for her companionship, and that she had just
as willingly sold it. A business transaction.
Christ. were all women as mercenary as she was?
For the first time, he wondered.
Languorously, she relaxed against the dirty
brick wall, drawing her shoulders back and pushing
her belly forward so that her skirt touched his
trousers. She moved her hips and laid her left
arm over his right shoulder, then crooked it around his
neck and pulled his head closer to hers:
"Aha, that teases you a little, doesn't it? Feeling
me excites you-was
With her right hand she reached down and touched him. He
wanted to tear the hand away and run.
"I despise America, but I don't despise
American men. Not all of them, anyhow. Just the
pious ones who pray on Sunday and try to put their
hands up your dress the other six days of the week.
I've met plenty of those. Tell them to stop and they
call you a dirty foreigner-which is what their wives
call you all of the time. But with ten more dollars comsch a
little bit-I can go home to the place I
love. Would you give me ten dollars? For five
dollars, I'll take you to my room and let you
love me any way you wish. Ten dollars-you can have
me all night. I did business with old Eben,
surely I can do business with-was
Carter flung off her arm. "Get away from me before
I break your damn neck."
"What's the matter with you?" she whispered. "What
kind of self-righteous, cockless little wart are you?
Maybe you're more Greek than I. Maybe you like
little boys-was
"Whore!" he shouted, and shoved her so hard she
fell. Lithe as a cat, she caught herself on hands
and knees and glared from under a fall of dark, gleaming
hair. Three longshoremen walked by, their box
hooks hanging from their belts. One called:
"What d'you think she'd be if not a whore, my
lad? Ain't any other kind of women walkin' around
here this time o'night."
Helen Stavros scrambled to her feet, gave
Carter a withering look and poured out profanity,
English and Greek, so filthy and violent it was
almost like a physical blow. Then she turned and
strode away, haughty and injured.
Bewildered, he watched her go. A huge,
sick ache filled his middle. He'd thought she was a
beautiful woman who loved poor Royce. But she
wasn't beautiful, she was a slut. She'd deceived
him. There was, apparently, nothing to believe in and
no one to trust, save yourself.
Carter slouched on toward the Red Cod, the mood of
profound disillusionment refusing to lift. He was
by turns shocked and angry the rest of the night. When
he flung Josie on her pallet in her
cubicle upstairs at the Cod, she complained afterward
that he had never treated her so
roughly-as if he were revenging himself on her. rather than
loving her.
CHAPTER X
Campaign Year
BUSINESS PRESSURES forced Gideon
to neglect Carter and his problems during the next
few months. Carter had managed to hang onto his
menial job at the fish processing plant. And
he'd repaid about a third of what he owed for the
wagon. He still lived with the family, but they saw
less and less of him; he worked nights and slept
days-when he wasn't off carousing. With increasing
frequency, he was away from home several days at
a time. Gideon decided to assign a
man from Kent and Son to make occasional
inquiries. He didn't prettify this action with
some high-sounding description that absolved him of
guilt. In his thoughts he called it what it
was-spying. But he justified the measure on the
grounds that he might learn something with which to reassure
Julia.
His hope was a vain one. The information brought back
to him was so disturbing, he didn't dare pass it
along to his wife. Gideon's informant
repeatedly said the young man was mixing with a bad crowd.
Tavern idlers; harlots; people prone to resolve
trivial quarrels by violence. His favorite
haunt was the notorious Red Cod.
Something would have to be done to put the young man's life
back on a better course. But what? The answer
continued to elude Gideon.
The end of the year brought the prospect of a
presidential election campaign and a new
employee to the publishing house. In offices all
around the country, typewriting machines were bringing a
new neatness, speed, and efficiency to the preparation of
letters, records, and memoranda. A Wisconsin
inventor named Sholes had designed
the prototype in 1867. After several
modifications, it was being manufactured by Remington
and Sons, and meeting wide acceptance.
Of course it required an operator, who was
called a typewriter. Many firms put men in the
job until the men complained the work was demeaning and not
sufficiently masculine. When Gideon
expressed his interest in obtaining one of the machines,
Julia urged him to hire a woman to run it. She
said that because of the new machine, women were being taken
into offices for the very first time. Julia's suffragist
group saw the Sholes typewriter and Sir
Isaac Pitman's shorthand system as weapons of
economic Eberation for the female sex.
Gideon recognized the familiar signs of
determination in Julia and bowed to them. After
interviewing four obviously inexperienced women, he
found one who favorably impressed him-a prim
spinster named Helene Vail. Miss Vail was
somewhere in her forties. She had lively hazel
eyes and the prettiest contralto voice he'd ever
heard. She was also monumentally ugly.
Using his new office machine, Miss Vail
demonstrated her skill. She was fast and
accurate. She was equally good with dictation. They were
soon discussing wages. Gideon mentioned
a very high figure-eighty dollars per month. That
was the amount he'd put into a preliminary yacht
budget for both his captain-pilot and his engineer.
He assumed Miss Vail would be as important
to him as either of them.
"Would eighty be satisfactory?" he asked.
Miss Vail pursed her lips, the closest she was
ever to come to smiling, he would discover.
"Very satisfactory, sir. If each of us
remains content with our arrangement in the months to come,
you may be sure nothing will distract me from my
duties, or induce me to leave for another post.
My parents are gone, I have neither brothers nor
sisters, and I have been in the world of commerce most of
my adult life. I have no emotional attachments.
At an early age, I was disappointed in love."
"I see." Gideon suppressed a grin. "Are
you always so candid, Miss Vail?"
"Yes. It is the only way to accomplish things
quickly and without misunderstanding."
She surveyed his desk. "As soon as I become
familiar
with my other duties, I will undertake the sorting and
arranging of that material. This office is a
disgrace. I'm sure you'll work more
happily and efficiently when I take charge of
it."
Open-mouthed, he recovered sufficiently to say,
"I'm sure I will."
And so it proved.

Gideon was a Republican, though not a
fanatical one. In less than two decades, the
party's foundationeaof crusading idealism had eroded.
More and more, it was becoming the captive of private
interests. He disliked many of its positions and
practices, and wondered how much longer he could
support its candidates in good conscience.
Of course it was not only the Republicans with whom
he found fault. There were plenty of trimmers among
the Democrats, too. As a newspaper
publisher-a professional malcontent-there were some
days when he despised the whole damn population.
He continued to be deeply concerned about the growing
self-indulgence of the American people. Wealth was
worshiped above all else. To many, admission
to Society had become more important than
eventual admission to Heaven. It seemed to him that the
desire for personal comfort, the pursuit of
prestige and the fulfillment of selfish
ambition had replaced an earlier ideal of earning
one's livelihood in some occupation which bettered the
lot of mankind. As 1883 closed, he
reluctantly concluded that the country's ruling
passion was greed.
Greed in the form of the patronage issue had all but
split the Republican party in 1880, when
Senator Conkling's so- called Stalwart wing had
fought with the reform-minded Half-breed faction. The
Half-breeds had succeeded
in
nominating and electing Garfield. The president's
assassin had publicly identified himself as a
Stalwart. That had dimmed the movement's star forever.
The split in the Republican ranks was still very much
in evidence, however. Early in 1884, Gideon
began to hear rumors that at the convention the
Republicans might finally turn to James
Blaine. Twice before, Blaine had been
denied the presidential nomination because of
impropriety.
Years ago, Blaine had been dubbed the Plumed
Knight. But now the plume was dirty and broken.
After the war, Blaine had been caught profiteering.
He'd peddled his influence and his
Congressional vote, and taken payment in cash,
stocks and bonds. A bookkeeper named
Mulligan had gotten hold of evidence in the form
of a packet of letters. Blaine was able to recapture
the letters, which he took to the floor of the House in a
bold move to vindicate himself. After he'd read some
of the letters aloud for the record, his fellow Congressmen
had cheered and shouted for his vindication. But there was no
doubt that he was guilty. And so, in '76 and again in
'80, the Republicans had denied his bid for the
nomination.
Now one faction of the party was talking him up again.
Another group, which included men such as Carl
Schurz and Charles Francis Adams,
Junior, was saying Blaine could never
win-especially if the Democrats nominated the
vigorous reform governor of New York,
Stephen Grover Cleveland.
Among some Republicans, sentiment for and against
Blaine was even stronger than Gideon had
suspected. He found this out during one of his regular
visits to New York City during the winter. At
a party function, he met numerous outspoken foes
of the candidacy. But he met some fierce partisans,
too, and got into a shouting match with one of
them-a paunchy and garrulous real estate
millionaire named Thurman Pennel.
Fennel maintained that Blaine had merely done what
dozens of other Congressmen of both parties had done
before and since. The Plumed Knight's only crime
had been to get caught, Pennel declared. Gideon
considered that specious excuse the mark of a confused
mind. He told Pennel he didn't believe in
pardoning a murderer merely because an unknown number
of other people in the world had committed the same crime and
gotten away with it.
From that point, their words grew hotter. He and
Pennel almost exchanged blows before others dragged them
apart and pushed Pennel out of the room with a demand that he
sober up. For a few minutes, Gideon
regretted what he'd done; it was the McAllister
Incident all over again. Then he shrugged off the
regret. He believed every word he'd said, and it
didn't matter that some bloated plutocrat dis-
liked him. It was too late for Gideon Kent
to polish his reputation. Besides, a ruined reputation was
often the price of choosing to tell the truth.

Sometimes, Carter thought, one more day at the processing
plant would make him lose his sanity.
Yet each night he forced himself to walk through the old,
warped door at the employees' entrance, and hack
and chop with the serrated knife until the sun came
up again.
He often played mental games to help pass the
time. A fish which he decapitated was Eisler, or
Phipps, or the Portugee who had ruined Eben
Royce's lif every. At other times, he considered
ways to escape the trap in which he found himself. He
couldn't think of anyeat were realistic. The wagon was
about two-thirds paid for, and he convinced himself that he
didn't really have to think about his situation until the
debt was completely erased. It was a convenient
means of postponing the admission that he didn't know
what the devil he was going to do with his life.
He saw Royce occasionally-always from a distance. After
that first time, he never approached him again. The men who
frequented the taverns, most of them whole of body
and mind, spoke sadly, even uneasily of the
pathetic man who hobbled around the docks on his
padded crutch. As for Helen Stavros, she was
gone-back to Greece, Carter presumed. Sometimes
he thought of taking a horse- car to Cambridge
to see Willie Hearst, but he was too ashamed.
The monotonous routine at the foot of the
delivery chute did drive one thought deeper and
deeper into his being. Somehow,
somehow,
he would find a way to be the one who gave the
orders, instead of just another one of the millions who
took them. He clung to that certainty, and by means of
it, his sanity.
He heard no further word of Ortega. The man
might have stepped into a crevice in the earth and fallen
to China. Then, after a particularly lively four-day
stretch of roistering, he came to work one bitter
whiter night nursing a ferocious headache and a
queasy stomach and there, folded on the locker shelf,
he found another note:
were
Dont think he wil forget
-
Frend of O.
That did it. Carter could no longer control the
spasms in his gut. He managed to lurch outside
before he threw up what little his stomach contained. He
closed his eyes, gulping the piercing whiter air that
had dried his lips and cracked them open. He kept
seeing Ortega's vicious eyes, and the fishook
scar. He wished to God the Portugee
would come back from wherever he was hiding, so they could get
it over withand he could live in peace again, not forced
to study every shadow and analyze every sound when he roamed
the docks by night
iv
The Republican group which expressed aversion
to Blaine included one New York State
assemblyman of whom Gideon had been hearing good
things lately- especially in his own newspaper.
Theo Payne was a confirmed cynic, yet he'd
been lavish in his praise of this particular
assemblyman, whom his colleagues in Albany
had dubbed the Young Reformer. The name was applied
admiringly or sarcastically, depending on party
affiliation or the amount of graft being taken by the
speaker.
There was no doubt the young man had made quite a mark
during two terms in the state capital. Payne
claimed he'd done well because he was rich, and therefore
incorruptible. Gideon was anxious to meet him, and
when he did, found
him
to possess an interesting and complex personality.
backslash Of average height, the young man had
blond hair parted in the middle, and
English side whiskers. He wore his
eyeglasses on a black silk cord. He was
ruggedly built, yet affected a languid
drawl. Perhaps he thought an aristocrat was supposed
to talk that way, Gideon reflected. But his
voice-quite high-pitched-was already disconcerting enough.
At twenty-six, he had already written his first
book, a study of naval operations in the War of
1812. Gideon quickly realized he was
intelligent, but a bit priggish, too.
Still, the young man didn't equivocate as so many
politicians did:
"I am a Republican through and through, Mr. Kent.
Through and through! I shall support the party's candidate
no matter who it turns out to be. But I cannot give
any credence to those who say it must and will be Elaine.
He's a tainted man. And contrary to what some
drunken scoundrels like that Thurman Fennel
claim, the Mulligan letters have
not
been forgotten. I shall expend every effort to block
Mr. Elaine's nomination."
"May we quote you on that in the
Unionl"
Gideon asked, reaching for
the
pad and pencil he always kept in a pocket.
"By godfrey, indeed you may. You may also say this.
Mr. Elaine is unacceptable because he is too
intimately connected with the class represented
by Mr. Gould-which is, in my opinion, the most
dangerous of all classes. Far more dangerous than
the so-called radicals-was
Bright, unblinking eyes met Gideon's through heavy
lenses.
"I refer, sir, to the wealthy criminal class."
Right after the war, Gideon had had a run-in with
Mr. Jay Gould, the notorious financier. So
the remarks he'd just heard helped
him
decide that he liked young Mr. Theodore
Roosevelt of the West Fifty-seventh Street
Roosevelts, Harvard, and New York's
Twenty-first Congressional District. The two men
corresponded during what turned out to be a
tragic winter for Roosevelt, and they promised
to meet again at the Republican convention.
The Republicans convened in Chicago on the third
of June. Gideon took a train from Boston,
entering the convention city for the first time in seven
years. He was astonished at how completely the
downtown area had been rebuilt. Hardly a
trace of the effects of the fire of 1871 remained.
He had been caught in the midst of that fire, and there
were many reasons why he could never forget it. Making
love to Julia on the night the fire broke out was
perhaps the most important.
Chicago reminded him of Tom Courtleigh, too;
Court- leigh who for years had tried to destroy
him. It reminded him of his youngest brother,
Jeremiah, whom everyone had thought lost in the war.
Jeremiah had turned up in Chicago, as one of
Courtleigh's bodyguards. He'd sacrificed
himself in Courtleigh's office to save Gideon from
being killed.
This summer, Chicago produced another
unexpected link with the past. Gazing up from the press
area of the convention floor, Gideon thought he
recognized a face in the gallery. He climbed
the gallery stairs and sure enough, he was right. There
sat Michael Boyle.
The Irishman was in his early to mid fifties. With
hardly a gray hair, Gideon thought enviously.
Boyle had not yet seen
him
standing at the head of the stairs. Gideon pondered
whether he ought to push on through the crowd and make his
presence known.
Michael Boyle was the man to whom Gideon's father
had willed the one-third interest in the Kent fortune
that would have gone to Gideon's brother Jeremiah.
Jephtha had made the decision during the years in which
everyone presumed Jeremiah was dead. Boyle had
borrowed against some of the money which was to come to him at
Jephtha's death. He'd used the loan to start a
chain of general stores along the Union Pacific
right-of-way. The stores had earned him his first
million dollars.
Gideon had always regarded Boyle as an
opportunist who'd exploited his position as
Amanda Kent's clerk and confidante in order to get
some of the Kent money. Julia insisted the judgment was
unfair. For someone who'd only met the Irishman
a couple of times, she seemed curiously vehement
in her defense of him.
Still, perhaps he was guilty of misjudgment, Gideon
thought now. Boyle hadn't squandered the fortune
Jephtha had left him. On the contrary; he'd
preserved and increased it. From his home in the Wyoming
territorial capital, Cheyenne, he'd
made fortunes of his own in retailing and in cattle.
He'd also taken Kent as his legal middle name.
He was evidently a Republican, something
Gideon hadn't known before. The political tie
overcame Gideon's habitual suspicion.
He walked along the packed aisle to Michael's
box. There he stopped, and extended his hand:
"Boyle? Gideon Kent."
Michael stood up, a graceful man with gold
eyes. He wore an expensive coat of
bottle-green velvet, fawn trousers and spotless
linen. He was taller than Gideon by several
inches. His handshake was firm:
"Yes, I saw you down there on the floor. I was
debating whether to make myself known."
"I'm surprised you recognized me. We only
met on that one occasion in New York."
Michael nodded. "But I remember it quite
distinctly. Hannah and I called on you at your
mansion. You were about to sell it and move to Boston.
You and your wife were extremely gracious. Besides,
it isn't easy to forget a relative who's a
public figure. Even in my part of the world, you're
famous."
Gideon shrugged to brush the compliment
aside. "What brings you to Chicago?"
"An attempt to get more favorable freight rates
for the cattle we ship from our ranch. And of course this
convention. I work for the Republican party in the
territory."
"Look, this place is damnably noisy. Why
don't we have supper tonight? I'm at the new
Palmer House."
"So am I. Suite eight hundred."
That rankled. Gideon had only booked a single
room.
"Shall we say eight o'clock in the dining room?"
"Fine," Boyle said. "I'll look forward to it.
We may have been on opposite sides in the late
war, but we
are
members of the same family."
Presumptuous bastard, Gideon thought. Then he
silently chastised himself. Michael Boyle was
fully entitled to think of himself as a Kent.
Gideon's own father had decreed that. The trouble
was, Gideon still hadn't completely accepted the
decree.
On the way back to the convention floor, he passed
a man who gave him a venomous scowl.
He'd gone another half dozen steps before he
remembered who the man was. Thurman Pennel, the
real estate millionaire from New York.
Pennel clearly hadn't forgotten the quarrel about
Blaine. The animosity didn't bother Gideon
caret As a newspaperman, he was accustomed to being
hated.
I
VI
That evening in the crowded dining room of the Palmer
House, Gideon and Michael engaged in a verbal
sparring match for the first ten or fifteen minutes.
They tested each other's political positions and
explored each other's recent history, but
superficially, and without great warmth. A certain
unsmiling stiffness remained as the waiter brought the first
course.
When they were about halfway through the meal, a harried
Theodore Roosevelt bustled in. He seemed
to run everywhere, never walk. He was on his way to a
table for one, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He
paused to greet Gideon and be introduced
to Michael.
"You're welcome to join us, Theodore," Gideon
said.
The young man held out the papers, which were covered with
names and figures. "Thank you, but I must do another
analysis of delegate strength while I'm dining.
This convention must choose a reform candidate such as
Senator Edmunds of Vermont. Elaine isn't
electable and neither is Chester Arthur."
Gideon puffed his cigar. "I agree. If
Elaine's the candi- bar date, the party won't have
my support. Nor my paper's endorsement."
"Oh?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "I think
a man's duty-bound to stick with his party whether he
approves of
the candidate or not. Otherwise, how can a man
consider 1 himself a true member of that party?"
"Afraid I feel the same way, Mr.
Boyle," Roosevelt said in that squeaking voice.
"That's why I'm working so vigorously to see
Elaine defeated. The Democrats will choose
Grover Cleveland, I imagine. His reform
record will be a powerful asset. It might even
overcome the scandal connected with his personal
life."
"What scandal?" Michael wanted to know.
Gideon answered. "There have been rumors that
Cleveland fathered a bastard when he was in
law school or shortly after he got out. It's
never been proved. But I fear some of our party
loyalists won't let that stop them from spreading the
story."
Michael scowled. "I don't like that land of
tactic."

  still
"Nor do I, sir. Nor do I!" Roosevelt
exclaimed, and hurried off.
The Irishman stared after him, then shook his head:
"He's one of the strangest ducks I've ever
met."
"We need more like him. He's a comer in the party,"
Gideon said. "Got quite a remarkable history,
too. Family's old New York aristocracy.
Lot of money. As a boy, he was almost
incapacitated by asthma. His father built a
gymnasium in their townhouse, and Theodore
exercised for hours every day to overcome his physical
weakness."
"He's done it, obviously. He looks strong as
a bull."
Gideon nodded. "He whipped everything except his
bad eyesight. That doesn't keep him from
going hunting in Dakota. He's been out there quite
a
lot this year. In February, his wife and his mother
died in circumstances no editor would ever find
credible in a story." In response to Michael's
quizzical look, he went on, "They died on the
very same day, of unrelated illnesses. It was quite a
blow to him. But he pulled through. He doesn't
give up. That's one of the reasons I like him."
"You know him well?"
"I met him just this past winter. But I'd say
we've become good friends. We exchange letters from time
to time. I like the way he thinks. For instance, he can't
stand what he calls fireside moralists. You
know-the sort of people who are forever crying about bad
government, but who sit home and do nothing to correct
the flaws. Theodore isn't that kind."
Michael glanced at a nearby table where
Roosevelt was scribbling on one of his papers.
"I liked him because he's willing to support the
Republican candidate. Without reservation."
The remark was pointed. So was Gideon's reply:
"That's certainly more than you can say for me."
"We disagree, then."
"On that and a few other things, from tariffs to the
money policy, I should imagine." Gideon fought
down his annoyance; he managed a wry look. "But
politics should be barred from the conversation when
relatives eat together. How do you feel about the
buffalo steak?"
Michael sampled another morsel with his fork. He
dabbed his mustache with a stiffly starched napkin.
"Damn good. Some of the best I've ever tasted."
I
"Well, there's a common ground."
For the first time since their meeting at the convention, both
men smiled.
Vll
The chance encounter in Chicago touched off an
occasional correspondence that extended throughout the
summer and into the fall.
Blaine had taken the nomination on the fourth
ballot. And as predicted, Cleveland was the
choice of the Democrats. Independent
Republicans were faced with the question of whether
to support the candidate or bolt. Gideon joined
the so-called Mugwumps who bolted. Young
Roosevelt, who was trying to embark on a second
career as a Dakota ranchman, did not. A letter
mailed from the town of Medora, Dakota
Territory, told Gideon the decision hadn't
been a happy one.
Never had Gideon witnessed a more vicious national
campaign. In late July, the Buffalo
Evening Telegraph
confirmed that Cleveland had indeed fathered an
illegitimate child. The mother was a woman named
Maria Halpin. The candidate quickly admitted his
culpability, and supplied evidence that he'd
provided for the child's care. His candor turned a
liability into an advantage. But the
Republicans were soon singing a derisive song in
every one of their torchlight parades:
Ma! Ma! Where's my pa? Gone to the White
House
-
Ha! ha! ha!
The Democrats were no more scrupulous. They sang
lustily about "Blaine, Blaine, James G.
Blaine! The continental liar from the state of
Maine!" In letters Michael and Gideon wrote
during September and October, they twitted one
another about supporting a lecher and a swindler.
The letters grew more and more cordial. Politics
gave way to chatty news of their
respective families. Michael and his wife
Hannah had two children-a son Lincoln, named after
the president, and a daughter Erin. Gideon soon
found himself enjoying the correspondence imbleaaj
mensely. He and Michael might never be warm
friends, but at least he regarded the Irishman with
less suspicion now. He still considered Boyle
an idiot for remaining loyal to Blaine.
On election night, Gideon was at
Democratic headquarters in Boston. In the fine
baritone voice he'd once used to sing in the saddle
with Stuart's cavalry, he joined the rest of the
revelers as they praised the victorious
Cleveland:
Hurrah for Maria,
Hurrah for the kid!
We voted for Grover,
And we're damned glad we did!
viii
When Gideon arrived at Kent and Son the next
day, Helene Vail was waiting for him with a paper in
her hand:
"I think you'd better read this at once, Mr.
Kent."
He held his head and slumped into his
chair. "I can't read anything this morning."
"Please make an effort, sir. This is a
telegraph message from your daughter."
Giving him a severe look, she laid the paper on
the desk. Then she brought a damp cloth from the wash
stand concealed behind a screen in the corner.
"Here, sir. Put this on your forehead. I fail
to understand how you can be so debilitated from a night of
celebration."
"Then you've never celebrated with Democrats."
He laid the cloth over his eyes and put his head
back. The throbbing persisted. After a moment, she
cleared her throat
"Mr. Kent-was -- He groaned. "Miss
Vail, can't the message wait?"
"Not long, sir. It's November already. Your
daughter wants to be married here in Boston before the
year is out."
  his
On the thirtieth of November, the coastal steamer
M. S.
Prince of Fundy
docked at Boston on her way northward from New
York to Halifax and St. John's. Among the
third class passengers was a man with a red
bandana tied around
his curly black hair, his few worldly possessions
packed in a stolen carpet bag, and a knife hidden
under an expensive sheep-lined coat he'd killed
to get.
  Deck lights whitened the facial scar shaped like
a fishhook. A gale wind had begun blowing off the
dark Atlantic, and he had to struggle down the
gangway against its buffeting fury. He hadn't
been in the city for more than a year and a half. He was
glad to return. But in order to resume his life,
and have people again treat him with respect, there were matters
to which he must attend. One involved the young student who
had humiliated him at the Red Cod, the night
all his trouble had started. Ortega would accept many
things that life or other men dealt out, but humiliation
was not one of them.
  Fortunately, thanks to a friend in Boston, he
knew where to find the student any time he chose. He
wanted to settle that particular score, and several
others, very soon. Then he could celebrate the holy
Christmas season in good spirits.
  CHAPTER XI
The
Secret Door
  ELEANOR KENT ARRIVED HOME during the
first week of December. She was glad to be back
in Boston. Glad to see the familiar rooms and
furniture of Beacon Street. Glad to be
reunited with Julia and her father and brother. And
yet, from the moment she stepped off the train and ran
into her father's embrace, the visit was marred
by uneasiness. She hoped there would be no overly
frank discussion of her decision to marry Leo
Goldman. Such a discussion could lead into areas she
must avoid. It could lead to the dark door kept
closed for so many years-
  Still Eleanor was in a cheerful mood when she got
home.
She'd spent a few days visiting at Mrs.
Louisa Drew's Arch Street Theatre in
Philadelphia and found it an enjoyable experience.
The Christmas season was just getting underway, with
decorations greening the windows of homes and shops,
and the lovely old hymns pealing from choir lofts on
Sunday-and from the throats of carolers the rest of the
week.
To heighten the excitement, there was the wedding. A
one-hour family meeting on her first night home
produced a mutual agreement on the
date; the wedding would be held during the week after
Christmas. Leo would be bringing his father up from New
York. Mr. Goldman, a widower, had finally
consented to come even though he disapproved of his son
marrying outside the faith.
Eleanor had a great many anecdotes to relate
to her family during her first days at home. She
preferred talking about the theater rather than the forthcoming
marriage, simply because she was of two minds about the
latter. She loved Leo Goldman, and she
wanted to marry him. Yet a small part of her
held back, and it was that part she feared for Julia and
her father to see.
There was no danger of Will seeing it-he was too young.
And Carter-well, he worked nights, and when he
reeled home the morning after her arrival, he
bussed her sleepily and went staggering upstairs
to bed. He smelled of fish and-shockingly-beer. She
quickly sensed that there was trouble in the house, tension between
Gideon and Carter. But no one mentioned it. Nor
was she critical of her stepbrother. If Carter
had flaws, so did she. One of the worst was her
confused reaction to the prospect of marriage. On
one hand, she wanted to be Leo's wife, and make
him happy, and enjoy a normal existence.
But against that, there was the door. The hidden door she
kept closed almost constantly. Surely it would be
opened at least a little, commencing with her wedding night-
As best she could, she avoided giving any hint of this
turmoil to her parents.
At twenty-two, Eleanor was not only a stunning
dark- haired bea8uty, but also a veteran
actress. She'd embarked on a career as a touring
performer at fifteen, looking mature enough to convince
audiences she was three to five years older. She and
her father hadn't been getting along at the time she
left home-due to her poor, demented moth113
er's schemes to divide the family. But Gideon
had had nothing to say about her decision to go on the
road with J. J. Bascom's third-rate troupe
of players who traveled the country performing
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Some years later, long after Margaret's plotting
had been exposed and Eleanor and Gideon were friendly
again, her father told her that one factor had caret
sened his worry when she joined the Tom show. That was
the presence of young Leo Goldman in the same
company. Leo had been in love with Eleanor even
then; the two had met at one of the amateur
theatrical clubs which had flourished in
New York in the seventies.
For years, Leo had pursued Eleanor in a
good-humored but persistent way, frequently stating
his intention of marrying her. And then one day, she
realized she had indeed fallen in love with him.
Soon after, she told him so.
It took her a couple of years beyond that to accustom
herself to the idea of marriage. Leo talked of it
constantly. She joked and fended off his pleas that they
visit a justice of the peace in some town where they were
appearing. She invented reasons why she couldn't do that
Many women in her situation would have worried about
marrying Leo because he was a Jew. They'd have
fretted about being exposed to the insults and the irrational
hatred Jews seemed to inspire. She'd confronted
that sort of thing with Leo before, and learned a method of
coping with it. And it was nothing-
nothing
comcompared to the fright she felt in connection with her own
inadequacy as a woman.
The inadequacy made her hesitate. She wanted
to marry him, she would say, but the time wasn't right.
The frequently repeated excuse had finally
provoked an argument during the recent theatrical
fiasco in Fort Wayne. Leo was growing
impatient; Eleanor realized she'd better say
yes or she might lose him. Only that danger
enabled her at last to overcome her fear. She
flung her arms around Leo and whispered, "Oh,
yes, dearest, I'm tired of waiting too.
Let's go to Boston and get married before the year's
over."
Thus Eleanor crossed a kind of emotional
rubicon. But even then, the image of the door
persisted. Perhaps now it was more important than ever.
The image was vivid because she had made it so. She
had created it. It was of a single door, made of
reddish114
brown wood heavily decorated with intricate
carvings whose subject matter she never got close
enough to examine, but which gave her a faintly unclean
feeling, somehow. The door hung in a vast,
gloomy limbo without a visible source of light.
Yet when she approached the door in her imagination,
she could see it with a fair degree of clarity. The
door was not unlike the one leading into the room where
Margaret Kent had hidden from reality during the last
years of her life, concealing her alcoholism, her
deteriorating mental condition, and the diary in which she
recorded all the deceptions she had used
to drive a wedge between Gideon and his daughter.
Eleanor never wanted to be like her mother. But she found
the imaginary door useful for blocking out a part of the
past she didn't want to remember because the
memories produced overpowering feelings of guilt
and self-hate. She learned to control those emotions
by picturing the memories as being safely locked behind
the imaginary door.
Yet the influence of those memories remained
profound. They were responsible for her reluctance
to agree to marry Leo, despite her love
for
him. They were responsible for feelings of apprehension
that were with her almost constantly now that a wedding date had
been chosen.
For although Eleanor would come to her marriage bed never
having made love to any man, she was not a virgin.
u
Gideon Kent's New York City mansion had
been invaded in 1877, just a few months before
Eleanor's departure with the Tom show troupe.
Enemies of her father had hired hoodlums to wreck
his property and injure his family. The men had done
their work well. During the attack, two of them had
cornered her, and she had been raped. She
was fifteen years old at the tune.
The experience had left an emotional wound that had
never healed. It had left a feeling that she had been
permanently soiled by the experience, and could never
cleanse herself, no matter how she tried. For years
afterward, it was necessary to prepare herself mentally before she could
let a man touch her, even a man she liked. A
sudden, unexpected contact would thrust her back to the
night of terror.
To the feel of the hard floor beneath her naked hips, and
all the raw, punishing pain.
She never told anyone of the experience, of course.
What woman would willingly announce to the world that she
had been raped? Eleanor's mother had had a strongly
Puritanical view of sex, particularly toward
the end of her life. She considered it a filthy
act, and those who indulged in it equally filthy.
Eleanor would not consciously go that far; she wanted a
healthy relationship with a husband- someday. But there was
no question that the rape had sullied her permanently.
Hence she never mentioned the despicable event
to Julia, and certainly not to her father or her younger
brother. It was her secret, and would always remain so.
But it still had the power to bring cold sweat to her palms
and dryness to her throat when she recalled
it. The reaction was far worse than stage fright; that
she could control. This she could not. And so she created the
imaginary door, and pictured herself gliding toward it
along a corridor of vast space. She pictured
herself checking the door to be certain it was securely
closed; pictured herself turning the filigreed key,
and listening to the bolt tick over in place, and
dropping the key into the pocket of her skirt.
Thus she tamed and contained her
bete noire,
black beast as it was called in translations of the
novels of Zola. She enjoyed his writing because it was
realistic, just like the best of the new plays. But
realism, while commendable in literature, was ruinous
in her personal life. Thank God for the imaginary
door.
She hoped it would enable her to do what she wanted to do
so badly:
Be a good wife to the handsome young actor she had come
to love, and had now decided to marry, whatever the
risks.
ui
"So we rang down the curtain at the end of the
second act," Eleanor said at the dinner table on
her third night home. "It was either that or
get hit by all the things the audience was throwing."
Julia shook her head. "I know how you must have
felt. I've been in similar situations."
Eleanor laughed. "The difference is, we desersted
every last cabbage and tomato."
"Why?" her father asked.
"The script was perfectly dreadful, Papa.
Mr. Todd, the company manager, wrote it himself.
It couldn't have taken him longer than three hours.
There hasn't been a first-rate Indian play
since Forrest did
Metamora
over fifty years ago. But
Arrow of the Heart
by J. Pulsifer Todd established a new low for
bad dialogue. Just before the second act curtain,
I was actually required to rush on stage and make
a tearful inquiry about-was
She pressed her fisted hand to her bosom and lowered
her voice. "My brave Algonquin brave."
That made Will laugh for the first time since the meal had
started. He was such a sad, sober child, Eleanor
thought. Was that Margaret's legacy? Sometimes it
seemed to her that all the Kents were encumbered with
invisible shackles, put on them in the past
and forever preventing them from living in peace and
happiness.
Gideon chuckled as he hunted through his pockets
for a cigar and matches.
"I'm afraid even your considerable abilities
can't redeem a line like that. I can see why your
troupe had problems."
Seated across the dinner table, Will continued to smile at
his sister, admiration at last bringing some animation
to his face. Outside the window, fat snowflakes
drifted down. Eleanor nodded in reply to her
father's remark:
"Mr. Todd thought audiences in the hinterlands
wouldn't be overly critical, but he was very wrong.
Even in Fort Wayne, they recognize a
turkey."
"A what, dear?" Julia asked.
'Turkey. It's slang for colossal
failure."'*
"How on earth did they come up with a name like that?"
Gideon asked through a cloud of smoke.
"The
Union's
theater critic could tell you, Papa. Turkey
actors are hopeful performers-generally a
lot more optimistic than they are talented. They
get together, hire a hall, and perform a play on
Thanksgiving Day."
"I still don't see-was
"Audiences are always in a good mood on
Thanksgiving. Stuffed with turkey and chestnuts and
easy to please. The
actors in these shows were usually so bad, though, that
turkey became synonymous with a flop. Such as the
late, unlamented wilderness drama by J.
Pulsifer Todd, Esquire. In Fort Wayne,
Mr. Todd rushed out on stage to control the crowd
and got hit with a melon. A very large, rotten
melon. I think that's when he realized there was no
hope. He canceled the rest of the tour, paid us off, and
disbanded the company."
"Well, I've never gotten used to seeing
missiles-fly out of the audience," Julia said.
"I'm sure your experience must have been terribly
unsettling."
Eleanor smiled. "Oh, I've been through it with
four or five other shows. And it could have been
worse. We could have been performing one of those Ibsen
dramas all the bluenoses consider so filthy.
We could have been pelted with garbage
and
put in jail."
"I don't think Mr. Ibsen's work is filthy,"
Julia declared. "In fact, I read a
translation of
A Doll's House
and found it quite moving. To my way of thinking, it's a
suffragist play."
"I agree. I intend to do the leading role one
day." It was an ambition she and Leo talked about
often. "Anyway, being let go in Fort Wayne
really wasn't that bad."
"Is that when Leo asked you to set a date?"
Gideon wanted to know.
It was no more than a casual question, yet it set her
nerves on edge and destroyed the mood of good cheer which
had been with her during the meal. Gideon's inquiry
reminded her of how long she'd held Leo off-and
why. For the space of a second or two, she
concentrated on an image of the closed door.
Soon she felt calmer. But the earlier mood was
indeed broken.
"That's right," she said. Calling on all her acting
skill, she leaned back in her chair, and forced a
smile and a sigh of contentment. "And it's
wonderful to be home again, even for a little while."
"It's wonderful to have you here," Gideon said, though
she noticed uneasily that he was watching her more
closely than he had a few minutes ago. He
gestured with his cigar, tracing a blue line In the
air. "You've hardly touched your sherbet, though."
Julia leaned forward. "You ate very little of anything.
Are you feeling all right?"
She smiled as best she could:
"Perfect. I guess I'm too excited to eat,
that's all."
"Understandable," Julia said. "You must be very happy
to be marrying such a handsome young man."
I'm terrified,
she thought as she nervously pushed aside the plate
holding the silver sherbet dish. She laced her
fingers together in front of her, thinking of the door with
desperate concentration. The door was closed.
Closed and
locked
-
"Leo's a dear, kind person," she forced herself
to say finally. "I love him very much."
And then she noticed her father scrutinizing her again, his
good eye like a bright blue light that somehow
seemed to transfix her and melt away her
artifice, until he saw the unhappy truth. Was
that why his expression had become more sober, and why he
sat straighter than before? His scrutiny made her
uncomfortable. She wanted to break off the dinner
conversation and leave.
Gideon, unfortunately, had different ideas.
CHAPTER XII
still
A Father's Fear
"LEO'S A DEAR, KIND PERSON. I
love him very much."
For several minutes after Eleanor said that, Gideon
turned the response over and over in his mind.
Julia had asked about happiness. And Eleanor
hadn't said she was happy. Glad to be home,
yes. But not happy to be marrying Leo.
He'd noticed a definite hesitation before she had
given her reply. He thought he also noticed something
else. A marked change in her mood when Julia
asked the question. Before that point in the conversation,
Eleanor had seemed to be talking cheerfully. A
less charitable person might even have said she was
running on; breathlessly cramming
every moment full of ideas and anecdotes as
if, by means of that distraction, she could avoid-
What?
He didn't know. The whole notion was probably
silly. Yet he continued to study his daughter through a
veil of smoke. Her evasive answer disturbed
him.
He and Julia had long suspected Eleanor of
harboring some deep inner hurt which she refused
to discuss. The origin of the hurt was hidden in the past,
but the two agreed that the incident had probably
taken place during the ransacking of the New York
mansion. A female servant had been raped that
night, and it was logical to assume Eleanor had
been threatened with a similar fate, if not ac-
twolly ciiKnowledge caret potpfl if greater-than it.
He thought that might explain why his daughter sometimes
reacted with shock and alarm when a man touched her
unexpectedly. Once, during some horseplay
connected with a family game of croquet, Gideon
had seen that kind of shock, and the man had been Leo
Goldman. In the split second before Eleanor
recognized him, there was fright in her eyes-as if the
sudden hand on her forearm triggered memories of
someone else who had taken hold of her for a less
friendly purpose.
Several times, Julia had tried to question her
stepdaughter in a tactful way. She'd learned
exactly nothing, but the failure was not surprising.
Sexual assaults took place in Victorian
society, but they were never discussed afterward. A girl
who went through such an ordeal was thought to be soiled for
life. Beyond that, it was to be expected that Eleanor
might not confide in a woman who was not her real mother.
It was also important to remember the time at which the
destruction of the mansion had taken place. It was
toward the end of a long period in which Eleanor had
been dominated, not to say manipulated, by poor
Margaret-and without fully realizing that her mother was
unbalanced. In Margaret's last years, her ideas
about romance and marital love had become negative
and warped, to say the least. Could that too have a bearing
on Eleanor's odd response to Julia's question?
Or was he-typical father!-fearing all sorts of
imaginary troubles just because he so very much wanted his
daughter's life to be free of them?
Hard to say. Harder still to unravel the mystery of that
night in 1877-at least the part that pertained
to Eleanor. He should stop bothering with questions that could
never be resolved, and deal with those which could. One such
question-and a rather delicate one-remained to be
discussed. Perhaps this was as good a time as any to get it
out of the way. For whatever the reason, the jolly mood
which i had persisted for most of the meal had completely
dissipated.
I
his

"Do you think Carter will be able to come to the wedding,
Papa?"
Eleanor's question interrupted his thoughts. He tried
to laugh. It was more of a snort. "If we ever see
him again, we'll certainly ask him."
Will exclaimed, "He's only been gone two
days, Papa."
"Oh, yes-a mere two days. Nothing unusual in
that."
Julia looked troubled. "Must you be so caustic,
dear? It isn't the least bit funny."
"Of course it isn't. I'm sorry." He meant
it. Carter's prolonged absences upset Julia
terribly. The boy usually dragged home looking
much the worse for wear.
With a frown, Eleanor asked, "He's working again
tonight, isn't he?"
"No," Gideon said. "On Sunday,
he said he would have tonight off. We expected him for
dinner."
Julia flashed him another sorrowing look.
Eleanor asked, "What does he do when he stays
away so long?"
Gideon shrugged. "God only knows." He
didn't dare reveal what he'd learned about his
stepson's fondness for waterfront dens.
Will sat with downcast eyes and fidgeted on his
chair. His expression showed that he didn't like to hear
his stepbrother being picked apart. Julia reached out
to tap his arm:
"Come, young man. Not so glum. No one's insulting
Carter. But we do worry about him."
"Carter can take care of himself! He's old enough
to stay away as long as he wants-and he can talk his
way out of any mess he gets into."
Let's hope your confidence is warranted,
Gideon thought. What he said was:
"Quite right. I only wish he wouldn't test our faith
so frequently."
So saying, he smiled at his son. That mollified
Will a little. "Now, young man, we have wedding details
to discuss. I'm sure you'd find that very boring." Will
nodded in an emphatic way.
"Then you may be excused," his father said. The boy
hurried out. A frown creased Eleanor's forehead:
"What details, Papa? I thought we'd covered
most everything."
"Yes, we've taken care of all the arrangements
for the ceremony and reception," Julia said with a nod.
"But there's one point which your father and I felt we would
be remiss not to mention."
Silence. Eleanor's frown deepened. The window
glass whined under the thrust of the December wind. From
the floor below rose the sweet smell of pine logs
and branches. Some of the servants were readying the
Yuletide house decorations.
"There really isn't much preparation required for a
civil ceremony-was Eleanor began.
Watching her closely, Gideon said, "It isn't
what happens before the wedding that we want to discuss.
It's what might happen afterward."
She stiffened. It was almost as though a mask had been
clapped onto her lovely face:
"Papa, I find that a rather personal subject. And
an inappropriate one, I might add. For this
occasion or any other."
The tone and tenor of her words disturbed him. She
sounded angry and inflexible to the point of
shrillness. For a moment, he'd heard an eerie echo
of Margaret in her voice. It was the very first time
he'd ever noticed such a thing.
Julia intervened to lessen the tension:
"He isn't referring to matters that are solely the
province of a husband and wife. He's referring
to what's involved * when you marry someone of Leo's
faith."
"Oh." The moment Eleanor understood, she relaxed
and was herself again. "You mean the kind of bullying he
sometimes gets because of his name? Or the other ways people
show how much they dislike Jews?"
"Exactly," Julia said.
"Something poisonous is happening in this country,"
Gideon said. "A hundred years ago, Jewish
families such as the Rothmans were welcome here, and
easily assimilated. About ten years ago, things
began to change. An important New York
banker like Joseph Seligman could be turned
away from the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga
Springs, and now that sort of incident is repeated a
thousand times a month. Just last week, Theo Payne
told me one Saratoga hotel has put up a
sign which says "No Jews and no dogs
admitted.""
Eleanor gave a sad little shake of her head. "You
forget, Papa-Leo and I have been on the road
seven years. I'm familiar with that sort of thing."
"You may have encountered it," Julia agreed. "But have
you actually felt that kind of viciousness directed
against yourself?"
"Of course. I've usually been right there at
Leo's side. He takes it in stride.
Well-most of the time." She gave a small sigh.
"I can't understand why people harbor such an intense
dislike of the Jews. In school we were taught that
any man is welcome in this country, no matter
who he is or where he comes from."
"That's the theory," Gideon agreed. "And it's a
splendid one. Sometimes, though, reality falls far
short. Some human beings can't explain their own
failures except by finding scapegoats. And some
are threatened by the economic competition a minority
usually represents. That's why the Irish were the
favorite scapegoats for so long. These days the
Italians and all the Jews arriving from Eastern
Europe are the fancied threat to people who've been here
for a couple of generations."
"Your father and I want you to marry a man you love,"
Julia added. "But we also want you to do so
with your eyes open. Youll almost certainly encounter a
great deal of ugliness when you're Leo's wife. Can
you deal with it?"
Eleanor smiled a radiant smile. "Easily.
Together Leo and I can do anything."
The answer bothered Gideon. He suspected that
youth and romance had colored Eleanor's
perceptions. He felt
she was being highly unrealistic. He hoped she
wouldn't receive a sudden and disillusioning jolt one of these
days- which was precisely why he'd raised the whole
question. Paradoxically, though, he found himself envying the
cheerful optimism of what she'd just said-and wondering
whether he had completely misinterpreted her earlier
response to Julia's question about happiness.
"Besides, Papa," she went on, "I think you're
painting too gloomy a picture. People in this country
are basically quite decent. And if things do get nasty
once in a while, Leo and I can always escape."
"Escape?" Gideon repeated, jolted again. Her
word unexpectedly conjured an image of
Margaret's room; Margaret's locked door; the
fearful barrier behind which she'd hidden her madness, and
her pain-
Nonsense. He was carrying the comparison
too far. "Certainly," Eleanor was saying.
"That's what the theater is, after all. A place of
escape. A fantasy world. It's true for the
actors as much as for an audience."
And is that how you've dealt with your hurts all these
years? By hiding from them the way your mother did? Is that
why you became an actress in the first place
-
because it was a way to hide?
The insight left him shaken, though he didn't yet
know whether it was a valid insight, or fatherly
foolishness. Now it was his turn to be nervous-and
annoyed. He puffed his cigar, toyed with a spoon and
said:
"Eleanor, forgive me, but-do you mean to say you
feel no obligation to stand up to bigots?"
"Leo's more militant than I. He feels that
obligation. I try to talk him out of it."
"I find that incredible in a member of this family."
"Oh, Papa-why? Arguing with a bigot is
futile. Why should anyone struggle to change minds
that can't be changed?"
"Because if you don't, your silence sanctions the
behavior of such people. Encourages them to spread their
hateful ideas-was
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Papa. I
don't think it's my fight."
"It will be the moment you become Mrs. Goldman."
"Then you must let us deal with it our own way. I
tell you we can overcome any problems we
encounter."
"And you'll overcome them by pretending they don't
exist? By running from them?" Gideon kept his
voice calm but firm. "I'll tell you this much.
If you don't stand up for your rights, someone will take
them away."
Julia's eyes pleaded for forbearance. She reached out
to touch his sleeve: caret
"Dear, haven't we strayed from the main subject?"
"Indeed we have," Eleanor answered, smiling again.
"I . repeat-Leo and I must deal with things in our
own way. I know we can. All that matters to either of
us is getting ahead in our profession."
At that, an image of the tea bottle flashed
into Gideon's mind. His flare of anger was
moderated by a sudden melancholy. With her present
attitude, Eleanor would be incapable of providing
any leadership for the family in the years ahead; she
was uninterested.
The father within him pushed the preacher aside.
He had no wish to prolong the argument. But he now
had two things to fret about: her willingness to ignore
questions of principle, and some deeper problem of which
he'd become aware during the course of this distressing
evening. He couldn't reconcile the coming wedding with her
refusal to make a simple statement that she was
happy. Something was wrong in her relationship with young
Goldman. Something she was keeping locked away
inside herself-
But he wouldn't discover it tonight. So he might as
well try to end the evening on a more positive
note. He summoned a smile and said:
"All right, Eleanor. You're a grown woman.
I can't live your life for you. And perhaps Julia's
right. Perhaps we've ventured into areas that are none of
our afiair. Let me turn to something a bit more
cheerful. Let me wish you well by giving you this."
From an inner pocket he took an envelope which he
handed to her.
"Inside, you'll find our wedding gift to you and
Leo. Round trip steamer tickets to Europe-a
first class suite- plus reservations for the boat
train to Paris and the Continental Hotel on the Right
Bank. Finally, there's a bank draft to cover a
month's honeymoon. As you know, old
Philip's mother was an actress in the French
theater. Good enough to have had a couple of her performances
praised by the popular gazettes, too. That's
especially noteworthy
when you recall the low esteem in which actresses were
held in the eighteenth century."
Trying to banish all the upsetting thoughts the table
conversation had raised, he reached for Julia's hand.
"We wanted you and Leo to see the theaters where
Marie Char- boneau appeared. That's as much a part
of this family's heritage as those weapons of war we
treasure."
Gideon's words had quite smoothed away any anger
Eleanor had felt. The tears in her eyes were
tears of joy:
"Wait till Leo hears! Oh,
Papa-Julia-thank you. Thank you both."
She rushed to her stepmother's side and flung her arms
around Julia's neck. A moment later she gave
her father a similar hug. Julia sipped her tea,
painfully aware of the artificiality of Gideon's
smile, and of the worried look which Eleanor couldn't
see as she pressed her cheek to his.
CHAPTER XIII
Reprisal
A WEEK LATER, just past midnight, Carter
climbed the stairs to the second floor of the Red
Cod with Josie.
Her plain, cramped room at the end of the
corridor had a slanting ceiling-the underside of the
roof-and a large, round window in a gable at one end.
The window overlooked the water; the back of the tavern
perched on the pier directly above the harbor.
Carter had spent the first part of the evening at the
processing plant. But he'd been out of sorts, and
resentful of his situation, too much so to stay until
the end of the shift. He'd gone to Kimpton and spun
a story about feeling sick. It only took a few
words to overcome the objections of the witless foreman,
who really didn't care whether Carter
worked or walked out. If he did the latter, his
pay would be docked, Kimpton said with a shrug.
Although the night air was chilly and damp, Carter
roamed the streets for an hour, wondering why he was
unable to put up with the work routine tonight. He always
hated it, but this evening was the first time he'd been
incapable of lasting to the end of the shift.
Maybe it was the season. At Christmastime people
felt happy-or pretended they did. The mood at
home was doubly cheerful because of the forthcoming
wedding of his stepsister.
Carter, by contrast, felt miserable. Gideon was
bullyragging him again. Last week they'd had a
ferocious argument, just because Carter had promised to be
home for dinner on his night off and hadn't showed up.
An all night card game at a tavern called the
Gloucester Arms had kept
him
occupied.
The game had cost him nearly twenty dollars,
too. When Carter played poker, he won an
occasional hand but generally came out the poorer at the
end of the evening. He liked cards but had no true
card sense. He often wished he did, because gambling
was one relatively effortless method of making your
way in life-
if
you were good. Since he wasn't, he had to keep
searching for something else.
Cross and tense, at the end of his hour of roaming,
he drifted to the Red Cod. He'd decided that
what he needed was a woman. He was right. Not long
after paying Phipps, he lay with his arm around
Josie in the darkness of her mean room and felt far
more relaxed than he had when he first flung
her on the pallet and began pawing at her clothes.
He felt peaceful; almost happy. Josie, too,
was in a warm, reflective mood, in part because he'd
paid to be with her until morning.
She leaned her cheek against his bare shoulder, sighing in
a contented way. Downstairs, a couple of raucous
voices were raised above the murmur of conversation. The
men began to bellow "On the Banks of the
Sacramento." In the harbor, a deep horn sounded
once, then again. In the last hour, a heavy fog had
blown in.
"Ah," Josie said softly. "Times like this, I
wish I could get out of the North End an' marry a
young man like yourself."
Carter laughed and tugged the coverlet higher over
both
of them. "Don't be fooled, Josie my love.
If you married the likes of me, you'd be
disappointed."
"Oh, no!" She tapped the end of his nose with an
index finger. "Why d'you think so poorly of yourself?
"Usually I don't. Tonight, though-was His voice
trailed off.
"Well, I think a lot of you, love. You're
handsome. Clever. You can be generous if you're
feeling like it. An' you speak so beautifully. At
least when you have a mind to-was
"Lot of good that does me in the plant," he
grumbled.
"You'll find a place where it'll do you good,
Carter. I know you will."
Her faith touched him-though for a moment, he wondered
whether she was another Helen, who would now want
extra payment in return for all the compliments.
But she didn't ask for that; just for his nearness, warm
flesh against flesh, and sometime later, for renewed
intimacy. Her hands reached down to caress him and he
kissed her, glad to forget the world's
deficiencies-and his own- for another brief
interval. Afterward, he yawned, glanced out the
moisture-speckled window at the thick fog, then
fell asleep on her shoulder.

At a few minutes past four, Phipps bid the
last of Ms serving girls goodnight, sleepily
rubbed his eyes and opened caret a drawer beneath the
serving counter, preparing to count his receipts for the
evening.
The Cod was still, and empty save for one last
customer who sometimes slept the night on the
high-backed deacon's bench before the fire. The man
was a regular, so Phipps permitted that. The
sleeping form was invisible except for the man's
boots, which jutted past the end of the bench to the hearth,
where the embers brightened, faded, and sent up showers of
sparks when gusts of air whipped down the chimney.
Except for the sleeping patron, Phipps was
alone. Of his girls, only Josie was employed
for the night. He dumped the coins from the drawer on the
counter and began separating them into piles. But his
eyes blurred from exhaus-
tion, and he was forced to close them and put his head
down on his forearm.
The quick, soft opening of the front door brought
Phipps' head up again. A thin, shabbily dressed
man scanned the ulterior of the Cod. Phipps
recognized him, and was not too sleepy to realize the
man should have been somewhere else:
"What are you doing here, Sancosa? Did the
plant let you off early, or-?"
The words died in a welter of saliva that suddenly
filled Phipps' mouth. Sancosa had merely
been scouting the tavern for another man who now
appeared behind him. The little ring in Ortega's ear
glinted as he stepped in, shut the door,
and leaned against it.
"I heard you were back," Phipps said with a nervous
smile.
"Rightyou are,
mamao"
Phipps didn't know what the last word meant. But
from the contemptuous way Ortega said it, he knew
it wasn't complimentary. Phipps was rigid with
terror. The sound of voices had roused the sleeper
by the fire. Phipps could hear small noises from the
other side of the deacon's bench, but he didn't dare
look that way.
Ortega walked-or more properly, swaggered-toward
the serving counter. His companion, who was also
Portuguese, followed. Sancosa's frayed
coat was unbuttoned. Beneath it, tucked into the man's
belt, Phipps glimpsed a fish knife.
What the devil did these two want here? he
wondered. Not a drink, certainly. Not this late.
His legs began to wobble. He gripped the counter for
support, trying to smile in an ingratiating way.
"That's a handsome coat, Ortega. New York
must have agreed with you."
Ortega shrugged. "I was married for a while. I
thought I was going to stay in New York, and
let her sell hats in a hat shop to support
me. But I found she couldn't get enough cock-not even
from me-so I had to kill the man she was fooling with."
He fingered the wooly yellow lining of his lapel.
"I took this coat from him. And I fixed her so no
one would ever again think she was pretty. After that, I
decided it was time to come home."
Abruptly, the deacon's bench fell over. The
three at the counter stared at the fat man who had
risen suddenly and clumsily and was now staring at
Ortega with disbelieving eyes. It was Tillman.
Sancosa jerked the knife from his belt and started
toward the fat man, who bolted for the side door with
surprising speed. The door banged. Sancosa
started to chase Tillman into the fog but Ortega
called:
"Deixa que ele vd!"
Sancosa halted, frowned, then turned back. But
he didn't return his knife to his belt.
"But that man is-was Phipps began, then choked off
the words. He would volunteer no information. He
smelled liquor on Ortega, and from the way the
Portugee blinked and smiled, Phipps knew he
was dangerously drunk. Not so drunk that he couldn't
make his intentions clear, however:
"I hear he's on the premises tonight. The
college boy. Sancosa works at the Northeast
too. He saw the boy leave earlier, and followed
him. Sancosa knows of my interest in the young man."
Without thinking, Phipps exclaimed, "It's hell
of a long time to hold a grudge, Ortega."
The Portugee fixed him with a murderous stare, though
he still smiled. "That's right,
mamao.
But I can hold a grudge for years. I have a fine
memory. That boy and Royce-they made me look
less than a man. They made me give up a good
life in this town."
"Because of what you did to Royce afterward!"
Ortega's smile widened. Suddenly his hands
flew-one beneath his coat, one to the bib of Phipps'
leather apron. He dragged Phipps halfway
across the serving counter and with his other hand brought the point
of his fish knife to a spot half an inch below
Phipps' left eye.
Then, slowly, he drew the point down Phipps'
cheek a distance of three inches, very lightly yet with
sufficient pressure to produce blood. Behind the
counter, unseen by the others, Phipps urinated in his
breeches.
"Are you going to argue with me?" Ortega purred.
"Or are you going to tell me where he is?"
The landlord detested the boy who had been a friend of
Eben Royce. But disliking someone and consigning
him
to
death were two different things. If he told, there was
no doubt that-
Ortega's smile disappeared. He tugged the bib
of the apron:
"Come on,
mamao.
Else I'll cut you in parts and cook you in your own
stove."
Phipps swallowed. The only responsibility
he had was to save himself. The only one! Besides, the
college boy was arrogant. He deserved whatever
he got. The landlord whispered:
"Upstairs. Last room at the end."
"Thank you." Ortega bobbed his head and released
Phipps. "You stay here and don't interfere or
I'll come back down and kill you."
"Ortega, I-I can't afford trouble in my-was
"Don't worry," Ortega cut in, smiling and
squeezing his shoulder as if they were the warmest
of friends. "I won't hurt him the way I hurt
Royce. I'll just scare him. If he dies of
fright, it won't be my fault-eh,
mamaol"
With a jaunty wave of his knife, he strolled
toward the stairs, Sancosa right behind.
in
Josie's scream wakened him. Her scream and the
rough hand that ripped the coverlet away and left him
shivering and groggy.
"Wake up. Wake up,
filho de puta"
He reached for his eyes to knuckle them. Why was the
voice so familiar?
There were shadows in the room. The silhouettes of
two men etched against the feeble lantern light from the
corridor. Josie cried out: "Carter, don't you
see who it-?" Then a fist smacked her cheek and
she tumbled out of bed, striking the floor hard and
whimpering. The shorter of the two men-the one with the
familiar voice-grabbed Carter's bare shoulder and
hauled him to his feet.
Suddenly Carter saw yellow-tinted light flash
on the serrated blade of a knife. A second
knife gleamed in the hand of the taller man.
Recognition flooded over Carter then. The tall
Portugee guarding the door was
a,
worker at the
plant; Carter didn't know his name. The shorter,
thicker u . man with the ring in his ear-
"Ah." A dazzling smile. "I see you
remember me. I don't
forget either. I trust you got messages to remind you
of that. Now-was
Ortega began to draw small circles in the air
with the
knife point. Carter backed up a half step.
Felt his bare heel
come down on the edge of Josie's pallet. He
heard her
breathing loudly where she'd fallen, but didn't dare
take his
eyes from the slow-moving knife.
He was naked. It made him feel even more
vulnerable. He was trapped-the slanting ceiling behind
him, the door I, blocked, and only the round window
offering escape-but it was a two-story drop to the icy
water.
And where was Phipps? The son of a bitch
had probably helped the Portugee trap him!
Tormenting him, Ortega moved the knife two
inches closer, still drawing circles. The
Portugee glanced at Carter's groin;
snickered:
"A big man. Maybe I fix it so you won't be
so big any more. What do you think? Should I? You
made me mad enough, that night you helped Royce-the
two of you made me look foolish and weak in
front of many others-was
His face wrenched suddenly.
"Cagao!"
he spat, jabbing the knife at Carter's belly.
Carter cried out in surprise and jumped back,
smacking his head on the ceiling and almost losing his
balance on the skidding pallet.
His reaction made Ortega laugh. Again Ortega
jabbed the knife toward him; again Carter had to dodge
to keep from being slashed. Ortega enjoyed the game,
feinting left and forcing Carter to move that way, then
lunging in from the other direction. Carter's throat
quickly grew dry. His heart pounded so hard it
hurt. He was terrified of the moving, taunting
knife. He could actually smell the blade each
time it slid by him at the end of one of
Ortega's lunges. The blade reeked of fish.
How long could the game go on? He was numb with
cold and with fear, and Ortega was relentless-jabbing at
him, then drawing back. Almost cutting him each time;
almost but not quite. Forcing Carter to jump and enjoying the
sport of it while Sancosa stood behind him, a
smiling ebserver, the knife still in his hands but his arms
folded aver his coat.
The game went on.
Two minutes.
Three.
The Red Cod was silent except for Ortega's
occasional sly chuckle, and the creak of the floor when
the Portugee lunged and Carter jumped. He thought
he heard a door slam somewhere, but wasn't sure.
In the shadows, Josie's face was a white oval
dotted by her huge, dark eyes, watching the awful
contest-
Finally, out of breath, Carter could stand no more:
"For God's sake get it over if that's what
you're going to do!"
"Watch him," Sancosa warned his friend. "He's
getting mad."
And so he was. Carter's fear, consuming at first,
had begun to lessen, because he could be no more
frightened than he already was. He guessed he was
going to die. If he did, he might as well
make the death worthwhile. He wasn't brave, but
there was a kind of desperate, half-crazed courage
pumping through him, and it wrenched his face into a pattern
of rage and turned him from passive victim
to aggressor. Ortega recognized the change in
Carter's eyes and stance. The change made him
hesitate.
In the stillness, they all heard a thumping at the far
end of the hall. Sancosa's face blanched:
"Blood of the Mother! Someone's coming."
Ortega half turned. "The landlord?"
"No, it's two men."
Sancosa stepped through the door into the corridor just
as a man appeared-a man who was no more than a
round, black silhouette. Carter saw
a.
knife tear through Sancosa's coat and sink into his
belly. Sancosa dropped to his knees, dying,
and Josie screamed.
A
Violent
Lesson
CARTER CLAMPED BOTH HANDS on
Ortega's wrist, more to defend himself than out of any
impulse toward heroics. Ortega spewed
curses in Portuguese, hammering his free hand
into Carter's ribs while trying to wrench his knife
hand from the younger man's grip.
Sancosa slumped over in the hall. Carter heard
a rapid
thump-thump,
as of a cane striking wood. Ortega threw his
weight forward. The attack rammed Carter
backwards, forcing him under the slope of the roof. He
hit his head again, dizzyingly hard.
Ortega forced his knife hand over so that the blade
penetrated the back of Carter's left hand. Sudden
pain made his fingers fly open, and Ortega tore
free.
Josie saw Ortega balance himself on the
slippery pallet, ready for one last lunge at
Carter's belly. Because of hitting his head, Carter
was dazed; slow to react. Josie screamed again, just
as Carter realized the nature of the tapping sound. A
crutch, moving rapidly over the floor-
A sick terror filled Carter as Ortega drew
his arm all the way back, preparing for the killing
stroke. Simultaneously, a hobbling
figure entered the room. Against the light, Carter
saw something with a fishook shape. It was a
longshoreman's box hook, clutched in Captain
Eben Royce's right hand.
Somehow, despite his grotesquely crippled
fingers, Royce managed to keep his grip on the
handle of the hook. Just as Ortega started to drive the
knife into Carter's stomach, Royce whipped his arm
forward. The curved point of the steel hook shot past
Ortega's jaw from behind. Royce jerked backwards
and the. point of the hook sank into the Portugee's
throat.

caret from-caret
Royce pulled hard. Ortega was dragged off his
feet. "Jesus!" Carter cried, almost out of his
mind with fright. Ortega's throat opened and an
artery pumped blood that spurted over him, and stained
the ceiling and the pallet with big dark splotches.
Carter staggered away, turning his head as Ortega
went down. In the corner, he covered his mouth with
both hands and somehow managed to keep from throwing up.
"Carter?" he heard Eben Royce say behind him.
"You all right?"
"Yes, yes-God." He was choking.
"Is he-?"
There was no emotion in Royce's voice as he
answered, "I hope so. It's what he deserved.
Tillman came to find me. I've been waiting a
long time."

Before the night's work was finished, the fog was whitened
by an unseen sunrise.
Carter had regained a measure of composure, but he
doubted he could ever forget the images of those last
moments.
Ortega's face.
The knife turning in tormenting circles.
The smell of fish on the blade.
The blood pumping from the cut artery-
Tillman and Eben Royce were much calmer than either
Carter or Josie. Tillman had given the girl
a stiff drink of rum to keep her from crying
hysterically. She had never stopped since Sancosa
fell back into the room, Tillman's knife in his
belly.
The older men displayed no remorse about the two
bodies, and methodically went about the jobs that had
to be done.
Tillman left the room just as Phipps
came upstairs. The landlord peered into Josie's
room before Royce could prevent it, and promptly
vomited in the hall. When he had recovered a little,
Royce pressed the box hook against his chest and
talked to him softly. Carter couldn't hear what was
said, except that Phipps kept nodding and repeating,
"Yes, yes, yes."
Phipps located some old bedding. Tillman
returned with
a long coil of ship's line. He looked at
Carter, who by then was dressed.
"Are you steady enough to help me truss "em? We have
to get rid of both bodies or we're all in
dutch."
"I-I know," Carter said, nodding. The images
persisted. Ortega's face. Ortega's stinking
knife. Ortega's throat spouting great dark
blots of blood onto the ceiling. He wanted
to run and hide.
Royce was still talking to Phipps. Carter heard him
say, "You'll never be able to get the wood clean.
Lock the room. Board it up. Never use it again.
Understand me?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
Somehow, Carter pulled himself together and
helped Tillman wrap the bodies in the bedding,
then tie each with pieces of line. They carried the
bundles down to the main room. Carter was thankful
that Tillman took Ortega's body; he
didn't think he could have managed that.
"I found two big stones," Tilhnan gasped as
he lurched toward the side door with his burden.
"We'll lash one to each and drop 'em into the water.
I don't know a better way-'specially with morning
coming soon."
Tillman reconnoitered the fog to be sure no
one was about. Then he motioned Carter outside. In the
clammy darkness, they weighted the feet of the dead men
and slipped the corpses into the water. Tillman
stood up and wiped his palms on his trousers,
murmuring:
"If we're lucky, the tide will take 'em a
long way out after they rot a while."
Carter could only nod and stare into the heavy fog which
hid the water lapping just a couple of feet below the
ramshackle pier. He saw Ortega. He saw
the knife. He squeezed his eyes shut but still he
saw them.
Inside, Eben Royce poured rum for Phipps
and the others. Then, still in an emotionless
voice, he spoke so there would be no misunderstanding:
"It had to be done, but it's still against the law. So the
safety of all of us depends on the silence of each
of us."
"I'll keep quiet," Phipps exclaimed,
bringing the dented pot of rum to his lips with both
hands. Even grasping it that way, he could barely
hold it still enough to drink.
Royce looked at Carter with a strange, forbidding
gaze. The crippled man was not the man Carter
remembered. He
was a little wild-eyed, yet chillingly calm as he
nodded and said:
"I know you will."
"So will I," Josie said in a faltering voice.
She sat limply at a table, wrapped in an old
flannel robe. The rum had taken the edge off her
hysteria, and she was watching the others in an almost
childlike way, as if she still couldn't believe the
events of the past hour had taken place there in her
room. They belonged in dark, late-night dreams.
"We all have to watch what we say," she added after
a moment. "I guess that man-the little one,
Ortega-still has friends on the docks."
"And the other one-was Carter began.
"Sancosa," Phipps said.
Carter gave
him
a hard stare. "He has friends at the plant, I
suppose."
"Nothing will happen if we all trust one another and
keep our mouths shut," Royce said. "Even if the
bodies are found in the harbor in a few months,
no one will connect them with this place so long as
we
don't say anything."
"Someone told those two I was upstairs," Carter
said with another ferocious look at Phipps.
"I had to!" Phipps cried. "They were going
to kill me."
Carter didn't believe that, but it no longer
mattered. He just wanted to get out of this godforsaken
place and go home and sleep for a year. He turned
to Royce.
"You can be sure about me, Eben. I won't say
anything."
Royce gave him a stare that made his spine
crawl. "If you do, I'm done for."
"I won't. I owe you my life."
"Pay the debt with your silence. And stay
away from here from now on."
"But if I disappear from the plant, they'll
suspect something immediately."
Royce thought that over. "You're right. Just stay away
from this place, then."
Without looking at Josie, Carter nodded.
There was silence again. Phipps drank noisily from
the pewter pot. Josie put her hands to her face
and began to weep, long, wracking sobs, like those of a
scared child.
Carter blinked and rubbed his eyes and noticed that the
bottle-glass windows looked pale.
Morning was coming. He wanted to forget this night. He
knew he never would.
"Well-was he began, extending his hand and realizing
too late that he couldn't shake Royce's splayed
fingers without embarrassing the man. Tillman bent
over the serving counter, refusing to watch.
Royce looked at him, though, and in those old,
hurt eyes, Carter saw no one he recognized;
only a faintly maniacal stranger.
"Goodbye," he whispered as he bolted for the door,
never realizing how foolish and unnecessary the utterance
was.
  in
He stood a few moments on the edge of the pier,
facing the ocean.
He could hear marine traffic out there. Engines;
bells; foghorns. But he saw nothing except the
white veil of fog, and, due east above the unseen
horizon, the hot white disc of the risen sun with
its edge clearly defined. He was alone in an
eerie white world, and he didn't know how he could
get through the next few days and weeks.
But he
would
get through them. He had to in order to survive.
The immediacy of the night's events was lessening. The
images were softening-blurring in memory like
recollected nightmares. But he was still shaken to the
marrow by what had happened, and while he stood
silhouetted against the sun floating in the fog, the
simple, stark meaning of what had happened came
home to him: when you resorted to violence, you invited
terror, and you took the most foolish of all chances.
You exposed yourself to death. Young as he was, he had
in one night come to an understanding of his own mortality;
the kind of understanding most human beings didn't reach
until they were in their middle years. He understood the
fragility of his own life- all life-and
he knew how stupid he'd been ever to imagine that the
violent atmosphere of the Red Cod was exciting.
He wiped his mouth and stared into the strange glowing
whiteness as if searching for the sunken bodies. He
couldn't see them, of course. He could barely see
the water. But he would see them as long as he lived.
As long as he lived.
A sickening smell of fish surrounded him. He
realized it was only imagination. Putting his stiff
hands in his pockets and lowering his head so as not to be
recognized, he turned and disappeared in the
direction of the city, chastened, and changed forever.
CHAPTER XV
A
Detective Calls
THE WEDDING TOOK PLACE as
scheduled.
Leo's father, Efrem Goldman, had come with his
son from his home in the ghetto of New York's
lower East Side. The Goldmans were met at the
depot by Gideon's largest and handsomest coach, a
Brewster pulled by four matched bays. As
Gideon had told Will, coaching was becoming a
popular avocation among the well-to-do. It was also
one of the few conspicuous displays of wealth
that Gideon truly enjoyed-probably because he'd
liked being around horses ever since his boyhood in
Virginia's Shenandoah Valley.
Carter was present for the ceremony, having just come
home from another three-day absence without offering a word
of explanation. He wore a sober black suit which
accentuated his pallor. The whole family noticed
how haggard and tense he looked. He'd looked that
way for the last couple of weeks in fact, but he had
resisted all his stepfather's attempts to question him.
Will attended the ceremony, too, of course. So
fascinated was he by Mr. Goldman's black
skull cap, fringed prayer shawl, and
phylacteries, he paid hardly any attention to the
words intoned by the justice of the peace. Earlier,
Gideon had told his son that the pair of little leather
cases, one worn on Mr. Goldman's arm and
one on his forehead, contained slips of paper
inscribed with religious texts. The phylacteries
were meant to remind the wearer to observe the laws of his
faith-something that was particularly important to Mr.
Goldman today, surrounded as he was
by Protestants.
He looked uncomfortable about that. But his daughter
didn't. Berthe Goldman, a fat,
cheery spinster from Chicago, was the only one of
Leo's nine sisters to attend the wedding. The only
one, apparently, who was willing to acknowledge that her
brother was marrying one of the
goyim.
Will liked her. With her good humor, she seemed
determined to make up for the absence of the other eight
Gold- mans.
Leo looked fine in a new suit of dark wool,
a white shirt, and black cravat. Eleanor had
chosen an emerald silk travel dress with the
requisite bustle, an item of feminine apparel
Gideon found ridiculous, if not downright
inhuman. Eleanor already had her valises packed.
A buffet supper with champagne was to be served after
the ceremony, and then the Brewster coach would whisk the
newlyweds to the piers and a coastal ship for New
York. By tomorrow evening they'd be steaming toward
Europe and enjoying Cunard's finest
accommodations.
The justice was droning:
"com
and so, by the authority vested in me by the Commonwealth
-"
Gideon's eye wandered to the bridegroom.
Leo was handsome almost to the point of prettiness. With
massive shoulders, a sum waist, and hair and
eyes nearly as dark as Carter's, he definitely
had the look of a leading man. He had a beautiful
speaking voice, too; rich and deep. Eleanor said
he could reach the highest gallery of any theater without
strain.
"com
pronounce you husband and wife."
Efrem Goldman sniffed and rubbed his patched
brown sleeve across his nose. Gideon was
unexpectedly touched by the sight of his daughter
enfolded in Leo's arms there between the immense
floral baskets Julia had ordered for the occasion.
He started to wipe a tear from his good eye. Suddenly
he felt Julia tug at his arm.
"What is it?" he asked in a whisper.
She pointed. He turned around to see Crawford
standing at the parlor door. He was summoning
Gideon with sharp, urgent gestures. Irked,
Gideon stepped behind his wife's chair and hurried
out.
In the foyer, the butler presented him to a pair of
unexpected guests-a stocky man who identified
himself as Detective Dennis O'Goff
of the Boston police, and a burly uniformed officer
whom O'Goff introduced as Sgt. Mulvi- .
hill. O'Goff looked to be in his late
thirties, with a ruddy face, blue eyes so pale
as to be almost colorless, and heavy inlays of gold in
several front teeth. His suit was neat but of poor
quality. He had a tough, hostile air about him.
Gideon frowned at the intruders. "What can I do
for you gentlemen?"
"Sorry to interrupt the festivities," O'Goff
said, turning the brim of his derby in his fingers. "But
there's a mistake here. Evidently this man
didn't listen-was The detective's tone betrayed
a bitter envy of the sumptuous surroundings in which he
found himself; or so Gideon thought, anyway.
O'Goff added:
"I said I wanted to speak with Mr. Kent."
"But I'm-was
"Mr.
Carter
Kent."
Gideon's palms turned cold. "Yes,
Crawford did misunderstand. Carter Kent is
inside. What do you want with him?"
O'Goff scowled, but he answered:
"To ask him some questions."
"Can't it wait a few hours?"
"I'm afraid not," the detective replied with a
self- importance which annoyed Gideon even more.
He signaled Crawford to close the parlor
doors, then snapped:
"I demand to know what this is all about."
A smug smile curved the detective's mouth.
His pale eyes danced in anticipation of the blow he
was about to deliver to the highfalutin" owner of this
fancy Beacon Street house.
"Happy to tell you, Mr. Kent. It's about a
dead body which was found floating in the harbor two
nights ago. A Portugee chap. A bad
actor. We've discovered that your son-was
"Carter is my stepson, but go on."
O'Goff didn't like being interrupted. "We've
discovered that he knew the deceased. We think he
may be able to shed some light on how he died. I
don't make this inquiry lightly, sir. Not
lightly at all. It's clear that the dead man
came to a very violent end."
He obviously hoped to intimidate Gideon with the
last remark. He succeeded.
u
When Carter was pulled aside at the end of the wedding
ceremony, he knew something disastrous had happened.
He soon found out what it was. The blankets in
which Ortega had been wrapped had loosened much more
quickly than Royce or the rest of them had counted
on. The lines holding the stone had obviously
loosened too, because the floating body had been found
by the captain of a fishing smack returning to harbor from
the Georges Bank.
Because of Gideon's name and position in the community,
O'Goff didn't take Carter to headquarters. But
he did insist that other members of the family be
absent during the interrogation. He closed the door
of Gideon's study and the uniformed officer placed
himself in front of it, as if to make sure Carter
understood he was a temporary prisoner.
Carter understood all too clearly.
Crossing the foyer with the policemen, he'd watched
Eleanor's face, and his mother's; he'd seen the
surprise and the uneasy suspicion there. He
hadn't been able to bring himself to look at W.
Inwardly, he was aching from tension.
After the bloody night at the Cod, he'd gone
back to his job without exciting any suspicion.
Since Sancosa worked in another section
of the plant, his disappearance wasn't even mentioned
by those with whom Carter worked. He had started to believe
the whole matter had sunk from view just as those two
hideous bodies had. And now this.
"Well, now," O'Goff said, dry-washing his hands
as he stood before the chair in which he'd ordered Carter
to be seated. A fire roared in the grate, and in
seconds Carter's face was shiny with perspiration.
"Well," O'Goff said again,
keeping up that damnable, school-teacherish washing
motion. "Where shall we begin?"
"You could begin by opening the window."
"No, I don't think so," O'Goff said with a
smile that showed the gold in his mouth. "I'm comfortable.
But you say you're warm. Interesting. Quite interesting."
O'Goff locked his hands at the small of his back
and paced back and forth, almost like an officer reviewing
his troops. "Handsome room, this. Handsome house. I
couldn't afford to be here unless it was on business."
The blue eyes pierced him, humorless. The smile
was gone. "Which it is."
He's stalling intentionally,
Carter thought.
Working on my nerves. Trying to break me before he
even asks the first question. But he hasn't
explained why he's here, other than that they found
Ortega. If I admit nothing, I'm in no
danger.
He didn't quite believe it. The shabby, stocky
man who had carelessly draped his derby over an
expensive china vase, terrified him because he
represented a threat. A threat to Eben Royce,
who had saved Carter's life, and a threat
to Carter's freedom and safety. He'd heard
all about Boston city jail from the men who gathered
at the Red Cod. Quite a few of them had been
locked up for varying lengths of time, and every one of those
men testified to the filth and the violence of the place.
Prisoners were beaten by turnkeys as well as by other
prisoners. There were even less savory assaults
committed in the dark of night-sometimes for the amusement of
an audience of leering inmates.
"Shall we begin, Mr. Kent?" O'Goff said,
consulting a Small pocket notebook for a moment.
He flipped the notebook closed and put it
away, as if to show he was confident of his mastery of
all the facts in the matter. "The subject under
discussion is one Silvera Ortega. You know who
I mean?"
Carter had already established what he would
admit to and what he wouldn't. He intended
to scrupulously observe the boundary between the two. But
to do it, he would need all the conviction and persuasive
ability he could muster.
"Yes, I do," he answered.
"When was the last time you saw him?"
He paused a second or so, as if thinking
carefully. Then:
"A year and a half ago. No, more than that.
April, I think it was. April of last year."
"The two of you had trouble-was
"That's no secret."
"No, it certainly isn't," O'Goff said with a quick
little smile that was almost prissy. "Your friend Captain
Royce, Eben Royce-he had trouble too. He
had trouble with Ortega."
The sweat was pouring off of Carter's cheeks now.
He took some satisfaction in noting that it was also
pouring off the cheeks of Sgt. Mulvihill.
Outside the bolted doors, a murmur of cheerful
voices told him the wedding was over and the reception
underway. Out there was freedom. In here-the total
lack of it. He would never surrender that freedom for
any length of time. Never.
Run others or they'll run you.
It applied to this-rnoment as much as to any in his entire
life.
"I say, Mr. Kent-he had trouble with Ortega,
too?"
Carter wiped the sleeve of his heavy black coat
across his chin. "Also no secret."
"But you fought with Ortega."
"Yes. So did Royce."
"When did that happen?"
"I told you. April. Last year."
"Tell me again."
"April! Last year!"
Calm down.
Calm down.
He wants you to lose control.
"Let's talk about this year. This month. Where were you
the night that Silvera Ortega died?"
"What night did he die? You didn't tell
me."
O'Goff frowned for a second, angry that his little
ruse had been detected. With a slightly more
respectful look in his pitiless eyes, he said:
"Early morning on the ninth of December, as far as
we can tell. He and one Jose Sancosa were seen
together around midnight, but not after that."
Carter was edging close to the limit of what was
admissible.
"I think that was the night I left work early. I
felt sick."
"You think? Don't you know? Surely you
recollect the night Ortega died, Mr.
Kent."
"No, I don't, there was nothing special about it.
I didn't kill him."
Bastard,
he thought. What made the interrogation so much worse
was the accusing look in O'Goff s pale eyes.
The detective knew Carter was lying, and Carter
knew his own face must suggest that, but the questions and
answers just skirted the truth. O'Goff was
desperately trying to catch Carter off guard;
punch through his defenses and let the truth come spilling
up into the open. Just one ill- advised admission-one
fact too many-one slip and it would all be over.
Carter knew it just as he knew that was the reason
O'Goff talked in staccato fashion, and gave
each question such a hard edge:
"Oh, I see. We'll let that pass. For the
moment You said you left work early-was
"I said I thought I did. I was sick."
"Did you go home?"
"No, I stopped for a drink. I thought it would
help."
"Did it?"
"Yes, and I drank a lot more. I stayed out all
night."
"Where?"
"Several places."
"Name them!"
"The first was the Gloucester Arms. After that, I can't
remember. I was drinking. I was drunk."
O'Goff took a quick, threatening step toward
Carter- perhaps to throw him off guard by startling him:
"At which place did you see Ortega?"
The strategy didn't work. O'Goff looked
furious when Carter said calmly, "None of them."
"But you fought with Ortega."
"A year ago April! I told you that. What the
hell are you trying to do, trick me into a confession?"
O'Goffs eyes flickered; he'd been caught.
"I didn't do it!"
But O'Goff refused to let go:
"Did Royce? He says he was in that sleazy
room where he holes up, playing cards with a friend of
his, a fat pig named Tillman. The
two of them are obviously thick as thieves.
Lying. Just like you."
Carter fought to keep his face impassive; he
shrugged. "I don't know anything about Royce. We
used to be friends but I haven't seen much of him
lately."
"He's a wreck. Hands like tilde an old
woman's." O'Goff raised his to demonstrate.
"They say Ortega did that."
"So I've heard."
"So he has a motive for doing murder. When
Ortega was
pulled out of the harbor, his neck looked like the gill
slits of a fish that's been on a hook too long.
His throat was torn open. By some sharp instrument."
"I wouldn't know."
"About that or about Royce?"
"Both."
"But we've been told you might."
Try as he would, Carter couldn't keep a nervous
quaver out of his voice:
"Who told you?"
"Acquaintances of Ortega. You had a fight with
him, after midnight on the morning of the ninth."
"God damn it, I did not."
"Did Royce?"
"I don't know. Ask him!"
"I'm asking you."
"still
DON'T KNOW!"
It went on for another half hour, but that half hour
was largely an exercise. O'Goff knew he was
beaten, and his demeanor showed it. By the time he jammed
his derby on his head, he was in ait ugly mood:
"Do you have any plans to travel?"
Carter was slouched down in his chair, limp, drained
by the questioning. He didn't even have the energy
to congratulate himself on using his one talent to its
maximum- successfully. He could only look at
the detective in a blank way and say:
"Travel? What do you mean?"
"I wouldn't stay in Boston indefinitely."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't like a double standard. One kind of
justice for a poor man's son, another for a rich
man's. I'd get the truth out of you if your stepfather
wasn't so prominent. I'd have had you in a little
room we keep at headquarters just for questioning
suspects. In four, five, six hours at the
most, I'd have the information I want. But
I wasn't allowed to take you to headquarters. I was
ordered not to, in fact. But if you stay in town,
my arrogant friend, you're going to stumble one of these
days. Murderers always do. And someone will be there
to catch you. I'll give you this-you're pretty good
at holding to your story- even if it is a fucking
lie from start to finish. So don't think
you've gotten away with anything. If the friends of the
dead man don't get you, I will."
He tipped his derby and went out with Mulvihill.
in
After they'd gone, Carter sat with his head in his hands
and gave in to the shuddering of his arms and shoulders.
Gradually the tremors ceased. When they did, he
got up- still shakily-intending to return to the party that
he could hear in progress outside. He stepped
before a small, gilt-framed mirror on the wall.
Gazing into the oval, he smoothed his hair and
straightened his cravat. He was almost starting to feel
decent again when he remembered one thing he'd
forgotten.
He might have beaten O'Goff. But he still had
to face his stepfather.
iv
"Once more, if you please!" Gideon
shouted.
"God," Carter groaned. "You'd think you were the
police. I satisfied them. Why can't I
satisfy you?"
It was several hours later. The festivities were
over; the guests gone. Gideon's office was dark
save for one dim lamp and the glow of embers in the
hearth. Julia watched from a chair in the comer.
Gideon was still outraged that the detective and his
assistant had interrupted the wedding and cast a pall
on the festivities afterward. Eleanor and Leo had
left on schedule, but without the family giving them
what Gideon considered a proper sendoff. He'd
barely had time to kiss the bride's cheek and shake
the hand of the groom before rushing back to corner
O'Goff on his way out, and discover the reason for his
visit. The servants and the other guests had lined up
and thrown rice, but the merriment was halfhearted.
"Because I want to know what induced the police to come
here in the first place!" Gideon exclaimed to his
stepson. "Why do they suspect you of being involved
in some wharf rat's death?"
Sweat on Carter's face glistened in the
firelight. He was resentful of the accusing look in
his stepfather's eye. To eradicate it, he
could admit the whole thing-but the truth would compromise
Royce, who'd saved his life. His only choice
was to lie.
"Well," he began, thinking ahead to each word, "I
did know the man. From the Red Cod. It's a
pretty unsavory tavern-was
"An understatement! Continue."
It was hard; Gideon's hectoring unnerved him.
Once again he needed all his verbal skill:
"Last year-right before the stunt with the donkey-I
helped this friend of mine, a fisherman named Captain
Royce, deal with a man who was bullying him."
"The man named Ortega? The one who was found
dead?"
Carter nodded. He told the rest of the story, up
to and including the finding of the two notes in his locker.
Julia looked stunned to hear that her son was
associating with such violent people, but Gideon,
curiously, didn't act at all surprised.
"That's as much as I know," Carter concluded. "I
haven't seen the Portugee for over a year and a
half. I don't know how he died, and I don't
know what happened to his friend-the man the copper thinks
I know from the packing plant."
He found he couldn't look at his mother. His
stepfather loomed over him like some Old Testament
figure, immense in his wrath:
"Go on."
He wiped his face with a pocket handkerchief.
"There- isn't anything more to tell, except what
youVe already heard. I don't know how or when the
Portugee died. I only know what the
detective told me."
Gideon's gaze was unforgiving. "At least that's
your story."
Hurt and resentful, Carter shouted, "So you think
all I do is lie to you?"
"We never thought so until the night you went to Eis-
ler's," Julia said, her voice quiet yet
somehow stinging. "That night, you told us you would be
playing cards. Why is this occasion so different? You
caa't blame either "f us if we distrust what you
tell us."
No, I can't blame you. And since you expect
lies from me, lies are what you're getting.
But lie hid his bitterness as he said:
"Look, that copper came here grabbing for straws.
I'll say it again. He doesn't even know when
Ortega died!"
And he won't find out if Josie and
Phipps keep quiet.
The trollop was trustworthy; Phipps much less
so. Pretending confidence he didn't feel, he
went on:
"They can't charge me with anything, and they won't."
"For the time being."
"Listen, Gideon!" That jolted the older man.
Carter never called his stepfather by his Christian
name. "The man had a lot of enemies, that much I
know. Any one of them could have done away with him."
And one did.
"That's all I know, except this. I didn't
kill him. Now will you permit me to go upstairs?"
"Yes," Julia put in. "So long as you
promise not to go near those dives again."
"Mother, I work right in the middle of them." Suddenly
it was impossible for
him
to contain his anger. "Besides, I think I'm old enough
to do whatever I-was
"You'll do as you're told while you're living in this
house!" Gideon roared. "Get to your room!"
"If I choose to do it-was
Gideon started for him. Carter pivoted hastily and
fled.
Once the doors were closed, Gideon leaned against
them, spent.
"Is he telling the truth, Julia?"
She wasn't offended by the question. "I'm not sure. I
used to think I knew him pretty well, but now-was
Sounding bewildered, she let the words trail off.
In a moment she collected herself. "I'm sure
Carter wouldn't coldbloodedly kill anyone. That
much I know about him. What frightens me most is his
involvement with that waterfront crowd. How are we
going to stop it?"
"God only knows. Obviously I should have taken
action months ago. But he was keeping his job, and
paying for the wagon, so I let everything slide."
"How much does he owe on the wagon now?"
"Just a few dollars. I was the one who insisted he
get a job. Pay for the damage he did-was
"And I agreed. Don't score yourself."
"But I have to! You see-I knew Carter was
running with a bad crowd."
He explained. When her surprise passed, she
whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want to alarm you. Because I thought
he could handle himself."
And because I got busy, and let things
drift.
"So you think it's possible he might have some information
about the murder? Information he's holding back?"
Gideon looked away, the answer torn out of him:
"It's possible, yes."
"Oh, Gideon-was
Shuddering and starting to cry, she came into his arms.
They held one another in the firelit shadows. The
wedding might never have taken place, so gloomy was the
atmosphere created by the detective's visit.
He stroked her hair:
"I'm sorry for keeping you in the dark. I thought it
was best. But there's no point in looking back.
What matters now is the boy's safety."
"He's so headstrong. Almost uncontrollable-was
"And we won't have many more chances to set him straight.
We've got to do it before he gets himself killed."
She raised her head to gaze at him. "How?"
His anguished answer was a familiar one:
"I just don't know."
CHAPTER XVI
The Note
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, with the problem of
Carter still unsolved, Gideon was stricken with a bad
case of grippe. For five days he lay
delirious in bed. When his fever broke, he was
too weak to return to
the office. Julia suggested moving Helene Vail
into a spare bedroom next to Carter's. Gideon was
enthusiastic.
With Miss Vail at his bedside every morning, he was
able to answer his mail and deal with bills, cost
summaries, circulation figures, and dozens of
other matters. Then Miss Vail would go off
to Kent and Son to implement his decisions. When they
affected the
Union
she composed and dispatched long but very precise
telegraph messages to Theo Payne. She was
quickly establishing herself as much more than a
typewriter. She was making it her business to learn
every phase of Gideon's work, and quietly taking
on new responsibilities one after another.
Gideon didn't complain; he was glad to have the
help.
Pale January sunlight streamed into his bedroom
on the ninth day of his illness. He lay under three
blankets, his beard overlapping the topmost one.
The night cap which Julia repeatedly tried to force
on him lay discarded beside the bed.
Perched on a stool in a rigid pose, Miss
Vail was saying:
"I have made reservations for you and Mrs. Kent at
Wil- lard's in March." She removed the
pince-nez she wore for reading. "Personally, I
would not care to witness the inauguration of any
president who practices bastardy."
"For heaven's sake, Miss Vail. Cleveland
doesn't
practice
it. He made one mistake."
"That we know of," she replied. "That concludes the
morning's agenda, sir. Except for one more matter
which I hesitate to mention." She said it so firmly,
it was evident she wasn't at all hesitant, and
indeed thought it her duty to speak up.
From a pocket of her capacious skirt, she
pulled a scrap of paper. "I confess I have read
this, Mr. Kent. When I came to breakfast this
morning, I saw it lying on the carpet between my
door and that of your stepson's room. I only
opened it to see whether it was important. It makes
no sense to me, yet it sounds serious."
He took the paper, which smelled of fish. It was
coarse
brown stuff used for wrapping. On it, someone had
scrawled in an unsteady hand:
Ortega is dead but his bro. will be back in spring,
your fathers money wont help you then
-
-Frends of Ortega
"Obviously someone dropped it by accident," Miss
Vail said.
Gideon nodded. He seemed to ache again, as he had
during the worst of the fever. Did he dare treat the
note as an idle threat? He thought not.
He stared at the signature. A crude little
skull and crossbones had been inked beneath it. The
note only confirmed what he had suspected;
Carter did know something about the death O'Goff had
been investigating.
Exactly how much did he know? Rightly or
wrongly, Gideon didn't want the answer to that
question. The truth might devastate Julia. What
mattered now was protecting Carter from danger-
His protracted silence brought a keen look from
Miss Vail. Trying to act unconcerned, he
folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of his
nightshirt.
"I'll have to ask the boys if they know what
it means," he said.
Miss Vail continued to scrutinize him. "Could it
have something to do with the visit of those policemen the day
Miss Eleanor was married? I was under the
impression they were only making a routine inquiry."
How easily they had all become enmeshed in
Carter's lies-if lies they were, Gideon thought
sadly. He was almost brusque as he said:
"Yes, that's all it was, a routine inquiry.
Is Carter at home?"
"No, sir. The plant closed down for two days.
Something to do with repairs on its conveyor system."
"Oh, yes, he did say something about that."
"Master Carter took Master Will to watch the indoor
foot races over at Harvard."
"Well, I doubt the note's anything other than a
joke. But I'll check into it."
His response didn't satisfy her. "It
strikes me as sinister, Mr. Kent. I wouldn't
take it so lightly."
"Leave it to me, please," he said, more sharply than
he intended. "Just leave it to me."
During the following week, Gideon was obsessed with
worry about his stepson-both his wayward behavior
and the possible threat to his safety posed
by the note.
It galled Gideon not to know whatever his stepson
knew "about the death of the man found floating in the
harbor. Gideon's whole background as a
newspaperman rebelled at I a self-enforced
state of ignorance. And yet he remained convinced that
it was useless, even dangerous to pursue the inquiry.
He felt certain Carter couldn't be personally j
involved in a murder; that was just too
incomprehensible. But any further investigation might
lead to revelations that could only hurt Julia-and
Carter's future.
No, the solution to the problem didn't lie in pushing
and pushing until the truth came out. It lay in
another direc- i tion. Gideon needed to get
his stepson out of the city for a " while-and before the
return of Ortega's brother, men- . tioned in
the note. That gave him a month or so.
He pondered and rejected various plans.
Military serv- J ice, for example. But the
lot of enlisted men in the peacetime army was little better
than that of a prison inmate, at least in terms of
food and living conditions. And Carter certainly
wasn't suited to taking orders.
Gideon knew he could get his stepson a
job in New j York. But his conscience rebelled
at foisting Carter off on some unsuspecting
business acquaintance. Besides, he couldn't give
Carter a good recommendation without lying. j
The failure to find any satisfactory answer
made Gideon " testy and gave him several
sleepless nights.
A week after he returned to work, a January
blizzard " struck Boston. Gideon sent his
employees home early that day. When he arrived
at Beacon Street, he found a letter from Michael
Boyle waiting.
With his numbed legs stretched on an ottoman in
front of the parlor hearth, and a long drink of brandy
at his, elbow, he began to read the letter. One
passage toward the middle was of particular interest:
During the trip which Hannah and I took
to California to escape the winter storms, I ran
into an old
family friend. You may not be acquainted comwith him
-
his name is Israel Hope
-
but he knows of you, and holds great affection for the
entire family.
"Hope, Hope," Gideon repeated aloud.
Yes, he'd heard about Israel Hope from his father.
Hope was a mulatto; a runaway slave who had
met Amanda Kent-Mrs. A., as Boyle always
called her-in California in the 1840's. He
had been her friend and companion, helping her operate
a little restaurant in San Francisco. When she
had finally moved east, Hope had remained behind
to manage the gold mine she'd inherited from her cousin
Jared. Hope had held that post for nearly ten
years after Amanda's death, quitting it at the
outbreak of war between the states. His resignation was a
protest against Louis Kent's scheme to make money
from the war. Louis had planned to sell supplies
secretly-and illegally-to the South. Hope, of
course, had wanted the rebels defeated and humbled,
not helped.
Gideon resumed reading:
still
had met Mr. Hope in person only once before,
on the occasion of his split with Louis, but I had
heard about him long before, when I clerked for Mrs.
A. 1 recognized him instantly in San
Francisco, for he is distinctively tall, with
skin the shade of a well-worn yellow
glove. He inquired about the health of Mrs.
A.'s son, not realizing Louis was dead. He was
most interested to hear that Carter strongly resembled his
father.
Hope is married to an octoroon, Clotilde,
and they have one daughter. Though well up in years,
he is vigorous, and active in the management of
an enterprise by means of which he has prospered
greatly in San Francisco
-
the Hope House Hotel, one of the city's finest.
Hannah and I stopped there without realizing the
identity of the man who owned it. The staff is
entirely white save for the porters. Hope told
me that in order to secure white trade, he must, so
to speak, remain invisible. He is seldom if ever
seen in the establishment's public rooms.
And, of course, he is required to live in the
negro section west of Montgomery Street and
north of Jackson, though I am told his home in
that district is
among the finest in the entire city, excluding of
course the palaces on Nob Hill
-
or Snob Hill, as some call it.
Hope wishes to be remembered to all the Kents.
Never having met you personally, he still hopes you or
anyone in your family will stop at his hotel, on a
complimentary basis, should travel bring you westward.
And if he can be of service to you in any way, he
would be most happy to hear from you.
"Happy to hear from you," Gideon repeated, shifting
his leg on the ottoman and squinting at the
paragraph he'd just read. "Happy to hear from one of
Jeb Stuart's own?"
Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration. "Let's
see about that!"
ui
Gideon had shown Julia the crumpled note sent
to her son-but only after his plans for Carter were
complete. At dinner on a rainy evening in
mid-March, they presented the idea to Carter. The
moment he heard it, he erupted:
"San Francisco? Why the devil should I go
there?"
Gideon put his napkin aside. "Because I'm
asking you to do so. Because I've already made
arrangements for you to take a job at Israel
Hope's hotel. He's written to say he'll be
pleased to have you. I've even bought your
railroad ticket. I want you on your way by the
first of April."
Will was gazing at Gideon with a stunned expression.
Carter leaped to his feet.
"I don't care what you want. I don't give
a goddamn about what you've bought or arranged.
I'm not going."
"Don't send him away," Will said. It startled
Gideon to hear that kind of plea from his son. Will was
even more dependent on his stepbrother than he had
imagined.
"Will, this is none of your aflfair," he said.
"Kindly excuse yoursel-was
"It is my affair! Carter and I are as close as
real brothers."
Above his beard, Gideon's cheeks were red.
"You'll see him again. He'll only be spending a
year with Mr. Hope. It's not as if we're sending
him to China-or into permanent exile. Israel
Hope strikes me as an exceptionally fine
man. He's even accepted the fact that I served in
the Confederate Army."
Julia didn't like to see Gideon so upset.
She tried to calm things:
"Will, please do as your father asks and leave
the room. Do it for me."
The boy hesitated. Julia's gentle smile of
entreaty at last overcame his resistance. He
walked out. Looking almost destitute, Gideon
observed.
Carter stepped behind the chair in which he'd been seated.
With both hands he gripped the high walnut back
upholstered in golden damask. "I've finally
discovered how things are done in this household. When
I'm ninety, I'll still be having everything arranged
for me. I'll still be asking permission to fart."
With a bellow, Gideon leaped to his feet. His
chair toppled over as he reached across the table and
seized Carter's arms:
"I will not permit such language in front of-was
Carter wrenched free. "Don't shout at me.
I'm not your son. I won't be ordered about by you or
anyone else."
"Oh, Carter, Carter," Julia cried, hurrying
to his side while he glared at Gideon across the
silver and crystal and china. Carter's swarthy face
had lost most of its color. His black eyes
blazed.
"You've made too much of this," Julia said to him.
"Caused too much commotion-was
"You're damn right I'll cause a commotion! You just
announced that you're shipping me halfway around the
world."
"San Francisco is not halfway around the world,"
Gideon said. "It's a splendid,
cosmopolitan city. And much more suited to your free
and easy disposition than Boston, I suspect."
He was struggling to hold his temper in check.-
"Most young men your age would be thankful for an
opportunity to see the West. Furthermore-was
Carter interrupted: "I don't consider being packed
off like a remittance man any great favor, thank
you very much."
He pulled out a cheap metal cigar case. Took
out a dark green cheroot which he proceeded to sniff,
then roll between his fingers. Angry as Gideon was,
he couldn't help admiring his stepson's cockiness.
"You can donate the railroad ticket to some
bohunk just off the immigrant boat at Castle
Garden," the younger man said with a wave of the cigar.
"And you can send that nigger my regrets."
Seething again, Gideon said, "You won't even
take this suggestion for your mother's sake?"
Carter threw the cigar down beside his plate. "No.
And kindly don't trot out that sentimental
family bullshit, Gid-
eon."
Livid, Gideon started for him again. Julia's
right hand pressed the tablecloth, her skin almost as
white as the fabric. Carter forestalled Gideon's
attack by pivoting toward his mother:
"I'm sorry to speak that way in your presence-was
What disconcerted Gideon was a realization that, for the
moment anyway, Carter was sincere. He did have
feelings for Julia. The trouble was, those feelings
never controlled him for very long.
"I guess I lapse into bad language out of
desperation. Maybe if I swear enough, someone-was
He threw a swift glance at Gideon. "comw
realize I'm not a schoolboy who can be rapped on
the knuckles and told what to do every minute of the day."
Growing a little calmer, he ran a hand through his thick
black hair. "I admit it might be entertaining
to see the West. In other circumstances, I'd
probably jump at the opportunity."
Gideon reached into the pocket of his waistcoat.
"You didn't allow me to finish. In your case, I
don't think the right word is opportunity. The right
word is necessity."
He gave his stepson the folded paper.
"Miss Vail found this outside your room one day
back in January. I assume you dropped it."
Carter recognized the threatening note; his face
showed that. He handled the paper with nervous fingers,
tossed it next to his cigar, then gestured at it in
a tense way:
"I thought I'd lost it on the street."
"Where did you get it in the first place? The same
place you got the others?"
Carter nodded. "The locker. I don't know who
put it there-was
The end of the sentence faded away. Gideon
detected anxiety in Carter's eyes.
"Does that fellow Ortega really have a brother?"
Julia asked.
"Yes," Carter said. "A rough sort, they say.
A seaman. Away for long periods of time-was
Trying to be patient, Gideon said, "You told us
you knew nothing about the death of that Portugee.
Someone obviously thinks otherwise." Carter
avoided his stepfather's eye as Gideon went on.
"I have never liked to run from a quarrel. But neither do
I think it's very intelligent to court one. The trip
would do you good. You'd have both independence and a means of
support out West, and your absence for a year
would permit this local situation to cool down and be
forgotten."
Carter's dark eyes returned to the folded paper.
Either someone in the plant had made a lucky guess
about Sancosa's disappearance and Ortega's
corpse, or-much more likely-Phipps had been
bribed or frightened into saying something.
Twice before, he'd received notes warning him of
Ortega's eventual return-and then Ortega had
showed up. This latest note therefore could not be
ignored. When he coupled the note with O'GofFs
promise to bring him to justice one way or another,
he was confronting a double danger.
Well, what did it matter if he stayed in
Boston? Will could manage without him, and if he
left, it would further reduce the chance of his
stepbrother finding out why the police had questioned him.
Carter had so far gotten by with a story about witnessing a
dockside robbery. Will had accepted it without question.
As for Gideon and Julia, they'd be glad to get
rid of him, he thought with momentary bitterness. Both
of them considered him a liar and a troublemaker, and he was
caught in the trap of being unable to tell them
why
he'd lied about events at the Red Cod.
To keep his vow to Eben Royce, he had to keep
silent for the rest of his life.
Slowly the hostility, the studied bravado,
disappeared. His shoulders sagged, and for a few seconds
he looked much more a boy than a man. Gideon
knew he and Julia had won out when Carter shrugged
and said in a surprisingly mild tone:
"San Francisco-well, maybe I can at least
think it
over."
The Promise
"WATCH OUT!"
Carter crashed into Will, knocking him out of the path of the
boneshaker-one of the newfangled bicycles that nearly
shook a rider to pieces on a rough road.
The embarrassed wheelman called an apology from
his high seat. Then he realized he was out of control.
While Carter helped his stepbrother to his feet,
the bicycle careened down Beacon Street and
tipped over right in front of the house belonging
to Dolores Wertman. The wheelman took a
terrific spill.
Will stayed on the curbing in the hope the Wertmans
would come outside. Sure enough, they did. First the
choleric-looking father; then the mousy mother; and
finally Dolores, a red-haired, full-bosomed
girl of seventeen. Will had noticed Dolores as
she practiced croquet on the Common the first warm
weekend of spring. He'd hardly been able to think of
anything else since.
"Damn fool deserves a broken neck if he
can't drive any better than that," Carter said. The
wheelman was still lying motionless in the street. He
got up groggily as Carter tugged out his silver
pocket watch. "My train leaves in two hours,
little brother. We'd better take our stroll."
He tilted his straw hat so the brim shielded his
eyes from the March sun. It was the last Saturday
of the month, a beautiful afternoon, cloudless and
unseasonably warm. Already the Common and the Public
Garden were swarming with people who didn't have to work.
Games of bowls and lawn tennis were in progress,
but for every such game, there were five groups playing
croquet. It was still the national craze.
Carter turned and gazed across Beacon to the Kent
hdmse. "I wanted one last look at it. All
of a sudden, I think I'll miss-oh-ho!" He
saw the object of Will's rapt stare. "I see
what
you're
missing." He gave his stepbrother a nudge.
"Don't worry, you'll get your share soon enough.
But here's a tip. If you want a girl, you have
to make her think you care for her more than anyone else
in the world. You mustn't actually come out and
say
that, though. If anything happened-I mean if she
got a little something in her belly later-she might
hold you to it."
From her front step, Dolores Wertman noticed
Will watching her. He started to wave but didn't have the
nerve. Dolores tossed her red hair, took her
father's arm and vanished among the people who were either trying
to assist the wrecked wheelman, or jeering at him.
"Ah, Carter, I'll never get close enough to a
girl to follow your advice. Besides, if you-
if
-"
Blandly, Carter asked, "Are you trying to say
fuck?"
Will turned red and nodded. But he still couldn't repeat
the word:
"If you do that with a girl, you're duty-bound to marry
her."
The older boy looked thunderstruck. "Who
says so?"
"Ma, for one. That's one of the things she harped about."
Up shot Carter's eyebrows. "She harped about that
to you? How old were you?"
"No, not to me-I was little. To Eleanor. I heard
her give Eleanor a big long lecture about it in
her room one day. Ma thought the door was closed, but
it was open this much." He measured half an inch between
thumb and index finger. "I listened outside."
"I hate to say it, but it sounds like your mother spouted
a lot of nonsense. You don't have to marry a girl
just because you sleep with her. You'd better get rid of the
notion that you do, or one of these days some woman will
use it to trap you."
The Greek woman's face flashed into Carter's
thoughts just then. He had begun to think no woman could
be trusted.
"Sometimes, Will," he finished with a shake of his head,
"I think you're just too decent for your own good."

and
"Do you mean dumb?"
With an affectionate chuckle, Carter replied,
"I don't believe I'll answer that one."
Will shrugged. "Doesn't make much
difference what I am or how I act. Dolores
Wertman would never be interested in me. She wouldn't
let me within ten feet of her."
Carter put his arm around Will's shoulder as they
strolled along a sun-dappled path leading through the
Common to Charles Street and the elaborate
wrought-iron gates of the Public Garden beyond.
"Wish I knew who made you feel so damn
worthless, little brother. Was that your mother's doing,
too?"
Will studied the ground. "Doesn't matter."
"It surely does. Someone did a job on you.
Hold your head up, for God's sake! Otherwise
you're absolutely right-that girl won't look at
you."
Ironic, Carter thought. He was encouraging his
stepbrother to appreciate his own worth even when he
felt worthless himself. He would never have let on
to Will, but lately that feeling all but overwhelmed him.
When he'd given his notice at the Northeast
Fishery Company, no one had said they were sorry
to see him go. And he'd thought it prudent to refrain
from saying goodbye to Josie or Eben. He'd made
a botch of everything in Boston.
That was one reason he wasn't altogether sorry
that note had fallen out of his pocket when he'd come
reeling home one night. Despite his protests,
he was secretly grateful to get away from
Boston. Even now, he could smell the fishy odor
of the knife with which Ortega had tormented him.
Once, Carter had liked to eat fish. Since that
night, he couldn't bring himself to touch it. The mere
smell brought cold sweat to his palms and forehead.
Yes, he was definitely glad to escape from
Boston. He wanted no meeting with Ortega's
brother. But he didn't know what he
did
want. He was determined not to let Will see his
confusion, though. He resorted to a prop that always
made him feel jaunty and self-assured-a
cigar.
As he stopped to light up, he got disapproving
stares from three men standing in a small tent beside the
path. On a counter in the tent were two dozen
glasses and six large pitchers of clear liquid.
Above the tent's front awning hung a neatly lettered
sign:
FREE! FREE! FREE!
Greater Boston Businessmen's Association
COLD WATER PAVILION
"It's Never Too Late or Too Early
for Temperance"
  Irked by the way the men eyed his cigar and his plaid
jacket, Carter sauntered over and started to pour
himself a glass of water. "Hope you gents don't
mind if I help myself -"
  One of the businessmen snatched the glass from his hand.
"This pavilion is for the encouragement of abstinence in
slum children, not race-track loafers."
  Carter smiled. "Then why don't you set up
shop in the slums? Don't bother to answer, I know
why. The slum boys would run your fat asses out of
their neighborhood in thirty seconds."
  He plucked the glass from the fingers of the outraged
man, tossed off half the contents, then threw the
glass away. Another man jumped and caught it,
but he soaked his expensive waistcoat in the
process. By then Carter was laughing and hurrying down
the path, Will right behind.
  When they were safely out of sight of the cold-water
soldiers, they slowed down. Will leaned against a
tree, gasping with mirth:
  "Oh, Carter, you-you've got more nerve than any
ten people."
  "That's right, little brother. Because I've
got confidence in myself," he lied.
  They crossed Charles Street to the gates of the
twenty- four-acre Public Garden. On the
garden's four-acre pond, several of the swan
boats designed and operated by the Pa- get
family carried young couples in a leisurely
fashion. The boats were barges with several rows of
seats and a large wooden figure of a swan at the
stern. From a seat inside this figure, a man
operated pedals to propel the boat. In less than
ten years, the swan boats had become an
institution.
  "Remember how I marched you over to Central
Park?" Carter went on. "How I told those
roughnecks I was the nephew of the Grand Duke
Whoozis, and that we were going to join their baseball
game? They didn't fuss once, did they?"
r
"No."
"I knew they wouldn't."
"I'll never forget that. Before you came along, they
always ran me off."
"You didn't have any confidence in yourself. They
spotted it. No matter what you said, the look on
your face talked louder. With confidence, little
brother, you can do anything."
"Even get around Dolores Wertman?"
Carter rested his foot on the rim of a wooden tub
at the edge of the walk; palms would be set in the
tubs for the summer months. Nearby were moist beds of
black dirt in which pansies, dahlias, and
cannas would soon grow to brighten the garden.
"Will, my boy-was
Carter puffed his cigar, and the smoke drifted away
in the warm breeze. He had his stepbrother hanging
on every word. Children chasing a cocker spaniel went
noisily past on the path. Only when they were out of
earshot did he continue:
"comwith confidence, you can fuck Miss Wertman and as
many others as your stamina permits. But you have to
believe
you can. You have to believe in yourself. That's what I've
been trying to pound into your head for years."
Will was humiliated by the emotion he felt then. He
was supposed to be grown up. Almost a man. And
yet he was ready to bawl. Carter noticed:
"What the devil's wrong now?"
"I hate to see you leave. You know everything."
"Brace up. I'll write you a letter now and then.
When I'm not busy getting in the bloomers
of the belles of the Barbary Coast. I've been
reading about San Francisco. They say it's the
wickedest city on the face of the-hey! You've got
to cut this out, little brother!"
Ashamed, Will turned away. He squeezed his
eyes shut and hoped the tears didn't show. He
wanted to die on the spot.
"I'm sorry, Carter," he said a moment later.
"I just don't know how I'll get along without you."
"Oh, you will. Very easily. You'll be surprised."
"I don't think so."
Carter's jet-black eyes softened. There was an
edge in his voice as he said, "I surely do wish
I could get my hands on
whoever whipped the starch out of you. It wasn't
Gideon, was it?"
Will shook his head. "Let's not talk about it."
Carter bucked him up with another punch on the
shoulder. "Whatever you say. Just remember one thing.
You're important. Not because you're Gideon
Kent's son. Because you're you."
Will didn't believe it.
"And when you're my age," Carter went on, "you've
got to do one more thing. You've got to let the world know
you're somebody. You can be the richest man in
creation, but if no one realizes it, every dollar
you've got is only worth fifty cents."
All at once, from the lesson he was trying to impart
to Will, Carter drew strength of his own. So far he'd
failed to follow the advice he dispensed so freely.
In San Francisco, he'd change that. Start
over. Use his talent and become the kind of person
he told Will'to be-
Maybe he'd try politics, as Willie
Hearst had suggested. Two nights ago, Carter
had overcome his embarrassment and gone
to Cambridge to bid his friend goodbye. Willie was the
only person outside his family who might miss
him. Of course he hadn't said a word about his troubles
at the Red Cod and the processing plant. It had
been a grand evening, and Willie had written out a
list of fine San Francisco restaurants and
saloons he ought to visit. Carter was sure all of
them would be well beyond his means, but he thanked
Willie warmly and promised to go to every one.
Willie was doing splendidly at Harvard in
everything but his studies. He'd taken over the post of
Lampoon
business manager, had thought up a number of stunts
which had generated a lot of new advertising,
and had put the publication in the black within a very few
months. He'd been elected to Hasty Pudding and
played a role in the club's annual
musical-another ambition fulfilled.
But Willie still liked class work too little and
pranks too much. He admitted that his fondness for
practical jokes would probably get him tossed
out of Harvard as Carter had been. But Carter had
faith in his friend. He knew Willie's bent for the
sensational would help him make a mark- "Carter?"
"Oh." He smiled at W. "Guess my mind was
wandering."
"What were you thinking?"
"That it's time I followed my own advice and
amounted to something."
"You will, I know it."
"So will you, little brother. But to make sure, I
want you to give me a promise."
He faced W. Laid his hands on the younger boy's
shoulders. Brothers enjoyed a special relationship
a mother could never participate in, or fully understand.
No matter what the facts of their births, he and
Will Kent were brothers. He felt that as the two of
them stood looking at one another in the spring
sunshine.
"Promise me you'll be somebody," Carter said.
Will heard the voice then.
You'll be a bungler all your life.
Only with great effort was he able to whisper, "I
promise."
"And promise me you'll make sure everybody
knows it. That's every bit as important. Maybe
more."
You'll never amount to anything. BUNGLER
-
"Will?"
"I promise that too, Carter."
Carter smiled. "Good enough."
They started along the path again. Presently Carter
had a last thought:
"You'd better not break that promise, either. Not if
you want me to stay your friend."
So lightly, even carelessly said, those words. Carter
never knew the force with which they struck Will Kent.
Struck him, and marked him for life.
" backslash ii
That night, Will lay in his darkened room and listened
to the dying echo of a great steamer's whistle from the
harbor. It reminded him of the train Carter had
boarded. The train would carry him
to Cleveland, then Chicago. At Chicago
he'd change to the westbound transcontinental cars.
He was
gone.
The mournful sound reverberating over the midnight
rooftops only emphasized that fact, that loss.
  Will kept seeing Carter's grin. And his dark
eyes- shining as he extracted the promise:
"Promise me you'll be somebody."
I promise, Carter.
"And promise you'll make sure everybody knows
it."
1 PROMISE.
He'd meant it. He knew he'd never made a more
important pledge to anyone.
  The void created by Carter's departure would hurt
for a long time. But in leaving, he'd given Will a new
determination to try to overcome the worthless feeling
Margaret had whipped into him. Carter had literally
created that determination by extracting a promise Will
didn't dare break.
Not if you want me to stay your friend.
m
  Although Will was restless; he soon drifted
to sleep. He woke about an hour later.
Moonlight was flooding through the window, and one part of
his body was as stiff as a piece of steel.
  He reached down by his hip. The bedclothes were
damp. He'd had a dream. The kind of dream whose
aftermath had frightened him until Carter assured him
it was perfectly normal for young men.
  Now, along with the lingering tumidity came shameful
yet thoroughly enjoyable thoughts of Dolores
Wertman. He imagined her in some featureless
place where she could safely shed her clothes and romp
naked without fear of observation or disapproval.
  He was there, too. He put his head back and
let his imagination carry him into incredibly wicked
acts involving a Dolores who
liked
him, and showed it with every response she made with her
mouth, her hands, her round breasts, her-
  He awoke again, warmer than ever. He was
humiliated to discover he'd had a second dream.
Was he some kind of pervert?
No, no. Carter-far away in the darkness to the west-
Carter had taught him not to fear the natural
responses his body made during its passage
to adulthood. Carter had taught him that, and so much

Now Carter expected him to put his knowledge to use. He
would, no matter how timid or unsure he felt
at first. . He'd made a promise and he'd
keep it.
A week later, he worked up nerve to ask
Dolores Wert- man to go walking on the Common
at dusk. He nearly fainted when she said yes.
They strolled in the spring twilight, their conversation
halting and inconsequential. After ten minutes of
fear- wracked hesitation, he forced himself to grope for
Dolores' hand and squeeze it. The moment he
did, he experienced an embarrassing physical
reaction. He turned sideways to hide it.
Several minutes later they found themselves on a
deserted portion of a path. He turned to face her.
He saw her smiling at him in a strange,
puzzling way. His heart was thundering in his chest. His
ears rang. His palms were slick with sweat.
Without a word of preamble, he darted forward and
planted a kiss on her cheek.
The instant his lips touched her soft skm, he was
transfixed with terror. He was sure she'd shriek
for her parents, or the police.
She did neither. She stepped closer to him, cocking
her head and continuing to smile at him in that
soft, strange way. The sinking sun struck fire
from her red hair.
"I didn't think you knew how to kiss a girl,
Will Kent. Or had the gumption." Suddenly she
brought her mouth to his. "I'm glad I was wrong."
She flung one arm around his neck, closed her
eyes and pressed against him, without embarrassment, for a
wondrous moment.
"Oh, that was grand," she whispered when they resumed
their walk. Will was still so full of astonishment and joy,
he was speechless. "I've watched you for days. I
thought you'd never come near my house, or speak to me.
Will you take me walking again?" She squeezed his hand
in hers. "Please?"
He managed to say
in
a strangled voice, "Whenever you want,
Dolores."
Margaret was all but forgotten. But she was still there in the
darkness of his mind. Watching. Waiting. Biding her
time.
CHAPTER XVIII
Carter's
Choice
ON THE TRIP WEST, Carter
lacked neither spending monev nor creature comforts.
Gideon, perhaps conscience-stricken over sending his
stepson into a kind of exile, had not only paid off
the last few dollars of Carter's debt, but had
bought him a first-class ticket from Boston. That
meant Carter was permitted in all the cars, including
the parlor car with its rosewood paneling and deep,
comfortable seats of turkey red plush.
Mr. Pullman, builder and operator of the cars,
did things in style. At least for first-class
passengers. Carter slept in one of Pullman's
convertible berths, and ordered his meals from a menu
rivaling that of a fine restaurant. On his first full
day of traveling, he started with a breakfast of shirred
eggs and champagne. Shortly after noon he sat
down to a heavy full-course dinner which included
oxtail soup, mutton with a caper sauce, fresh
fruit, and coconut pudding in wine. The main dish
of his light supper was a tasty rabbit pie.
On a first-class ticket, Carter was allowed in the
second- class cars, where he could gawk at the
poorer passengers crowded on hard, narrow wooden
seats. Those traveling second class weren't
permitted in the first-class cars, of course.
Porters rigidly enforced the rule.
Carter rather enjoyed strolling through second class, a
book under his arm and a cigar in his hand. The farmers, the
immigrants-all the drab, weary-looking men and
women packed on the benches-gazed at him with sullen
envy. They knew he had money. To be on
top-recognized as important and special-that was
a wonderful feeling.
The apple orchards of upstate New York
slipped by, and the lake shore of Ohio, then the
rich farmlands of Indiana. Gideon had provided
Carter with a number of current books, including an
advance copy of the ailing President Grant's
Memoirs;
a dull novel about a businessman named Lapham;
and the only volume Carter really enjoyed dipping
into,
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
The Mark Twain novel had been sold on
subscription, before publication. It was already being
damned as trash. In Concord, where old Philip
had stood and fought at the bridge, the Library
Committee had banned the book, terming it "suitable
only for the slums."
The man behind the Mark Twain pseudonym liked
to think of himself as a businessman as well as
a famous writer, Gideon often said. Twain was
heavily involved in financing the publication of his own
books on a subscription basis. But he'd
licensed Kent and Son to print inexpensive
reprint editions of some of his earlier work. Hence
Gideon had gone out to Concord to protest the ban
on Twain's behalf. Unsuccessfully, as it
turned out. The author wasn't upset. The last
time he'd come to dinner at the Kent house, he'd said
to Gideon, "Don't push too hard to get the ban
lifted. I calculate it'll sell at least
twenty-five thousand extra copies for me."
At major station stops every hundred miles or so,
a new conductor would tear off a perforated section of
Carter's long ticket. Just before he reached
Chicago, he found himself studying the ticket with
resentment he couldn't explain.
In Chicago, he had half a day to himself. He
used it to shop for a plaid traveling jacket at
Marshall Field's. Then the Union Pacific
bore him west out of Illinois.
At Council Bluffs, he saw two old men with
seamed brown faces dozing in the sun on the depot
platform. He stood studying the men while
second-class passengers dashed for seats
at the counter in the flyblown dining room. Curious
decorations hung from rope belts the old men
wore. Long hanks of dark hair, intertwined with
what appeared to be bleached animal skin. While the
Indians dozed, they fondled the decorations
occasionally.
Carter asked a trainman about the objects.
"Scalps," the old man said. "I see those same
two red bastards hanging
around this station "most every trip. I think they're
Sioux. I dunno why the local citizens permit
'em in public places- 'specially since they
sit there flaunting the fact that they killed white people.
They ought to be put on a reservation, them and the rest of
their murdering kin. Ought to put ninety-nine percent
of the niggers in with 'em."
Cynically, Carter wondered just how gullible the
man's bigoted views made him. He decided
to find out. On the spot, he made up a story about
a vast conspiracy involving French and German
anarchists. In a hushed voice, he told the
trainman the anarchists were slipping into America
to gather recruits among the disgruntled Indians.
"By God I can believe it!" the trainman declared.
"This country's being taken over by Jew
radicals. Every one of them who criticizes our
government ought to be put in front of a firing
squad."
"Mmmm," Carter murmured, meaning to be
noncommital. He didn't agree, but the
trainman thought he did. That was the purpose of the
murmur. If he ever ran for public office,
he'd know how to lock up the trainman's vote. Just
scream that nigras, Jews, Indians, and
anarchists were making plans to run amok and
desecrate the flag. Interesting how even the
stupidest people could teach you something.
Billowing smoke and sparks behind it, the Union
Pacific express sped across the darkness of
Nebraska. More stars than Carter had ever seen
illuminated the sky above the prairie. Soon,
though, the stars paled, and anxious passengers crowded
the platforms between the cars, pointing to the northern
horizon. It glowed like a furnace.
The brilliant red light seemed to be sweeping
toward the train. The whistle blared. The train
picked up speed. At Carter's elbow, a
conductor said:
"Prairie fire. We've got to go like blazes so
it doesn't catch us. You can see the wind
fanning it. Moving it this way."
And in front of the wall of fire, dark specks
leaped and darted. Deer? Bison? Carter watched in
awe.
The danger was short-lived. The express outran the
fire, which dwindled to a scarlet smudge in the
northeast, then vanished. Once more the conductor
tore off a section of Carter's ticket.
He stared at the remaining sections, trying to fathom
why the sight of them bothered him so much. All at
once
he understood. The excitement of the journey and the
novelty of the sights had diverted him from the answer
for a while. He might be escaping to a new city, but
he certainly wasn't escaping to a new way of
life. The ticket didn't represent fresh
opportunity, but a variation of all he'd rebelled
against for years.
Other people restricting his freedom.
Telling him what to do.
The ticket wasn't a symbol of fresh
opportunity. It was a symbol of Gideon's will.
Gideon's wishes. Gideon's plan for his
life-
"Well, by God, it's
my
life!"
He hadn't meant to speak aloud. The Pullman
porter, a sad, slope-shouldered old black
man, thought Carter was calling him, and came hurrying
along the aisle.
"Beg pardon, sir? Did you want me to make
up your bed?"
The accumulated resentment boiled over. He
jumped up. "Yes! Get to it!"
"I will, sir. Right this minute."
The man was cringing, almost servile. That pleased
Carter. It wasn't that he felt as the trainman
did about blacks; the porter's skin had nothing to do
with Carter's 'reaction. What he liked was being in
control of another human being-black, brown, red,
white, it didn't matter. Only the control
mattered. The control achieved by some method that would not
get you killed; Ortega and the Red Cod had
taught him to set that limit.
Control of others was what he wanted from life.
Instead, he had the ticket.
When the lower berth was ready, he climbed in. Thus
far on the trip, he'd slept soundly. Tonight he was
restless. He cursed volubly whenever the
train swayed or jerked. Hour after hour, all he
could think of was the ticket.
"Sleep well, sir?" the porter asked in a
hopeful tone when Carter climbed out between the green
curtains the next morning.
"No. I had a miserable rest." He knuckled his
eyes; noticed the respectful look on the
porter's face. How could he
*
make everyone treat him that way? He knew.
By following the advice he'd given W. By being
somebody.
He couldn't do it by going on to San Francisco,
though. He couldn't do it by swamping floors or
cleaning toilets in
some nigger-owned hotel, that was for damned sure. He
had to strike out in a new direction.
"I'm not spending another night on this
rattletrap," he announced.
"I thought you were going all the way to California with
us, sir."
"I changed my mind. What's the next stop?"
The porter consulted his watch. "North Platte,
Nebraska."
"When will we be there?"
"About ten."
"That's where I'm getting off."
The porter bobbed his head. "Yes, sir. Whatever
you say, sir."
The only other passenger to leave the train at
North Platte was an old farmer from second
class. Carter stood on the platform in the sun as
the locomotive drivers began to shunt back and forth
and the whistle blew. The moment the train pulled out,
he knew he'd made a dreadful mistake.
North Platte seemed to be nothing more than a
collection of railroad sidings, unpainted
commercial buildings and small, mean houses set
down beside a dirty river in the middle of a sea of
prairie grass. A stiff breeze filled the
air with dust. It was only April but the sun was
scorching. Sweat turned his linen shirt sodden beneath his
new Marshall Field jacket.
He hoisted his two cowhide valises and trudged
toward the main street. He felt hot, tired, and
overcome with guilt, By bolting from the train, he'd
betrayed Julia's trust.
He stopped a man emerging from a general store whose
elaborately painted sign read:
H. and M. K. BOYLE OF NORTH
PLATTE
-
General Merchandise
-
"Mister, is there a clean, inexpensive hotel in
town?"
The plainly dressed townsman eyed Carter's
fancy jacket and dusty button shoes. "Try the
Platte Palace." He jerked a thumb into the
sun's glare. "Two blocks down. The widow
Butts runs it."
"Obliged."
Carter touched two fingers to his forehead, picked up
his
valises and walked on. What he saw around him was
discouraging. Shimmering heat devils on the
horizon. Blowing dust. A godforsaken little town
whose loftiest building seemed to be its grain
elevator.
But he was free of all the ticket represented.
Free.
He had to remember that.
I
The Platte Palace Hotel was two stories
high, half a block wide across the
front, and deserted. He entered and saw a woman
dusting the lobby counter. The woman was -- j plain,
heavy-breasted, in her early forties. She looked
uncomfortable in her worn, high-necked dress of
black silk. were'
She gave him a hard look. Her gray-green
eyes had a curious intensity. He endured the stare
without a sign of annoyance, then put on his most
charming smile.
"I just got off the train." He pointed to a chipped
writing desk near the large and dusty front window
through which the sunlight streamed. "Do you mind if I
sit and write a note?"
"I suppose not." The tone of the reply said she
wished he i wouldn't.
Carter set his valises on the rug. The movement
stirred motes of dust and set them whirling faster in
the sunshine. He sank down in the chair. It
creaked. He opened the desk drawer. It contained
nothing but Union and Central Pacific timetables.
"You'll have to get your own stationery," the woman
called. "I quit supplying it after my husband
died. Too many people steal it, and it's expensive.
My husband was always giving things away. That's why
we were always broke."
Carter nodded. Why was the woman staring at him so
intently? Was she angry because he intended to use the
desk? Well, the hell with her. He found his
unused ticket; held it up:
"I have paper."
She sniffed and gave him another oblique look.
She tugged nervously at the waist of her dress,
tightening the
material over her breasts. He noticed that as she
did so, she
i

stood in profile. He was beginning to catch onto
her game.
The woman disappeared behind the partition which contained the
pigeonholes for mail. All the pigeonholes were
empty.
A train whistle sounded in the distance. Carter bent his
head over the desk whose top was illuminated by the
blazing sunlight. He began to feel confused and
depressed. Where could he go? How could he support
himself after his money was gone? He only had fifteen
dollars left. He was in the middle of a vast,
unfamiliar country. Friendless. Alone-
He pulled an old steel pen from the
inkwell. On the back of the ticket, he began a
letter to Julia.
In brief sentences, he told her he'd left the
train in Nebraska. He told her he couldn't go
on to the Hope House and the backslash nenial job
waiting there. He told her he had to do what he
wanted, not what someone ordered him to do.
He stuck the end of the pen in his mouth and chewed on it.
With a start, he realized the woman had come back and
was watching him gnaw hotel property. He
stopped. Smiled. She returned the smile and
slowly leaned her elbows and her pendulous breasts
on the counter.
The pen scratched in the silence:
still
don't want you to worry, which is why I am sending
this. And I don't want you to be hurt, or fret,
if you don't hear from me for a while. I must sort
things out and make my way on my own. I'm grown
now, I can do it. I will write you from wherever I land
in a few months, and am sure I will have good news
about what I have decided to do in the future.
What lies, he thought, his face glum and his belly
beginning to hurt as he realized the enormity of the step
he'd taken. He had no idea where he'd
go, or how he'd get along when his traveling cash
ran out. All his thoughts about freedom-all his
plans to control his own destiny- seemed ludicrous
in view of his situation.
But his mother mustn't know that. She'd be upset enough when
she learned what he'd done. Despite her low
opinion of him, he loved her, and he owed her at
least a little peace of mind. He finished the letter
by saying:
Above all, please do not
worry. still
will be fine. Say hello to W.
yr. affectionate son, Carter.

  He scratched a horizontal line under his name and
added a few ornamentations to it. He started to chew the
pen again. He heard a floorboard squeak. He
jerked the pen out of his mouth, getting a small
splinter in his lip as he did so.
  A shadow fell across the desk. He spat the
splinter away and tucked the letter in his pocket, then
glanced up. The stocky widow was standing there, her arms
folded beneath her breasts as if to emphasize their
size.
  "Done?"
  "Yes. Just now."
  "That's good. I can't stay here all day to see that
you don't steal anything. I have rooms to clean
upstairs."
  "All right."
  He pushed the chair back; accidentally brushed
against her as he stood up. With a startled breath, she
stepped away. He couldn't reconcile her scowl
with her strange, searching gaze. Her eyes moved
quickly across his shoulders, down to his waist, back
to his face.
  "I'll buy an envelope at the store," he
said. "Thanks very much for letting me-was
  "How old are you?"
  "What's that?"
  "How old?"
  "In another few days I'll be twenty-two."
  "Why did you stop in North Platte? Do you
know anyone here?"
  He shook his head; smiled that charming smile.
"It seemed as good a place as any." That was
better than telling the truth-that North Platte
looked like a hellhole.
  "What's your name?"
  "Kent. Carter Kent."
  "I'm Mrs. Olga Butts."
  She extended her hand. They shook. Her palm was
moist and warm. She gripped his fingers longer than
necessary.
Continuing to smile, he felt an ache spread through his
midsection. He was
alone.
He had no way to get along except by using his
wits and his one talent. The talent that had come to him
from his grandmother, and his father.
It was such an ephemeral thing to pin his hopes on, that
talent. But he had nothing else. And because of his own
impulsive actions, he was desperate.
He struggled to make sure the desperation didn't
show. "Happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs.
Butts. It's a pleasure to see anything
resembling a friendly face. I haven't run into many
lately-was He sighed, hoping he wasn't overdoing
it.
He was. She became suspicious:
"What kind have you run into? Are you in trouble with the
law?"
"Mrs. Butts-was
"You're old enough to be a thief. A bank robber, a
train robber-a man who takes
advantage of women."
But she didn't move away from him. Her breathing
had grown rapid. "Tell me the truth, Mr.
Kent. Are you evading the authorities? Is someone
chasing you?"
"No one would chase me, Mrs. Butts. I'm not
worth anything. Nobody'd want me."
She denied that with an admiring glance, he noted from a
corner of his eye.
"Where are you from, Mr. Kent?"
"St. Louis."
He began to feel exhilarated then. The exhilaration
was tinged with danger as he started to spin out a tale, not
knowing what was coming until he said it:
"I'm an only child. When my father died five years
ago, my mother inherited a prosperous livery
business. She mourned for a year, then married a man
from Minnesota. He ran the business into the ground.
He was a drunkard. What's worse, he-infected
her with a foul disease he had been carrying for years.
For some reason the disease took its toll on my mother
more quickly than it did on him. It affected her
mind. My stepfather shut her away in an asylum
for the insane, intending to let her die there while he
spent the last of her money. When I tried
to get her out of the asylum, he bribed the sheriff
to trump up charges against me. I had to leave St.
Louis at night, on a freight car-in a
hurry."
She seemed close to weeping:
"Oh, God, Mr. Kent, that's a terrible
story."
He thought so too, but not for the same reasons she
did. He looked mournful:
"Indeed it is. And it was a terrible choice-leaving
my poor mother behind in order to save my own skin. But
they'd have locked me up, maybe for years, and my
stepfather had already ruined her. So I figured Fd
make my fortune out west, then go back and settle
with him. Provided the disease doesn't get him first.
I hope to God it doesn't."
It was straight out of a Beadle novel. But the
emotions of the widow Butts were so stirred, the
absurdity eluded her. She shook her head and
dabbed an eye:
"It isn't an easy world, is it?"
"No, ma'am.""
"I lost my husband to influenza last winter. I
miss his- comforting presence more than I can say.
Since his passing, the hotel has
deteriorated even further. He had no head for
business, but I'm even more inadequate. Very
lonely, too-was
She was struggling for words that suddenly burst forth:
"I'd be happy to fix you a meal if you're
hungry."
"That would be wonderful, ma'am. I'm starved."
Now,
he thought,
now.
He'd told the tale for one reason coms he wouldn't
have to spend anything for a room in North Platte.
All at once, he knew he was going to be
successful. She said to him:
"And if you-if you care to stay overnight, you can have
any bed in the hotel."
She glanced past him to see whether anyone was watching
from the street. Her sun-flecked eyes pierced him
as she added in a whisper:
"Including mine."
IV
Despite her age, the widow Butts proved as
frisky as a mare in heat. She nearly wore
Carter out that night. Finally, around three-thirty,
she fell asleep and snored.
He lay beside her, exhausted but too jubilant
to rest. The experience with the affection-starved woman had
renewed
his confidence, vindicated the Tightness of his decision
to leave the westbound train and restored his faith in the
future. Olga Butts had accepted his lies.
Of course he didn't think of himself as a liar.
Prompted by necessity, he'd merely used the one
talent at his disposal.
The more he thought about the events of the day, the more
delighted he was. His talent would help him
survive. His talent would take him anywhere he
wanted to go.
Out on the prairie, a locomotive hooted. Not
a lonesome sound, but an exciting one, symbolic of the
world that suddenly lay open to him.
Closer at hand, Mrs. Butts let out a loud
snore. He chuckled and snuggled down in the warm
bed. The past no longer had any hold on him.
And the future had never looked brighter.
Book Two The Journey Of
Will Kent
Unhappy Homecoming
ON A DISMAL MORNING early in March
1886, the Cunard steamship
Excalibur
entered New York harbor.
Cold wind whipped the water to white foam. Rain
threatened to become sleet as tugboats guided the
liner toward her berth on the North River. The
passengers had withstood gale winds and mountainous
waves on the late winter crossing, so the inclement
weather didn't prevent hundreds of them from rushing
on deck to see the scaffolding and the great blocks of
stone already in place on Bed- loe's Island.
Among the observers, perhaps the most envious was
Gideon Kent.
He'd been abroad with Julia and Will most of the
winter. They'd toured the museums of London and
Paris, Rome and Madrid with Gideon's brother
Matthew-and Matt's latest blonde and blue-eyed
mistress-as their guides and companions. But he'd
kept in touch with business affairs by cable. Thus he
knew work was once more going forward on the pedestal for
Bartholdi's great Statue of Liberty.
Before the resumption of work, the project had
languished for months. While the crated sections
of the statue remained in storage, Congress had
debated and ultimately decided against funding
construction of the pedestal. Then Joe
Pulitzer had jumped in. The New York
World
had lashed Congress for failing to do its duty, and for
insulting the French people, whose donations had paid for the
statue. A five-month campaign supported
by articles and editorials had generated the necessary one
hundred thousand dollars. School children had
contributed their pennies, ordinary people their dollars,
tycoons their thousands.
It was an incredible outpouring that testified to the
immense power of the press.
Or was it merely testimony to the power of
Pulitzer's sensational brand of journalism?
Gideon asked himself as
he watched Bedloe's Island glide past in the
murk.
Gideon knew Pulitzer, of course. He
admired the publisher's insistence that his paper never
become the captive of any group or political
party. "Indegoddampendent," was Pulitzer's
unique way of putting it. On the other hand,
setting aside the worthiness of many of the causes
Pulitzer embraced, Gideon didn't like the way
the publisher manipulated the public, and pandered
to low tastes by packing the
World
with accounts of crime and Society scandal.
Gideon refused to employ such tactics on the
Union,
even though the
World's
circulation was climbing dramatically at the expense
of every other daily-including his own.
Standing at the rail with the sleet beginning to collect in
his beard, he shivered and asked himself whether
Pulitzer might one day drive him out of business.
Almost at once, he scowled and shook his head. It
was wrong for a man to blame anyone else for
failure. If the
Union
was ever forced to suspend publication, it would be the
result of his bad judgment. His mistakes.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a conference with Theo Payne
and once again urge him to enliven the paper's news
columns.
The scaffolding on Bedloe's Island slid astern.
Gideon's mood remained as gloomy as the day.
On every front, the Kents seemed to be suffering
setbacks.
Eleanor had abdicated any
responsibility for the family's future. She and
Leo were only interested in their profession. This
winter they were working as members of Mrs. Drew's
troupe at the Arch Street Theatre,
Philadelphia.
Carter was roaming the West. Since bolting from the
train in North Platte the preceding year, he had
communicated with Julia just three times. He'd
written the first letter on the unused portion of his train
ticket. The other two letters, equally short, had
been mailed from small towns in Texas. AU
summer long, Julia had kept telling her husband
that Carter could take care of himself. He knew she
didn't quite believe it.
Will had taken the news about Carter badly.
Gideon believed that the abrupt changes in Will's
behavior last year
had come about partly because of Carter and partly because of
Dolores Wertman, the red-haired girl who
lived farther down Beacon Street.
In the spring, right after Carter's departure, Will had
seemed to come out of himself. To grow more cheerful; gain
new confidence; throw off his dependence on his
stepbrother. Not coincidentally, he'd been calling
on Dolores Wertman at the time.
Gideon and Julia had been pleased to see Will
taking interest in a girl. Even the arrival of the letter
on the rail ticket hadn't appeared to hit Will very
hard; Dolores Wertman occupied all his
attention.
Then, during a July heat wave, the girl's father
had been felled by a stroke. He died two days
later. The death immediately plunged caret the family
into a financial crisis; Wertman had mortgaged
himself heavily to expand his ice business. The Beacon
Street house and its furnishings were the first things
sold to settle the dead man's debts.
Impoverished overnight and ashamed of it, Dolores
Wertman had moved away without giving Will a forwarding
address. Within a few days, the boy reverted to his
old self, hesitant and humorless. He began
to talk about nothing but Carter's absence.
To speculate endlessly about Carter's whereabouts or
state of mind. The summer of '85 had not been a
good one for Julia, but it had been even worse for
W. Gideon had suggested the European tour as
an antidote. But it had done nothing to restore
Will's spirits.
Now the family was home. Matters held in
suspension during the trip had to be taken
up again. Will's future, for one. But perhaps discussion
of that subject might be just the thing to prod the boy out
of his despondency, Gideon thought. Certainly he
didn't know where else to begin.
Despondent himself, he left the rainy deck in
answer to the gong signaling the last breakfast
sitting.
ii
In the first-class dining saloon, Will sat by himself,
fiddling with an untasted croissant. At sixteen,
he was growing taller, slimming down.
He wasn't happy about much these days, but he
sup183
posed he was happy to be home. He'd found the
European tri" a bore. Except, of course,
for the periods when Uncle Matt traveled with them.
Uncle Matt was full of racv stories about his
colleagues, their misadventures and their
mistresses. Many of Uncle Matt's closest
friends had been christened "impressionists" after an
1884 exhibition of their work. Will's uncle had
gone to some pains to explain that term to his nephew.
He drew small, auick sketches to show how a
human shoulder-or a cathedral such as Sacre-
Coeur on Montmartre-never looked the
same from season to season, or even hour to hour.
To the eye of the trained observer, different kinds of
sunlight-summer and winter, morning and afternoon-created
distinctly different visual impressions of any
subject.
It was this observed reality which was the true reality,
Uncle Matt insisted. Reality was not the
skeleton and muscle structure, or the
architectural design, which your brain told you was
always there and always constant beneath the shifting light. In
their paintings, he and his friends attempted to capture
not a textbook reality, but a higher, purer one-the
impression of a sunlit moment forever caught on
canvas.
But even artistic theory painlessly presented by a
laughing, raffish and wondrously likable uncle was
no substitute for the things that were suddenly missing from
Will Kent's life. First Dolores had moved
away and then the fact of Carter's disappearance had
hit home. He lost the girl he loved and then he
lost the confidence Carter had instilled in him for a time.
When he was courting Dolores, he seldom heard
Margaret Kent's voice hectoring him from the past.
Now he heard it often.
- And he fretted constantly about the
promise he'd made to Carter. He loved his
stepbrother and wanted to keep the promise. But he
was listening to Margaret's voice again. He didn't
know whether he'd ever amount to-
"Good morning, W."
Will glanced up. Gideon slipped into the chair
opposite him. "Morning, sir."
The two table stewards appeared and hovered, all
smiles at this last meal. Before the morning was over,
they'd receive their tips for service on the crossing.
The senior steward inquired about Julia. Gideon
said,
"She won't be joining us, Guy. She's a bit
under the weather."
"Very sorry to hear that, sir. May I suggest our
kippers this morning?"
After Gideon had ordered a large breakfast and
sipped some hot tea, he said to Will, "Did they
take the trunks out of the stateroom yet?"
Will nodded. Drizzly fog pressed against the huge
saloon windows. The Cunarder was backing and turning
in preparation for entering her slip. Will glanced at his
father apprehensively. What was on Gideon's
mind? Something of importance, certainly. He
recognized the set of his father's mouth, and a
certain purposeful glint in his eye.
The senior steward served Gideon a thick golden
crescent of melon. The dining room was unusually
noisy. Buzzing with the conversation of people about to arrive
home.
Finely dressed people, too, Will observed. The kind
of people you saw only in the first class section. In
contrast to the splendid morning outfits of the men seated
at nearby tables, Gideon's suit struck Will as
plain and drab.
Gideon finished another bite of melon. "When
we're back in Boston, we must give some thought
to your future. As young as you are, you can still enter
Harvard if you can pass the entrance examinations." Will
grimaced at the reference to his age. He liked
to be taken for older than he was.
Gideon went on, "I'm sure you can do that. The
Latin School's given you excellent preparation.
Besides-you're a smart young man."
Will said nothing. Gideon's smile quickly faded.
Once more he grew businesslike:
"Naturally you'd take a general course of study
at first. But it isn't too soon to consider the
various careers open to you."
Silence again. Perhaps it was that rebuff which
goaded Gideon into going farther than he'd intended:
"I
do
expect you to choose a career, you know. A life's
work-was
Will looked at his father. "Somehow I thought managing the
family financial interests might be enough."
"Absolutely not. Our money is managed by the
Rothman
Bank. I'll permit no son of mine to live off
an inheritance and dp nothing else."
Gideon's anger brought a resentful look to Will's
face. "Do you suppose there'll be any news of
Carter waiting for us?"
Gideon whacked the tablecloth. "Don't change the
subject, young man." The hovering stewards
exchanged looks. "I know you're upset about your
stepbrother dropping out of sight. But it does no
good to mention it a half a dozen times a day. I'm
sure Carter's all right."
"I'm not."
"You won't help him by worrying. Stop it, if you
please!"
Instantly, he was sorry he'd been so sharp. He
apologized. Will sat motionless. Gideon
drew a long breath:
"I suppose I should explain why I reacted so
strongly to your suggestion of a moment ago. I mean
about making a career of managing the family's
affairs. As I'm sure you realize, there is a
long-standing tradition among the Kents. A tradition
of serving others in some way. Managing family
assets doesn't qualify. Many other things do,
however. Being a journalist, for example."
"I don't want to work for your newspaper, Papa.
Or for Kent and Son, either."
Gideon's lips compressed. He was clearly
restraining his temper:
"I can understand your wanting to strike out on your own.
Read the law, perhaps-was
"That doesn't interest me either."
"Then what does?"
"Nothing I can think of." Will rose. "Excuse
me, sir."
He left the table and hurried from the saloon.
Gideon shook his head and swore softly. The
years were passing. In another forty-eight months,
he'd reach that symbolic age which had by now become
an obsession with him. He was rapidly approaching
the end of an average lifetime, and he was
no closer to finding someone to whom he could give the
mantle of family leadership. Will, his best hope,
was rejecting all appeals that he think
constructively about the future.
It made Gideon sad and furious at the same
tune. He would have run after his son and forced him
to finish the
conversation except for one factor-the dislike he'd
seen in Will's eyes as they spoke.
All sons resented their fathers to a degree. But
Gideon feared Will's animosity had somehow gone
beyond normal bounds.

*.
During the debarkation into the customs shed, Will
deliberately separated himself from his parents. They were
waiting a hundred feet farther down the boat
deck.
He planted his elbows on the damp rail and gazed
at the pier below. Rather than leaving the vessel en
masse, passengers were summoned to customs in
groups. The first group of men and women were moving down
the gangway into the shed where each of them presented a
passport-a large, unwieldly sheet of parchment
covered with official seals, and bearing a
few descriptive phrases inked in an
elaborate hand.
Will was some distance above the pier, but even so, he was able
to see the great profusion of diamonds and other gems
worn by the women leaving the liner. First-class
passengers, obviously. How insignificant,
even dull, Gideon and Julia looked by contrast.
Julia wore no jewelry except her rings.
Her clothes were colorful, but in good taste. Her
gored skirt of burnt orange velvet, seven
feet in breadth, was conservative in comparison with some
of the styles and hues visible to him.
And Gideon's wardrobe was nothing short of drab,
today and every day. Of course Will knew his parents were
rich. But they didn't show it in an unmistakable
way. They weren't interested in letting the world
know
they were important, as Carter said you must.
Will still hadn't figured out how he'd fulfill the
promise to Carter. But he was positive of one
thing. Being as unassuming as Gideon and Julia was
not the way to go about it. The people he must emulate were the
more typical first-class passengers-gaudy, rich,
and proud to have others know it.
He cupped his chin in his hands and gazed down
at those splendid people with undiluted admiration. When
the
signal sounded for the boat deck passengers
to disembark, Gideon had to call his son three
times.
IV
After selling his upper Fifth Avenue mansion,
Gideon had never entertained another thought of owning
property in New York. Yet business often
required his presence there. His answer to it was to rent
a large suite in
the
old, prestigious Fifth Avenue Hotel. The
hotel was located on the west side of Madison
Square, which was still the cultural and commercial hub
of the city that was rapidly expanding to accommodate new
waves of immigrants from Southern and Eastern
Europe.
Gideon kept the suite year round. The cost was
exorbitant; two thousand a month. But having the
suite gave the Kents a comfortable, homelike
base when they were in town. Gideon also liked the
suite because he could look across Madison Square
and see the mansion Amanda Kent had occupied during
the last years of her life. The original
dimensions of the residence had been remodeled out of
existence. But there
was
a house, large and neo-Gothic, on the site. In
this decade of swift change, with America losing
its rural orientation and becoming an industrial
colossus, Gideon found it reassuring to have a
sense of his own family's past. Of course, when
he dwelled on that past these days, it prompted
thoughts of the future-and he was face to face with his
problems again.
After leaving Julia, Will, and their small pyramid
of luggage at the hotel, Gideon proceeded
downtown to the
Union's
offices on Printing House Square. There he
spent an hour sorting through a couple of hundred
letters that had arrived during his long absence. Many went
unopened but not the one from Theodore Roosevelt, which
spoke enthusiastically of Roosevelt's ranching
activities out West.
Next Gideon went into a meeting with Theo
Payne, his senior editorial men, and the heads of the
related departments such as production and circulation.
Gideon listened to a summary of the
Union's
financial position over the last few months;
to several complaints about rising costs; and to pleas for a
new Hoe press as well as a retail price
increase
of a cent a copy. He promised to consider
acquisition of a press, but refused to raise the
price of the paper:
"You don't charge more when you're in a circulation war
with Joe Pulitzer. I'd lower the price if I
could. Since we can't afford that, we'll hold the
line."
There were disgruntled looks but no arguments. Payne
then took over, highlighting for his employer several
foreign and domestic stories which in his opinion bore
watching. In May, Pierre Lorillard would be
opening Tuxedo Park, his 600,000-aere planned
community for the rich. Gideon reacted with
skepticism:
"You think a walled compound where the rich can hide
constitutes news, Theo? I don't."
"Then you don't understand the significance of
Tuxedo."
"Oh? Enlighten me."
"In my opinion Tuxedo is the first
concrete manifestation of a trend which has been
developing for a number of years. The well-to-do have
sustained the cities in the past, but they are no longer
willing to do it. They're starting to pull out. Flee
to the suburbs. They're tired of rubbing elbows with
all the Italians and Hungarians and Greeks and
Russians and Poles pouring off the boats. If
the trend continues for any length of time, our cities
will be in a hell of a fix."
A moment's reflection convinced Gideon that this
editor might be on to something. The wealthy
were
developing private vacation enclaves all along
the Eastern seaboard. More and more of their sons were
attending exclusive private preparatory
schools, and living in privately maintained
dormitories at Harvard, Yale, and
Princeton. Older American families,
conveniently forgetting that they too were the children of
immigrants, no longer wanted to associate with
newcomers.
Gideon urged Payne to send his best man to cover
the official opening of Tuxedo, scheduled for
Memorial Day.
Payne touched on several other topics,
saving until last the one which might be the most
explosive. In May, American labor
unions were planning nationwide demonstrations on
behalf of an eight-hour day. The editor wanted a
special appropriation to send teams of writers and
artists to several major cities, in case the
demonstrations led to violence:
"If we get one gusher as it were, it will more than
com189
pensate for the entire cost of the drilling program."
Payne covered his mouth and emitted a gentle belch
which suggested he'd fortified himself with more than facts
before the meeting.
Gideon wasn't enthusiastic about the suggestion:
"In other words, we'll be banking on trouble.
Hoping for it the same way we did in '77, when
I went to Pittsburgh and got shot."
"You got shot because Tom Courtleigh was after you,"
Payne replied. "Besides, anticipating trouble is
less opprobrious than creating it, don't you
think? Joe Pulitzer isn't above the latter.
Your trouble, Gideon, is that you've never stopped
being disappointed over one fact."
"Which is-?"
"Peace and morality don't sell
newspapers. Do I get my special
appropriation for the teams?"
Gideon sighed. "All right."
The meeting broke up at eight-thirty. Gideon
caught a hack on Park Row and reached the hotel
a few minutes later. He'd had no dinner but he
had no appetite. He discovered his son sprawled
in front of the parlor fireplace reading a letter.
Will barely nodded to his father. Gideon's return
greeting was equally brusque. He threw off his
overcoat and went to find his wife.
The sound of splashing led him to the suite's imposing
bathroom. In a large marble tub, Julia lay
up to her neck in perfumed suds.
He peeled off his jacket, threw it aside and
knelt beside the tub. He received a damp kiss from
Julia as he rolled up one sleeve, then picked
up a sponge floating on the surface and began
to scrub her back with slow, languid motions. It
was one of their companionable rituals; she scrubbed his
back when he bathed.
"You don't have to do that, dear," she said. "You look
exhausted."
He finished scrubbing and rested on his haunches.
"The meeting was tedious. The
World
is steadily whittling away at our circulation."
"A challenge like that used to spur you to work twice as
hard." She touched his wrist. "Not that I'm urging
you, mind. It's time you relaxed a little."
"Relaxed?" He uttered a humorless laugh. "I
just came
home from a European vacation. I've got to deal
with my son, Julia. I've got to take him in
hand. After Carter left, I decided the boy needed
more attention. Now I think I was wrong. I'm
afraid I've been guilty of coddling him. He
needs toughening."
"You used that very word a couple of years ago." "I
remember. I'm sorry I didn't pursue the
idea. Will needs to stand on his own feet a while.
Find out what the world's really like. Maybe then
he'll accept his own lot with more enthusiasm. He's
an intelligent boy, but so far as I can tell,
absolutely without ambition. He can shoot passable
golf out at Brookline. He can ride a horse
and play a good game of lawn tennis. He can read
a chart aboard
Au- vergne,
and he's even learned to be a pretty
fair four-in- hand driver. We've given him
all the social graces and somehow failed to give
him much substance."
Gently, she said, "You're being very hard on your own
son."
"On myself! I've raised him. Or rather, I stood
by and let Carter serve in my place. Will acts more
and more like a swell every day. Let him start debauching
shopgirls and he'll be a perfect candidate for
society with a capital S."
At the end of the vehement speech, Julia nodded.
"I agree, we don't want that. But do you really
think you can jolt him out of this phase merely by finding
some way to- toughen him, as you put it?"
"I think it's worth trying. I have an idea about the
way to do it, too." Bitterness crept in:
"Naturally I can't guarantee the results,
having made a botch of fatherhood most of my
life."
Again she patted his hand. "Stop feeling sorry for
yourself, dear. Sometimes your expectations are much too
high."
He pulled a face. "Theo said the same thing a
couple of hours ago." He snatched a heavy
towel from a solid brass ring in the wall.
He was drying his hands when Julia said, "I got a
letter from Carter. It was in the batch Miss Vail
forwarded here from Boston."
Gideon looked hopeful until he saw her
expression. She climbed from the tub, her
diminutive body still firm and trim. He wrapped
the towel around her. "Where is Carter?"
"Someplace called Texarkana, on the Texas
border."
"Do you have the letter in here?"
"Will has it."
"So that's why he looked so glum when I walked
in."
Gideon pivoted and returned to the fireside.
Win had laid the letter down and was staring into the flames.
still
mustn't be angry with him,
Gideon thought.
I'm responsible for this. I sent his best friend
away.
He picked up the letter and read its three short
paragraphs. Carter was working as a swamper in an
establishment he euphemistically termed a parlor
house. He didn't care for Texarkana, and had
made no friends save for
an- agreeable young nigra who plays the piano and
composes lively tunes. His name's Joplin.
Like the piano player, Carter was thinking of quitting
and moving on again:
  still
can't seem to find a place I want to stay, or
anything I'm happy doing. But I am in good health
and earning my own keep, so that should set your mind at
rest. I will write again if I ever have something
worthwhile to report
-
which by now I am beginning to doubt. My regards
to Gideon, and a special hello to little brother.
C.
Gideon shook his head, speaking half aloud:
"He sounds miserable."
"He isn't the only one," Will said. He rose and
walked out.
An hour later, Gideon finished a long letter
to Theodore Roosevelt.
Eleanor and Leo
LEO GOLDMAN'S INDEX FINGER
moved across the purple bruise under his left eye.
He said to Gideon, Julia, and Will:
"By some wondrous chemistry which only a
mob possesses, my father-a hapless, harmless little
Jew who'd done nothing but travel
to Philadelphia to see his son and
daughter-in-law perform-was transformed into an
anarchist. Those four hooligans looked at him and
saw some invisible brand that said, still
was in Chicago. 1 threw the bomb."
Leo's shoulder lifted in weary disdain. Eleanor,
seated next to him, laid her hand on top of his.
The gesture did little to alleviate the bitterness in
Leo's dark eyes.
From all around the dining saloon of
Auvergne,
lamps cast a rich light on the dinner table, and
burnished the half- inch bands of gold which decorated
the edges of each piece of the china service. In the
center of the plates and saucers, there was an additional
decoration, also in gold. The Kent and Son emblem;
the stoppered, partially filled tea bottle.
Auvergne's
triple-expansion engine throbbed softly. She was
making about eight knots, Gideon reckoned. Her
top speed was fifteen. It was late May; a
peaceful, moonlit evening with only a light chop
on the Atlantic. Eleanor and Leo had
come up to Boston for a short holiday between shows, and the
family had embarked on a cruise around Cape
Cod and down through Muskeget Channel into the open
sea east of the village of Slaconset on
Nantucket Island.
Eleanor squeezed Leo's hand again, then took up
the story:
"Papa Goldman had just stepped into the alley for
some
still
still
air after the performance. That's where the hooligans saw
him, and attacked. Leo heard him yell, charged
into all four and drove them off."
Again Leo's finger ticked against the bruise. "And
earned in the process this decoration for valor.
Plus a few others which politeness prohibits me
from showing you. Maybe they're decorations for
stupidity. Only a thin-skinned Jew would take
on a quartet of bully-boys from the Delaware
River docks. Eleanor didn't approve."
"No, but it was necessary." She sounded dubious.
Gideon said, "Damned unfortunate business."
In more ways than one. Evidently his daughter
wasn't finding it as easy to avoid
anti-Semitism as she'd expected. "Your father
wasn't hurt, was he?"
Leo shook his head. "Just ruffled a little."
"Feeling has been running high in Boston, too.
Just last week, on the Common, a Jewish woman
was mauled and pelted with rocks."
"It's no wonder, Papa," Will blurted. "I
don't mean to insult you, Leo. But everyone knows the
Jews caused the strike at the McCormick
plant. And started the riot."
Leo's hand clenched around his napkin. Gideon was
growing pale. He saw Julia's glance of warning
and did his best to check his temper. It was hard.
Lately his son's behavior had become
intolerable. Thank heaven Roosevelt had finally
sent an affirmative reply to the letter Gideon had
written in March.
Julia tried to reprove her stepson gently:
"I don't believe you have your facts in order, young
man. The
Union
reporters who were in Chicago said no one knows who
threw the bomb in Haymarket Square. It's
likely no one will ever know. The situation was
extremely confused."
Undaunted by the correction, Will said, "Yes, but
eight men were arrested and charged. Some of them are
Jews, aren't they?" dis8May I ask what that
proves?" Eleanor asked.
Gideon's voice was heavy with irony. "Why, it
proves the Jews are responsible, just as he said.
Everyone
knows
that if a man worships at a synagogue,
ipso facto,
he's an anarchist." Will began sulking as his father
went on, "These days, Eleanor, your brother has
the answers to ev-
erything. I'm sure the professors at Harvard
can't wait to partake of his vast knowledge when he enrolls
this fall."
Julia tried to change the subject:
"Will's already passed the examinations, did we tell
you?"
"No, you didn't," Eleanor said. A distinct
lack of enthusiasm was evident when she added,
"That's very nice."
Anderson, the blond young steward, came in to clear the
disdishes and serve lemon ice and macaroons for
dessert. Gideon kept glowering at his
son. He'd hoped Leo and Eleanor's brief
vacation between plays at the Arch Street Theatre would
be a pleasant one. Will was doing his best to see it
turned out otherwise.
Desperate for advice-or perhaps just sympathy-
Gideon had discussed his son with Verity Pleasant
only a couple of days earlier. Pleasant had a
boy about Will's age. He reassured Gideon that
his son, too, often made outrageous statements which
he expected everyone to accept without question:
"And he gets mad as a hornet if I don't.
Arguing is one of the major sporting activities of
young fellows that age. It's part of a lad's pulling
away from his parents and discovering who he is and what
he thinks."
"Well," Gideon grumbled in reply, "I wish
to hell my son would make the discovery, because the
exploration's driving us crazy. were you and I that
obnoxious when we were his age?"
"Undoubtedly."
Gideon shook his head. "I don't remember."
Pleasant smiled at that. "Neither will he."
Will's attitude-and the mention of the Haymarket-had
destroyed the good mood which had prevailed during most
of the dinner. These days the nation was talking of
little besides the Haymarket. On the first of May,
nearly four hundred thousand working men across the country
had begun demonstrating for the eight-hour day. On
May 3, police guarding Cyrus
McCormick's reaper plant in Chicago had
fired on men demonstrating there. One picket had
been killed, several others wounded.
The following night, May 4, trade unionists
had staged a protest rally in Haymarket Square.
Socialists and anarchists were known to be among the
organizers of the affair. As soon as the
speechmaking was over, two hundred police195
men had moved in to disperse the crowd. Someone had
flung a cast-iron dynamite bomb.
After the explosion, guns appeared on both sides.
When the shooting ended, seven Chicago policemen were
dead from the bomb blast, ten or eleven civilians
from the gunfire, and dozens on both sides were
injured.
Thanks to Theo Payne's planning, the
Union
had been able to print dispatches describing the riot
a few hours after it took place. Gideon still
squirmed at capitalizing on mayhem to sell
papers, though.
As Will had stated, eight men had been charged with being
ringleaders of the riot. Gideon's reporters said
there was no concrete evidence against them. Still, the eight
were behind bars. And even the most responsible public
officials were calling for them to be swiftly tried and
hanged.
At the bar of public opinion, they had already been
convicted. More irresponsible elements were demanding the
arrest of union leaders, as well as mass
deportation of all "Jews and Socialists" within the
labor movement. Because anarchists, some of them
European Jews, did operate behind the cover of the
movement, and attempt to direct it, all of the
movement's members-but especially the Jewish
ones-had been tarred with the Haymarket brush.
Gideon wasn't surprised his son had picked
up the misinformation he'd stated as fact.
He simply didn't know how to deal with Will any
longer. Despite the boy's one concession-listless
acceptance of his parents' wish that he enter
Harvard-disharmony ruled their relationship. Will
alternated between arrogance and timidity. The former was
probably a device to conceal the latter, Gideon
suspected. Understanding Will's turmoil didn't
make it any easier to endure, though.
Gideon was desperate. Roosevelt was his only
hope.
Anderson brought in coffee and a dish of peppermints.
The steward was one of four Scandinavians who
constituted
Auvergne's
permanent crew. The others were Captain Er-
ickson, Mr. Wennersten the engineer, and the deck hand
Nyquist. Yachtsmen had the pick of available
seamen because they paid top wages. Scandinavian
sailors were generally considered the best in the world.
The smiling steward poured the coffee from a silver
pot Gideon had purchased from a descendant of
Philip Kent's friend Paul Revere. Julia,
meantime, drew Eleanor and her

His,
husband into conversation about Mrs. Drew's theater.
Over the rim of his cup Gideon studied his
daughter. She professed to be happy with Leo.
Undoubtedly she was-in some ways, but he'd
detected certain signs suggesting that happiness
wasn't total.
She looked fatigued. Shadows showed beneath her
lovely brown eyes. She never looked that
tired simply from working on a role-a personation, as
some actors called it. He must speak to her, father
to daughter, and find out what was troubling her.
Leo spooned up lemon ice. Slowly the strain
left his face, replaced by that wonderfully
impudent grin Gideon remembered from the first night
they'd met. Leo had been a street boy then,
running newspapers from Park Row in order to earn a
few pennies for his family. Somehow he found it within
himself to forgive Will's wild pronouncements, and speak
to him in a friendly way:
"Apart from being a purveyor of the truth about the
jews-was
Julia stiffened slightly. Will eyed his
brother-in-law, ready to defend himself. But Leo
leaned back in his chair, relaxed and cheerful:
"comwhat's your ambition? Business? The law?"
"Papa's mentioned law," Will said. The cocksure
pose vanished in an instant. "I don't think I
have the head for it."
His favorite reply,
Gideon thought. "still
can't"
He fervently hoped the coming summer might change
that. ,
Leo lit one of the relatively new cigarettes
which Gideon disliked. Eleanor said to her brother,
"But what do you want to do after you finish at
Harvard?"
Will's answer was a shrug. Still irked by his earlier
remarks, Eleanor flared:
"You can't be serious. Isn't there anything you want
out of lif e?"
"Oh, absolutely," Will shot back, smiling in
a cold way. For a moment he looked years older
than his years. "I want to have a lot of money-and
I want people to know it."
Eleanor looked stunned. "Good Lord," she
breathed. "How idealistic."
"Now, sweet, don't be cutting," Leo said.
"That's my ambition too." He spoke with increasing
cynicism. "Let me
give you one bit of advice, W. If you want
to realize your ambition, never become an actor.
Your sister and I work like the very devil. We perform every
night of the week. But we're still thought of as
luftmenschen.
That means people without an apparent means of support.
Once, I was sure I'd be out of that category
by this stage in my life. I was counting on
making my fortune in America. I'm sorry to say
the goal has thus far eluded me. If you can make
a lot of money on your own, do it and don't
apologize."
Eleanor's fatigue-shadowed eyes searched her
husband's face, sharing his disappointment. Gideon
had heard the same sort of remarks from Leo before.
Leo had failed to realize the ambition he'd set
for himself when he was a young immigrant boy carrying
newspapers. Perhaps the ambition was an unrealistic
one, especially after he decided to be an actor.
Yet all the rational explanations in the world couldn't
prevent him from occasionally becoming embittered.
With a pointed glance at her brother, Eleanor said
to Leo:
"But at least you aren't so-so hard about what you
want." Will ignored her, gazing at a brass
porthole surrounded by polished mahogany
paneling.
"You have to be hard about certain things in this world, my
dear," Leo replied. "Standing up for yourself, for
one."
He turned toward Gideon and Julia.
"Eleanor and I have frequent disagreements on that
subject-was
Gideon glanced at his daughter; she avoided his
eye. Leo went on:
"For a while she convinced me to ignore the slights.
Turn away from people who do or say things to show they
don't like Jews. I went along. But when someone
attacks your own father, you change your thinking. I
refuse to turn away any longer."
He patted Eleanor's hand to show he harbored no
ill feelings. But there was no mistaking the anger in
his eyes.
Or the sadness in hers.
While Anderson cleared the table, Julia took
Leo to the piano to choose some music. Leo
enjoyed singing almost as much as Gideon did.
Without bothering to excuse himself, Will disappeared,
presumably headed for his stateroom. Eleanor and
her father strolled out to the starboard rail. Leo went
on deck only when necessary. He had never learned
to swim. Deep water terrified him.
Smoke streamed from
Auvergne's
rakish stack amidships. Astern, a wake was
faintly visible in the black sea. A canopy of
stars spread overhead, and off the bow, a few lights
twinkled in Slaconset.
Gideon leaned on the rail next to Eleanor.
He lit a cigar, savoring a moment of silent
companionship. He was calmed and renewed by the sea
and the yacht's soothing rumble.
He loved
Auvergne.
Of course the New York Yacht Club didn't
consider the eighty-five-foot vessel to be a
yacht at all. That prestigious club pretended that
boats under a hundred and fifty feet didn't
exist.
Gideon berthed
Auvergne
at a public slip in Boston. He'd been
told privately that he stood no chance of being
admitted to the New York Yacht Club because of
what he'd done to Ward McAllister. So he'd
applied for membership in the American Yacht
Club when it was organized at Milton Point
on Long Island Sound in 1883. He wanted
to be able to dock at the club when he steamed down to the
city on business.
He'd received one blackball, which denied him
membership. He was sure the blackball had been
dropped by his old acquaintance Jay
Gould, who had himself been blackballed at the
N.y.ally.c. Gould had founded the A.y.C.
to retaliate.
For all the attendant social difficulties,
Gideon had never regretted purchasing the yacht.
He could have afforded a much larger and grander vessel;
something close to Gordon Bennett's
Namouna
with its 50-man crew, $2500 a month payroll
and annual maintenance burden of at least
$150,000. But this small, fast Herreshoff boat
was perfectly adequate. It had three
staterooms, a saloon, and a
well-equipped galley. It took him wherever he
wanted to go, in comfort.
hq broke the silence by saying:
"I've been anxious to speak to you a moment,
Eleanor."
She rapped her fist on the smooth teak rail.
"I wish you'd speak to Will instead."
"I don't blame you for being angry with him. He
insulted Leo. If he weren't so blasted big,
I'd turn him over my knee. I will say this in his
defense, though. I think he's just going through a
phase. One he'll grow out of, I
hope. He sustained a great loss when Carter
vanished. He depended on Carter for most of his
opinions-and for encouragement in almost everything he did.
Adolescence is a wrenching experience in its own
right-as you perhaps remember."
Eleanor managed to smile.
"I'm working on a solution to your brother's,
problem. But that isn't why I wanted to talk with
you." ,
From the galley came the muted sounds of dishes being
stacked, crystal clinking in a washtub, the black
iron griddle of the wood stove being scraped down.
The deck hand, Nyquist, and perhaps even Mr.
Wennersten would be helping Anderson clean up.
Auvergne
had that kind of crew.
Through an open porthole they heard Leo say,
"That one! It's one of my favorites."
"Mine too," Julia said. She began to play.
Leo's strong baritone rang out:
The young folks play by the little cabin door
-
All happy, all merry, all bright
-
The sound of Leo's voice brought another
smile to Eleanor's face. Then she asked:
"Talk to me about what, Papa?"
By and by hard times come a-knockin" at the door
-
Then my old Kentucky home, good night.
Leo and Julia sang the chorus. Overlapping the
music, Gideon said, "I'm not trying to pry
into your affairs. But Julia and I worry about how
you and Leo are getting along."
She kept her eyes fixed on the stars; she
answered softly:
"We love what we're doing. But acting has never
been an easy profession. It wasn't when
Philip's mother was excommunicated for going on the
stage in Paris, and it isn't today. Sometimes Leo
gets discouraged because we aren't making faster
progress." . "So I gathered from his remarks at
dinner."
Gideon's voice was calm. Inwardly, he was
churning. What on earth had happened to his
daughter's romantic enthusiasm? What had gone
wrong?
"Does marriage agree with you, Eleanor?"
"Yes, Papa. Sometimes I do feel I'm
horridly inadequate for the role of a
wife, though."
"Why do you say that?"
A too-studied shrug. "Oh-various reasons.
Working in the theater, there isn't much tune for me to do
all the conventional things a wife is supposed to do.
Cook. Sew-was
"You never particularly cared for them as a girl. I
can't believe you've suddenly become interested in
them."
A dazzling smile. "I loathe them. But I
suppose I feel guilty for neglecting that side
of married life."
"Leo doesn't mind, does he?"
"No, he's a perfect dear about it." The smiled
faded. "But I feel inadequate in other ways,
too."
He clearly heard the embarrassment in her voice,
and in a moment of uncomfortable insight, he thought he
understood. Eleanor was not merely a child of the
Victorian age; she was the child of Margaret Kent.
Toward the end of Margaret's life, her view of the
physical side of marriage had been a warped
one. That unhealthy view had finally driven
Gideon to Julia. Was his daughter now struggling
against the same kind of negative
attitude?
Gideon fixed his eye on a distant star. He
asked gently, "Do you want to say any more?"
"I can't, Papa. It's the sort of thing-well,
no, I'd rather not discuss it."
"Would you feel more comfortable talking with Julia?"
Vehemently: "She isn't my mother." "But she'd be
happy to listen."
"No!
I shouldn't have brought it up." Her uncharacteristic
sharpness upset him. He couldn't tell whether she'd
been angry about the drift of the conversation, or
frightened, or a little of both.
Eleanor was gazing over the sea, a set, closed
expression
on her face. Fruitless to press her on the
subject, he thought. It could only lead to bad
feelings between them. He tried another tack:
"I'm curious about something else. Do you often have
to deal with incidents like the one in Philadelphia?"
"More often than I'd like."
"Are you finding they aren't so easy to walk away from
as you once thought?"
Her quick frown, clearly discernible in the starlight,
told him he'd hit the mark.
"We manage."
"It doesn't sound as if Leo will turn the other
cheek any longer."
"No."
"I can't say that I blame him."
"I just wish people would leave us alone! I hoped
Philadelphia would be different. You'd think that in
a big, supposedly cultured city a Jew
wouldn't have so many problems. But look what happened
to Papa Goldman. We even get a few people in the
Arch Street galleries who see Leo's name in the
program and throw things."
"Good God. What does he do?"
"He stops the play until they quiet down. It
terrifies me. Last week, a coin came this
close to his eye." Her thumb and index finger
measured a narrow space in the air. "Leo gets
so angry-was
"He should."
"It isn't our fight!"
"Yes, it is, Eleanor. It's Leo's fight,
and it became yours when you married him. But we'll
never agree on that, I fear. I do understand how
Leo feels. No man wants to be forced to deny
what he is. I'm sorry there have been
problems. I want your marriage to be a happy
one."
"Mostly it is, Papa."
She sounded completely convincing. Then he recalled
that she made her living by acting. He studied her;
thought he detected a fleeting look of pain on her
face.
What's wrong? What is it that she can't talk about?
The bigotry? Or something else?
She was conscious of his scrutiny. Quickly, she linked
her arm with his. They walked along the moonlit
deck toward the open door of the saloon. "Every
marriage has its prob-
lems, Papa. I appreciate your worrying about
us, but you mustn't."
Her timing was superb. Precisely at the moment
they entered the saloon, she finished by saying:
"Leo and I are very happy. I love him and I'm
proud to be his wife."
. Leaning on the piano, Leo gave her a look
of such intensity and sadness that Gideon's last doubt
was banished. Despite Eleanor's protestations of
happiness, something was seriously amiss.
m
Three days later,
Auvergne
docked in Boston and the Goldmans boarded the train
for Philadelphia. Gideon and Julia saw them
off with a silent hope that the marriage could survive
the stresses to which it was obviously being subjected:
Sometimes I'm terrified. A coin came this close
to his eye
-
As the carriage bore them back to Beacon
Street, Gideon's mind was a muddle of
worries about his daughter and his son. Quite without
realizing it, he began to sing softly:
"By
and by hard times come a-knockin' at the door
-"
"That song seems to be a favorite of yours
lately, dear. You hum or sing it a dozen times a
day."
"Do you blame me? Eleanor's hiding some
unhappiness comand Will was insufferable on the
cruise-never a syllable of apology to anyone-was
"Remember what Mr. Pleasant told you. It's
typical of boys his age.
"That's an explanation. It isn't an excuse.
He needs a more competent hand than mine."
"No, darling," she said gently. "Just a different
one for a while."
"That's why I asked Theodore to take him for the
summer. Now that he's agreed, it's time I informed
W. I'll send him west and hope to God I'm not
making the same mistake twice."
Welcome to the Bad Lands
WILL TOOK THE NORTHERN Pacific west
during the last week in May.
In his valise was a note of introduction to the
Hon. T. Roosevelt, the Elkhorn Ranch,
Billings County, Dakota Territory. Packed
with it was Roosevelt's reply to Gideon's first
letter. In it, Roosevelt said he thought it would be
grand
to have his good friend's son on the Elkhorn Ranch for the
summer:
Have him hasten here quickly, so that he may ride with us
in the spring roundup of District No. 6,
Montana Stockgrowers' Association, of whose
Dakota Branch 1 am pleased to be president.
If your son is any kind of horseman, the
roundup is an experience he will enjoy and will not soon
forget. We shall be pleased as Punch to have him share it,
and I shall personally see to his welfare.
Did that kind of language sound like a cowboy's?
Definitely not, Will thought. But Gideon had
assured him that Roosevelt had readily adapted
himself to the rugged life of the Dakota Bad Lands, and
had been fully accepted by the less-than-refined
inhabitants of the district.
He recalled his father saying that Roosevelt had first
visited the Bad Lands on a hunting trip.
He'd fallen in love with the country, and had
returned there after the deaths of his wife and mother in
1884. He now made several trips a year to the
Territory. A sister cared for his infant daughter,
Alice, during his absence.
Settlers in the Bad Lands were trying to develop a
cattle industry there, even though conditions were not as
favor204
able as they were in Montana or Wyoming.
Roosevelt had joined enthusiastically in this effort.
Gideon said Roosevelt now owned about 3,500
head of cattle, divided between his two ranches. The
first, in which he had a partnership, was called the
Maltese Cross. It was located not far from the
rail stop on the Little Missouri River,
Roosevelt's own spread, the Elkhorn, lay
about forty miles north.
Roosevelt wasn't the only gentleman-rancher
in the district. A few years earlier, an
authentic French nobleman had settled on the Little
Missouri with his wife, the wealthy daughter of a
Wall Street banker named Von Hoffman.
Using the wife's money, the Marquis de
Mores-full name Antoine Amedee Marie
Vincent Manca de Vallombrosa- had founded a
new town on the river's east bank. He'd named
the town after his wife Medora.
The Marquis' stated intention was to create a beef
packing empire to match that of Mr. Armour in
Chicago. In rapid order, he had organized the
Northern Pacific Refrigerator Car
Company, built a thirty-room mansion,
persuaded the railroad to move its depot from the
original settlement on the west bank of the river and
developed a reputation for lording it over the local
citizens.
"Theodore's letters make it clear he and the
Frenchman don't get along," Gideon had
observed to his son. "At first that might seem
strange, since they're both aristocrats-was
"There are no aristocrats in America, Papa."
"Yes, there are. They don't have titles,
that's all. The Roosevelts trace their ancestry
back to the Knickerbocker era in early
Manhattan. But that's where the resemblance ends.
Theodore believes in democracy. He says the
Marquis favors the old system of privilege.
Oddly enough, their personal lives don't seem
to fit with their philosophies. I gather the
Marquis hangs out with the riffraff of Medora.
Theodore's morals are like those of a grandee. He
doesn't drink, smoke, or swear. If you've
taken up any of those habits-was At that point,
Gideon had managed a tolerant smile.
"combetter get rid of them before you reach the
Territory."
From the first, the prospect of a summer in the West had
appealed to Will-much to his father's relief. Will was a
competent driver and rider, although he realized
Eastern coach and saddle horses weren't the same
as cow ponies. He hoped he could hold his own out
here, not disappoint
his father's friend, or become a burden. He meant to do
his best. But as the train left Minnesota, he
began to hear a voice whispering in the clicking
wheels. The voice disparaged his hope, and spoke
scathingly of his certain failure.
He tried not to listen.
The train was in western Dakota now, the rolling
prairie with its long Indian grass dropping behind,
replaced by a flatter, more barren terrain. Trees
became increasingly sparse. What few there
were-cottonwoods, cedars, some yellow pine-had a
stunted look.
The eastern part of the Territory had been blessed with
vegetation: chokeberries, wild grapes,
blue-gray pasqueflowers nodding in the spring
breeze; even water lilies floating near the
banks of sparkling creeks. Here little or nothing
grew except the short gray gamma grass.
Even that began to vanish as the train moved farther
into the arid emptiness of the Missouri Slope.
Mesas spread along the horizon. Buttes
jutted into the sky, their wind-scraped faces
revealing distinct layers of brick red lava and
blue, gray, and yellow clay. There were only a
few streams, small, sluggish, and dirty.
Obviously he was coming into the Bad Lands. They had
been explored by French-Canadian voyageurs
who had christened them
mauvaises terres pour traverser.
Will's destination, Medora, was right in the
heart of the area.
Face close to the window, he again changed position
on the hard bench. Gideon had learned a lesson
from Carter's trip; Will was traveling on a
second-class ticket. The car in which he was riding
was nearly empty.
The vista outside was spectacular, even forbidding.
But the country was far from devoid of life. In the
space of an hour, he saw huge jackrabbits
jumping, whitetailed deer running, flocks of
magpies circling in the blue sky- and prairie
dog villages beyond counting. He felt a fresh
burst of excitement. The excitement had consumed him
for days now, and helped ease the tension of living in
Boston.
He knew the tension was partly of his own making. He
honestly couldn't explain why he sometimes acted the
way he did; lashed out at his parents with arrogance
or scorn. At the moment he did it, he seemed
to want to, but he always regretted it later. Of
course he never admitted that to Julia or his father.
Things had been topsy-turvy ever since Carter had
left

r
and Dolores Wertman had moved away. His
self- confidence, never great to begin with, had been
utterly destroyed by those two events. Even now,
he was gazing out the coach window with an anxious
expression, worrying about the weeks ahead. Could he
handle his duties on a working ranch? He was in fine
physical condition, but was that enough? Could he hold his
own among experienced cowhands?
He was determined to try. Determined to silence the
voice whispering to him through the clicking wheels:
You'll fail. You'll fail.

It was a brilliant sunny day. Two antelope
bounded along beside the train, then veered away.
By leaning against the window, Will could glimpse startling
new rock
x
formations rising ahead. Formations of lavender, olive,
chalk gray. The conductor walked through to announce
that Medora would be the next stop in half an hour.
Will's heart began to beat faster.
The
x
conductor went all the way to the head end of the train,
then returned. When he reached Will's seat,
he paused and gave the young man an amused look:
"Medora's your station, isn't it?"
"That's correct."
"Plan to stay awhile?"
"I'll be working there all summer."
"Better get yourself some new clothes. If you
don't, you'll be bullyragged all over the place.
I wouldn't hang around the depot too long, either.
Not dressed that way. Just a friendly suggestion," the
conductor added in a superior way, moving on.
For travel, Will had picked out a plaid suit,
button shoes and a snappy derby. still
should have bought chaps and a sombrero in Minneapolis.
Why did he always do everything wrong? The voice in
the wheels chuckled:
Bungler.
He took a deep breath; composed himself. If he
wanted people at the Elkhorn Ranch to believe he'd
come to Da
kota eager for adventure, he had to act like it.
No matter how he felt inside.
He thought of the portrait of old Philip back
home in Boston. In conscious imitation of his
ancestor, he raised his chin and jutted it forward
slightly. All at once he felt
better; more confident. He sat in that pugnacious,
if awkward, pose all the way to Medora.
in
Two expressionless Indians squatted on a low
embankment beside the track, puffing on corncob
pipes and watching the train arrive. The end of the
platform slipped into sight. Beyond it, Will saw a
number of new-looking brick and wooden buildings.
Colorful signs identified the merchandise they
sold. Clothing. Drugs. Hardware. Liquor.
He noticed a small white schoolhouse and then,
to his astonishment, a sizable structure whose sign
announced an unexpectedly civilized function:
ROLLER SKATING PAVILION
Out of sight at the head end of the car, the conductor was
chanting the name of the stop. Will stood up; reached over
his head to the metal rack holding his valise. The
conductor's voice broke off abruptly. He
burst into the car:
"Get up on the seats!"
The half-dozen passengers exchanged surprised
looks. The train lurched once more, then stopped.
The conductor had just started to repeat his warning when a
shot exploded under the floor of the car. Instantly,
all the passengers scrambled up to places
of safety, some more nimbly than others. Will got
onto a bench just as a second shot rang out.
Someone moaned in fright. Two more shots followed.
Will saw smoke drifting upward between two benches
three rows ahead. He heard men clambering around
beneath the car, then muffled laughter. One of the
passengers-a drummer, to judge from his sample
cases-started to climb down from his bench. Cowering against
the wall at the head end, the conductor yelled:
"Stay where you are! They aren't finished."
"Who in tarnation is it?" the drummer called back.
"Yoo-hoo in there, you Eastern punkin lilies!"
someone bellowed from below. "This here's rough country.
Better skedaddle back where you come from."
"The usual reception committee," the conductor
answered. "Cletus Maunders and his friends. Town
drunks. Mean. They meet damn near every train."
More catcalls. The conductor continued, "Sometimes
they shoot out the windows. That's worse. They'll
probably fire a few more rounds to scare the coon
waiters in the dining car. Then if we're lucky,
they'll go awa-was
"Hal-ooo, you punkin lilies! What you got
to say in there?"
Will was growing tired of standing on the seat.
He resented a bunch of drunkards keeping him
imprisoned. If he was ever going to prove he could
get along on his own, maybe now was the time to start.
He drew another deep breath, took a firm
grip on his bag and stepped down in the aisle.
The conductor goggled. "You damn fool, didn't
I tell you to stay put?"
"Someone's supposed to be meeting me. Those men
may be playing their game for an hour. I'm getting
off."
His heart hammered as he took a step toward the
vestibule; then a second one. The drummer's
eyes grew round. He didn't budge from his bench.
Neither did any of the others.
Will kept moving. Another step. Another-
Under the car, someone said, "I think one of "em's
mov- . 1 ing around."
"You're right. What say we put one up into his
privates?"
"How you know it's a him, Cletus?"
"Hell, I never thought of that."
"Never thought of it? Don't you like women no more?"
Laughter.
Will's palms were slick with sweat. Common sense
told him to pull back, but something else
within him refused. He jerked the door open and
stepped onto the platform.
The air was hot and dry. For a moment the midday sun
dazzled him. He heard men scrambling around under the
car, laughing and whispering to one another. Then a
voice he recognized-the man called
Cletus-said:
"Let's go see this brave punkin lily. Let's
give him a Bad Lands welcome he ain't
gonna forget."
CHAPTER IV
A
Jilt With
Mr.
Maunders
FROM ALONGSIDE THE CAR there appeared a
middle-aged man with several missing teeth and mangy
hair that straggled over his collar. He wore a
greasy-black buckskin hunting outfit. A huge
paunch pushed out the front of the shirt. Two equally
disreputable types followed him. All three men were
armed with huge revolvers.
Will swallowed, a metallic taste filling his mouth
suddenly. The men snickered and nudged one another as
they formed a semicircle near the steps of the
car. The ringleader was clearly the man with missing
teeth. One of his companions said to him:
"Hell, Cletus, he's nothin" but a youngster."
"All the better sport, boys." The wind brought
Will a whiff of the speaker; he smelled like a
distillery.
He swaggered closer to the steps and gazed up at Will
with a bleary grin. "You wasn't thinkin' of gettin'
off this train, was you, punkin lily?"
"Yes." Will tugged his derby down over his forehead,
then shifted his weight, ready to move down one step.
Somehow his foot slipped; slid off the edge. He
lurched forward, then.caught the handrail and recovered
his balance. The three men whooped and waved their
guns:
"Watch out, punkin lily! Don't fall an'
spoil that fancy suit!"
"Lord God, ain't he the clumsy one!"
"Now boys, hold on," Cletus broke in.
"Maybe it ain't his fault that he nearly busted his
ass. Maybe it's his shoes causin' the trouble."
Cletus extended a grimy hand and
wiggled his fingers. "Lemme see if something's wrong
with that shoe, punkin lily."
Behind the trio, a frail station agent
cleared his throat. "There are passengers waiting
to leave and board that train. You three have no right-was
One of Maunders' cronies cocked his revolver,
aimed at " the agent's forehead and smiled. "Shut
your mouth, . Perkins. Else your two little
boys'll be wearin" black arm- I bands."
The station agent backed away. A couple of male
passengers on the platform protested the delay. The
agent shoved them and whispered, "Keep quiet. I
won't be re- bar sponsible for any injuries in
my station. That's Cletus Maunders and his friends."
Evidently the name meant something to the travelers.
They too retreated toward the far edge of the platform.
Somewhere to the left, hidden from Will by the corner of the car,
a buggy rattled to a stop. A man exclaimed,
"There, sir. That must be him."
Will was busy watching Maunders. Again the grimy hand
moved toward his left foot:
"Take them shoes off, punkin lily. Then we'll
get you down here an' have you dance proper for us."
The hand changed direction suddenly; shot for Will's
ankle. He reacted without thought. Lifted his foot
and stamped down, hard.
His heel struck flesh and bone. The paunchy man
screamed; reeled back. He dropped his
revolver from his other hand; put the injured one in his
mouth and sucked the fingers.
"Shoot the bastard," he said in a muffled voice.
Will brought his valise up to chest level, ready
to hurl it.
Why the hell did 1 get into this?
Maunders' companions aimed their revolvers at
W. Suddenly, down the platform, boots thumped and
spurs clinked. One of the men looked that direction,
gulped and tugged the arm of the other:
"Chad, watch out."
Maunders jerked his ringers out of his mouth. "Shoot
him, goddamn you!" His saliva-slimed hand groped
toward the gun held by the man addressed as Chad.
"Shoot him or let me do it-was
"No, Cletus. Look out behind you. It's Four
Eyes."
Maunders ignored him, fixing all his fury on
Will:
"This is all your fault, you son of a bitch."
Will managed to keep his voice steady. "I'd say
it's yours. I just wanted to get off the train."
"And by godfrey, Maunders," exclaimed a high,
thin voice belonging to one of the new arrivals, "if you
don't permit him to do so, you and your
ruffian friends will regret it."
The voice had a comical quality. But none of the
three men laughed. One bent and snatched
Maunders' revolver, shoving it into his own
cartridge belt for safe keeping. Will walked down
the steps to the platform. His heart was still beating at a
frantic pace.
"This tilt ain't none of your business-was Maunders
began, blustering.
"Any quarrel involving one of my ranch hands is
my business."
"Four-eyed fucker!" Maunders snarled.
"If you use one more obscenity in my presence,
Maunders, I'll thrash you to within an inch of your
life. You know I can do it. Your behavior will make
it a distinct pleasure."
Maunders seethed. But he didn't move. One of
his companions tugged at his filthy hunting shirt:
"Come on, Cletus. Let's light out and find
someone to take care of that hand."
Cletus Maunders gave Will another venomous
look. "You damn near broke it, you little shit."
The man with the high-pitched voice collared him. "I
warned you-was
Maunders flung off his hand. "I'm
leaving, I'm leaving!" Once more he fixed Will with a
stare. Will held his ground. A sly light kindled in
Maunders' eyes:
"You work for Four Eyes, do you? That means you'll be
around Medora for a while." He tried to flex the
injured hand; winced. "I'll see you again, punkin
lily. I'll see you" and settle up. Bank on
it."
He and his friends turned and walked past the two
anxious passengers and the station agent hiding behind them.
u
Finally, Will had a chance to study the two men who'd
come to his aid.
The first was about forty, very tall, with a heavy brown
beard and a taciturn face. He had wide
shoulders and a pronounced stoop, as though he was
continually bending to avoid doorways. His shirt and
shotgun chaps were plain, even drab in contrast to those
of the man who'd done all the talking.
Four Eyes was an absolute model of a cowboy.
He was a slender, medium-sized fellow with a fair
mustache. Somewhere in his late twenties, Will
guessed. He was turned out in a giant white
sombrero, scarlet silk neckerchief, spotless
buckskin shirt with ornamental beadwork and
long fringing, batwing chaps faced with glossy
sealskin, and alligator-hide boots adorned with
silver dress spurs. Two pearl-handled
revolvers jutted from tooled holsters. To complete
his outfit, he had a Winchester rifle cradled in
his right arm, and eyeglasses on a black ribbon that
dangled beside his nose.
"I saw you operate on that blackguard's hand," the
man said with a grin. "Smartly done, sir.
Smartly done."
Will relished the compliment. "Thank you."
"Obviously you are Will Kent."
"That's right."
The young man beamed, transferred the rifle to his
left hand and shot the right one forward. "I'm
Roosevelt. Delighted to meet you.
Absolutely delighted."
"Yes, sir. Same here."
Roosevelt's grip was incredibly strong. Will
wasn't the least put off by the rancher's glasses
or his high voice. The sun-browned young man gave
an impression of vigor, determination, and
principle so high, it was almost intimidating.
"Sorry we didn't arrive sooner,"
Roosevelt went on. "We might have
prevented that bit of nastiness." Other passengers were
getting off the train now; things were returning
to normal. "But you handled those bullies
splendidly. Showed plenty of sand, as they say out
here. Ah, but I'm neglecting the formalities-was
He gestured to the older man who was watching with a
friendly smile. "This is Mr. Bill Sewall.
Bill hails from Island Falls, Maine. He's
my foreman at the Elkhorn Ranch."
Sewall and Will shook hands. "We're pleased to have
you with us, Kent." He sounded sincere.
"I'm glad to be here," Will replied, meaning it.
"Wagon's down this way," Sewall said. He had
a distinct New England accent. He reached for the
handle of Will's valise. Will protested.
Roosevelt said:
"Might as well let him, Kent. It's the last
time you'll get that sort of service this summer."
They started down the platform. Roosevelt went
on. "Mustn't judge the citizens of the Bad Lands
by what just happened. Dakota people are grand. The
Maunders clan's the exception. Troublemakers, every
one of them. Jake Maunders has had a shady
reputation for years. His son Archie was a holy
terror and got himself killed sometime back.
Cletus, who's a second or third cousin, has
the worst temper of the lot. He imbibes freely
and, as you discovered, loses all restraint when he
does. His cronies, Sweeney and Chadburn, do
whatever he tells them. You'd be prudent to avoid
all three, but especially Maunders. Even man
to man, he wouldn't fight fairly,"
"111 take your advice, Mr. Roosevelt."
The euphoria produced by Roosevelt's
compliments was quickly wearing off. Will began calling
himself a fool for what he'd done.
To be sure, he'd gotten satisfaction from it.
More, perhaps, than he'd ever gotten from anything
except his brief conquest of Dolores Wertman.
But he'd also gained an enemy.
As he and Roosevelt and Sewall approached the
wagon standing at the end of the platform, Will studied the
sundrenched fronts of nearby buildings.
Maunders and his friends had disappeared. Yet Will had
an uneasy feeling that he was being watched.
THEY
""i
"Hasten Forward
Quickly
Therest"
HEADED SOUTH ALONG the
river Sewall referred to as the Little Misery.
Roosevelt said they would stay the night at the
Maltese Cross, the ranch in which he owned a
third interest.
Roosevelt was mounted on his favorite horse, a
high- spirited animal named Manitou. Will rode with
Sewall in the wagon, which was loaded with supplies
and mail picked up in town. Sewall said he'd be
taking Will up to the Elk- horn ranch while
Roosevelt went south to join the roundup already in
progress.
The Maltese Cross consisted of a
story-and-a-half log cabin with a shingle roof, and a
smaller dirt-roofed shack built stockade style
and used as a stable. Will would bunk there, Sewall
informed him.
Will said that would be fine, and carried his valise
inside. Several blankets had already been stacked
on the dirt floor. He'd have company while he
slept, he discovered. Three cow ponies snorted
and stamped in their stalls.
Outside, Roosevelt introduced him to the men who
owned the other two-thirds of the spread. They were a
pair of sunburned and likable
Canadians, Sylvanus Ferris and Bill
Merrifield. Ferris was in his late twenties,
Merrifield a few years older.
The job of showing Will around the place fell
to Ferris. The others went inside as Ferris led the
visitor past, the kitchen garden to the circular
horse corral with its snubbing post in the center.
Beyond the corral was a much larger one filled with lowing
cattle that had already been rounded up and tallied according
to their brands, Ferris explained.
"That about takes care of the real estate," he said with a
smile. "Hungry?"
"Starved," Will said. He was worn out from the journey
and the trouble at the depot. The tiredness began
to erode his new-found confidence.
They started back toward the main building. The air
was cool; the spring sun was almost down in the west.
At the horse corral, Ferris stopped and rested
one of his low- heeled boots on the bottom rail.
"In case the boss didn't tell you, you'll be
working in this kind of corral up at the Elkhorn.
Green hands always start out as wranglers. It's the
meanest, dirtiest job on a ranch. But it's also
very important, and fairly easy to learn. One of the
boys will show you the fundamentals. Then
they'll take you out on the roundup. By the way-was
He turned his back toward the ranch house. "Even
though most of the hands are a lot older than the boss,
nobody calls him Theodore. Or Teddy, either.
He hates Teddy. It's always Mr.
Roosevelt."
"I'll remember that. But if he's your partner, why
do you call him the boss?"
"Guess it just seems to fit. He's the smartest
one of the bunch." Ferris" tone grew wry. "And
you'll notice he has a way of taking charge."
Will smiled. "Yes, I noticed that already."
"One more thing. Occasionally, one of us drinks a wee
bit too much and calls him Old Four Eyes.
Wouldn't advise you to do it until you know him a little
better."
"I heard someone in town call him that."
"Maunders? Bill Sewall told me about your
run-in with him. Bet a dollar he. just said Four
Eyes."
Will looked puzzled. "What's the difference?"
"A mighty big one. When the boss first came out
here, he took a lot of ragging because of his voice and
his fancy clothes and his glasses. One day in town,
a drunk got pushy, and really took after
him. Kept calling him Four Eyes. The boss was
patient for as long as he could stand it, but pretty
soon he couldn't stand it any more. He put that
drunken bully on the ground with two punches. Ever
since, his friends have taken to calling him Old Four
Eyes. It's meant kindly, and I think he sort
of likes it. He's a hell of a fine fellow,"
Ferris concluded.
Bill Sewall appeared at the ranch house
door. Squinting
into the copper light of the sunset, he called, "Come
and get it!" Ferris clapped a hand on Will's
shoulder:
"You heard him. Hasten forward quickly there."
"What'd you say, Mr. Ferris?"
"Oh-was A chuckle. "That's another local
joke. Goes back to the first summer Mr.
Roosevelt was out here. He went on his first
roundup, and a couple of yearlings bolted. He thought
it was the start of a caret stampede. That's the most
dangerous thing any of us has got to contend with, a
stampede at roundup time. Anyway, the boss got
all excited and started waving his arms and hollering at
some riders who were coming his way. But instead of hollering
for help so any cowhand would understand, he
yelled, "Hasten forward quickly there!" It's the
same as Old Four Eyes-something folks say because
they like the boss and know he's got a sense of
humor. So hasten forward-to " Ferris hooked a
thumb toward the house. "You need to eat your fill,
every chance you get. Wrangling's hard work."
"I've ridden a lot, but I don't know a thing about
handling work horses. I hope I can do it."
Ferris gave him a swift, questioning look. His
smile was less cordial all at once:
"Let me give you one last piece of advice.
Like I said, the boss is a damn fine man. But
he can't stand anyone who's timid or unsure of
himself. If you got any doubts that you're big enough for the
job, don't let on to him. Now come on, let's
eat."

-
The evening meal was a hearty one-venison, beans,
fried potatoes, sourdough bread, and strong black
coffee. Roosevelt told Will how he'd met
Bill Sewall. When he was a student at
Harvard, he'd gone to Maine to hunt, and Sewall
had been his guide.
The young rancher spoke with zest and
enthusiasm. He' laughed frequently and made
abrupt verbal leaps from subject to subject, as
if he were interested in everything, and couldn't begin
to satisfy that interest in a normal lifetime. He
discoursed on the weather, the roundup, national
politics, the Marquis de Mores and his seamy
friends, a prairie fire which had recently destroyed
valuable grazing land,
the plummeting price of beef in Chicago, his
admiration of Tolstoy's novels, and the book he
planned to finish writing over the summer. It was a
life of Senator Thomas Hart Benton, for the
well-known American Statesman Series.
Even though Roosevelt talked and talked, Will
never got the impression that he insisted on dominating
the conversation. From time to time his partners broke in with a
comment or a story, and he listened attentively.
When he asked a question, his direct gaze made it
evident that he was vitally interested in the answer.
After the meal, Roosevelt drew Will off to a
corner of the main room. He offered the young man a
comfortable chair and took a rocker for himself. Full of
food and close to falling asleep, Will fought a
yawn as the rancher said:
"Well, sir-how do you feel about the Bad
Lands so far?"
"It's beautiful country, Mr. Roosevelt."
"Right you are. Hard country, too. But if a man
gives it everything he has, the country gives back
satisfaction in full measure. It's my plan
to start you out as a horse wrangler, by the way."
"Mr. Ferris mentioned that."
The flames of a wall lamp flashed off his
glasses. "Think you can handle the task?"
Ferris' advice instantly came to mind. Will hid
his true feelings:
"Yes."
Roosevelt slapped both hands on his knees.
"Delighted to hear it. Thought that's how you'd answer.
In ten days to two weeks, I'll stop at the
Elkhorn, pick you up and take you out to the roundup
with me."
"That sounds exciting, sir."
"It is, believe me. I suppose I ought to say
something about the rules at the ranch. I never ask
any more of a man than I'm willing to give myself.
And it isn't my style to be bossy. But I insist
on hard work, discipline, and regular habits. I
can't tolerate malingering, half-finished jobs or
hard luck stories. I demand complete
integrity, too. That's what any Westerner
expects of a man. I made my first business
agreement with Ferris and Merrifield sitting on a
log at Cannonball Creek. I handed them a
check for four218
teen thousand dollars and didn't want a receipt.
Their word and their handshakes were good."
Will nodded to signify that he understood. Roosevelt
went on:
"One other, absolutely crucial point. On a
ranch or a roundup, orders must be obeyed
instantly, without pause or question. A man's life
may be in the balance. Quick action may be the only
way to-save him. If you have questions, save them
until afterward." His sternness moderated. "I don't
expect you'll have any trouble. Provided you avoid
Mr. Maunders and the Medora saloons."
Despite his doubts, Will murmured agreement.
Then Roosevelt grinned that infectious grin and
added, "You may have trouble in one area. Getting enough
sleep. We work late and rise early. I'd
suggest you turn in."
Will climbed to his feet. "Gladly."
"Do you need a lamp to light the way?"
"No."
The promptness of the reply brought another pleased
look to Roosevelt's face. Will was thankful the
ranchman didn't follow him outside to see how
confused he became in the darkness. He really hadn't
paid much attention to the precise layout of the
Maltese Cross. He found the stable only
by following sounds and smells.
Good smells, he decided as he approached the little
building. Sweet hay and horseflesh mingling in the
clean, cold air. But he doubted he'd sleep
well on a hard dirt floor with cow ponies
fretting next to him all night long.
He spread the blankets, crawled between them and put
his head on his valise. He yawned. No pillow
had ever felt softer.
Surprisingly, it took him only a minute or so
to drift off. He was stiff when he woke. But he
couldn't remember ever having slept so soundly.
in
Roosevelt rode out before daylight. After
breakfast, Se- wall drove Will back
into Medora so he could spend some of his pocket money
for work clothes-blue denim pants, flannel
shirts, a sturdy pair of batwing chaps,
mule-ear
boots, and work spurs. Sewall's ranching
experience was useful when Will was tempted to choose
items more fancy than practical. The New
Englander did approve the purchase of an
expensive Montana-peak hat:
"You'll drink out of it, fan a fire with it, hide
from hailstones under it-so it pays to get a good one.
Next to a horse, a hat's a cowboy's most
important possession."
Will gathered up the purchases and prepared to pay for
them. Sewall tapped his arm.
"Want one of those?"
He was pointing to a dusty showcase containing several
revolvers-one SandW .45-caliber six-shot
model; four of the famous and dependable 1873
Colt Frontier .45 Peacemakers, one with a
silver-plate finish, an extra-cost option; and
one immaculate and expensive Buntline
Special, which was basically the Peacemaker with an
extra-long barrel and detachable rifle stock
added.
Will studied the weapons a moment. "Don't think so,
Mr. Sewall. I know how to shoot. My father
taught me when I was eleven. We used to drive
into the country west of Boston, find some
woods and plink away at bottles. But I
haven't fired a gun since then. I'm not anxious
to take it up again."
"Smart,"" Sewall said with a brief smile.
"Sometimes a gun's nothing but an invitation for some
drunken pup to pick a fight." Sewall wore
no side-arm, though while traveling from the ranch
to town, Will had noticed that he kept a rifle in the
wagon.
By noon they were headed north along the river in the
wagon. All day they traveled through wild,
spectacular country; a country of twisting
gullies, huge rocky outcrops, and looming
buttes. The only living creatures they saw were a
few mule deer, some trilling larks, and pickerel
and sunfish in a stream. Gnarled trees creaked in
a wind that grew steadily colder as the day
progressed.
High above, sunlight painted the summits of the
buttes. Down where the wagon rumbled along there was
only deepening blue shadow. It was late at night
before they reached the Elkhorh.
The ranch was twelve miles from the nearest human
habitation. It was situated on a low bluff near
the broad, shallow river. The place had
been named for a pair of wapiti skulls found on the
site. The two bull elk had ap220
parently gotten their horns locked during combat and
had never been able to pull them apart. They'd died that
way.
The main building, long and low, was constructed of
hewn logs. Its veranda faced the Little Missouri
and some intervening cottonwoods where mourning doves
cooed. As the wagon pulled in, Will heard an owl
hoot.
On the veranda he met Sewall's nephew
Wilmot Dow, another New England Yankee of
about the same age as Roosevelt. Together,
Sewall and Dow ran the ranch for their boss, Dow
told him. Will managed to murmur something. He was
numb from the cold. But he refused to let on.
Inside, he was introduced to two other residents
of the ranch about whom he'd heard nothing up till
now-the wives of the two men. Both Mrs. Sewall
and Mrs. Dow were visibly pregnant, and sleepy
from awaiting Sewall's arrival with the new hand. But
the women insisted Will have something to eat before he bedded
down in the stable. He didn't argue.
While he wolfed freshly warmed biscuits and
drank milk, he studied the interior of the
ranch house. It had some unusual features,
including three long shelves crowded with books. The
spines of a few of them bore the gold tea-bottle
colophon of Kent and Son, he was pleased to see.
There was also a rocking chair, and a large pan-like
object whose composition and function he didn't
immediately understand. Amused by Will's expression,
Sewall enlightened him: caret
"That's Mr. Roosevelt's bathtub. It's
rubber. Came all the way from Minneapolis. You
don't usually find such on a working ranch. But the
boss is a stickler for keeping clean."
"Wish some others would follow his example," Mrs.
Sewall said with a teasing smile.
Sewall's nephew Dow showed Will to quarters like those
he'd occupied the night before. Even before Dow wished
him good night and carried his lantern away, Will was
arranging blankets. He sank down on the hard
ground with a sigh of satisfaction, as if he were resting
in a plush hotel. After what seemed a very short
sleep, he was awakened by the prodding boot of a
sinister-looking fellow with bad teeth and a stubbled
chin:
"Rise an' shine, Kent, if that's your name."
221
He sat up, rubbing his frozen arms and yawning. It
was still pitch dark.
"What time is it? Feels like the middle of the
night."
"Just about," the man agreed. He gave off a strong
odor of horse. He wiped his nose with the sleeve
of a huge sheepskin-lined coat that made him look
even smaller than he was. The lantern in his hand
threw a grotesque shadow of his head-mostly big
ears and untrimmed hair-on the stable ceiling.
Will had never seen so many wrinkles on one human
face. He couldn't tell whether they'd been put
there by age, weather, misery, or all three. The
man went on:
"But I got half a dozen wild jugheads to bust
"fore noontime. Guess you're the one they give me
for a helper. Christ on the mount, the things a man's
reduced tp doin" to survive in this world. I got
to be a teacher-as if wrangling ain't bad enough.
Y'know these ranchers around here won't pay more'n
five bones for gentling a cow pony?"
"Bones-?"
"Dollars."
"Oh." He reached toward the nail on which he'd
hung his hat. The man studied
him
with an increasingly skeptical eye:
"Say, where you from, anyway?"
"Boston."
"Boston." A pause. "That anywhere near
Illinois?"
Will decided it would be foolish to antagonize a
man with whom he had to work. "It's in the same
general direction."
"I was in Chicago oncet. A year after the big
fire. Couldn't stand the goddamn crowds. Let me
ask you some- pin', Kent. You ever rode a wild
mustang before?"
"I've never even seen one."
The man gnawed his lip. Then:
"Ever handled a lariat?"
"No."
"Jesus on the road on Easter morning. May
my dear mother forgive my language. Might as
well tell me the worst. Are you a complete
dude?"
"I guess that's what you'd call it. But I'm here
to learn, Mister-was
"Tompkins. Christopher P. Tompkins. My
pals call me
Chris." His tone and expression suggested Will was not
so privileged.
The young man felt a flare of resentment, but he
struggled to remain friendly. Unconsciously, he
imitated Roosevelt's smile and greeting:
"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Tompkins."
"Wish I could say the same. Don't try
acttn' like the boss. There's only one of him,
thank the Lord. Human race ain't ready for two.
And get this. You ever tell Mr. Roosevelt you
heard me cussin', I'll rip your gizzard out with
my T8are hands. The boss and I don't see
eye to eye when it comes to profane language. I
say a wrangler's entitled to all he wants,
seem' as how his job's so dangerous. I "spect
you'll come to share my view pretty quick."
Despite Tompkins" irascibility, Will sensed
a good- humored streak in the man. Tompkins
snatched his lantern from the empty nail keg on which
he'd set it.
"Well, come on, Kent, come on. Hasten forward
quickly there! Let's see whether you can stay alive in
a horse corral long enough to learn a little something."
CHAPTER VI
Jhe
Horse Corral
THE NEXT WEEK HAD an unreal quality for
W.
To be sure, the days were essentially the same as all
days; darkness gave way to light, and light to darkness
again. But on the Elkhorn-especially if you worked
for the head wrangler-the rising and setting of the sun had
little impact on your routine. Will quickly began to think
of his existence as divided among three main
functions, and on

"still three. The first involved working in the corral, in
the midst of the dust and noise and sudden dangers that
accompanied the process of breaking wildTiorses
for the
Elkhorn herd. If not working, Will was eating. At
a single sitting, he was soon consuming enough beefsteak,
potatoes, beans, and coffee to equal three or
four full-sized meals. When not working or eating,
he was asleep, desperately trying to renew Ms
energy and rest the strained muscles that filled him with
pain from his boots to his neckerchief comand sometimes
higher.
The wild mustangs chosen for the cawy-the horse
herd-averaged seven hundred pounds and
twelve hands. What they lacked in weight and
height, they made up in orneriness. Tompkins
earned five dollars for each one he gentled-though
given the techniques he used, gentling was hardly
an appropriate term, Will thought. Literally,
Tompkins broke their spirits. His tools included
spurs, a quirt, a lariat, some lengths of
grass rope for cross hobbling, an old saddle and
bridle, and generous quantities of physical
strength, profanity, and nerve. The pay was low because
the wild, range-bred strays could never be sold for
more than thirty or forty dollars, even if
perfectly trained. But the work was important because,
on a roundup, there was a constant demand for horses that
were obedient and didn't spook too easily. Every
working cowboy needed not just one mount like that, but a whole
string.
All the Elkhorn mustangs had been rounded up
on the open range. A structure such as a
corral, which curtailed their freedom, was frightening
to them. Attempts to further limit that freedom
by means of riding gear brought instantaneous and
terrified rebellion. Bucking; biting; kicking.
In essence, Chris Tompkins" job consisted of
demonstrating to the mustangs that
rebellion-disobedience-brought an instantaneous
penalty in the form of pain.
He first taught the lesson with a bridle, slipped
on while the mustang was tied to the snubbing post.
Next, while cross hobbled, the animal received
saddleblanket and saddle. The first time Will helped
Tompkins sling a blanket, he didn't dodge
fast enough. The horse took a bite out of his
wrist.
Will leaped away. Tompkins quirted the animal
till blood showed on the leather. For a harrowing
moment, the whip reminded Will of Margaret. It took
effort to drive the memory out of his mind.
Mrs. Dow applied a bandage to Will's wrist Then
he went right back to work.
It took him a little while to get used to the noise in
the corral, to the sight of the lathered mustangs bucking
and kicking, their huge eyes glaring from within clouds of
tan dust. Soon, though, necessity taught him
to ignore the extraneous; to move swiftly, as
Tompkins did; and to keep alert.
Gradually, too, his concerns about mistreatment of the
horses were pushed to the back of his mind by the need to do
whatever was necessary to survive in the corral. It was
quickly evident that the horses would gladly
mistreat him, given half a chance.
Tompkins heaped scorn on Will for his clumsiness and
inexperience. On several occasions the younger man was
tempted to punch the wrangler, or just walk away from
the whole business. He didn't walk away because
he meant to succeed on the Elkhora. He didn't
hit Tompkins because he knew there was nothing
personal in the criticism. The wrangler would have
said the same thing to anyone he was teaching, Will
suspected. And contrary to what Tompkins did with the
horses, he wasn't out to teach Will by destroying his
capacity for anger. Just the reverse. Tompkins'
technique was to sneer and criticize until his
pupil was in such a rage, he'd have died rather than
fail again.
Sometimes the process seemed reminiscent of Will's
experience with his mother. There were significant
differences, though. He knew he deserved the
condemnation he was receiving. And if he occasionally did
something right, Tompkins never failed to mention that,
too.
ii
It was his seventh morning on the Elkhorn. Somewhere
in the preceding six, there'd been a Sabbath, but he
couldn't recall when. Tompkins observed
no religious holidays. Shortly after first light,
they put a saddle on a blaze- faced pony
Tompkins identified as a cross between a
mestena
comcowboys sometimes called a wild stray by the
Spanish name-and a Cavalry thoroughbred.
The horse clearly hated the saddle; began to pull
and roll its eyes and whinny in the cool air. At
this stage, Tompkins usually passed the bridle
to W. This morning he hung onto it.
"Pick up the quirt, W. Then get up on him
like I showed you."
"Me?"
"Jesus Christ walking on the water. You see
anybody else out here?"
"No, but I don't think-was
"I don't give a damn for what you
think.
Pick up the quirt and ride him. Mr.
Roosevelt's gonna be back here inside of
three days. He'll want to see you've made some
progress. If he don't, he'll find a new
wrangler. This job ain't as bad as some I've
had. I aim to keep it. Pick up the quirt."
Will wiped sweaty hands on his shirt. His
mouth was dry all at once. He leaned down for the
quirt, then sidled toward the mustang.
The horse turned its head and started to nip him. Will
dodged the wicked yellow teeth. He grabbed the
mustang's left ear and twisted.
Feeling the pain, the horse whinnied and shied. Will
hung on. The horse stood still.
Holding his breath, Will swung up. He could feel
the animal's pent-up fury beneath him. He
squeezed his legs together. Still holding the horse's
ear, he raised the quirt in his other hand. He let
go of the ear and snatched the bridle- Five seconds
later he was sitting on his rump in the dirt.
His back felt broken. Tompkins chased the
mustang, which had run off after throwing his rider. With
much cursing and quirting, Tompkins got the horse
under control. He brought him back to the center of the
corral, jerking savagely so the bit hurt.
Then, with great sarcasm, Tompkins said:
"Next time try to stay aboard long enough to give him
at least one whack of the quirt, huh, boy?"
Through clenched teeth, Will said, "Yes,
sir.
I'll surely try."
"You don't sound as if you like this much,
boy."
"No, sir. Not much."
The mustang looked wilder than ever. With steam
rising off its flanks and its rolling eyes full of
hate, it resembled some hell-born demon.
Tompkins spat and scratched his groin.
"Well, boy, then your choice is easy. Get
your ass in the
saddle an' keep it there or drag it back
to Boston or Ohio or wherever it is they raise
punkin lilies."
The last words stirred memories of the Medora
depot. Will's face, brown from a week's
exposure to sun and wind, wrenched into lines of
rage. "You son of a bitch-was
"What'd you say, boy? Don't mumble."
Will jerked his head up. "I said hold the son of a
bitch so I can mount."
The wrangler grinned. "Yessir, that's what I
thought you said. All set? Here we go."
This time Will stayed on long enough to apply the quirt
twice. When the mustang bucked him off, he fell
hard. A half-buried rock gashed his forehead.
Blood began to drip into his eyebrows.
He said he wanted to find something to tie
around his head. Tompkins apparently didn't hear:
-- "Get on him again."
Enraged, Will suddenly noticed Sewall and Dow
leaning on the corral fence, motionless figures against
the ruddy light in the east. On top of everything
else he had to have an audience!
"I said get on, Kent. We ain't got all
day."
Five more times he mounted and was thrown. On the sixth
try, without any warning whatsoever, the mustang gave
up and quit bucking.
Will almost couldn't believe it. He started to laugh and
whoop, half blinded by blood and half crazy with
pain. He heard Sewall call congratulations.
Dow applauded.
. He slid out of the saddle. His boots hit the
dirt with a thump. He weaved toward Tompkins,
grinning as broadly as the wrangler:
"I made it!"
"Damn if you didn't. I knew you would.
Hell-was He shrugged. "It was either that or perish."
Will untied his neckerchief and used it to swab blood
out of his eyebrows. Meantime, Tompkins fetched a
slicker that had been hanging on a rail of the
corral.
"We spent enough time on congratulations, boy." He
handed Will the slicker. "Get back up there an'
wave this
around. Haze him good, so he gets accustomed
to being* spooked. That way, he won't throw the
poor dumbbell who has to ride him in a
gully-washer, when it's thunderin' an' lightning to beat
hell-was
"Mr. Tompkins, you're a slave driver." But
he was still grinning. And despite the blood and pain,
he felt wonderful. Wonderful and proud.
"Just doin' my job, boy. Just doin' what I'm
grievously underpd to do."
Unsmiling, he stared at his young pupil for a moment.
"I
be
spose it's all right if you call me Chris now.
You're comin' along okay. I'm not gonna run you
off the spread. Well-not for at least the next day
or so."
iv
The wrangler was evidently lavish with his praise
when Roosevelt returned. The first thing the
Elkhorn's owner said to Will was, "Your friend
Tompkins says you have the makings of a
passable wrangler."
The term
friend
startled W. He hadn't quite thought about the profane
old bachelor that way before. To do so was gratifying.
"Well-was He bobbed his head in what he hoped was
a modest way. "That's nice to hear."
The words were restrained. But Will was happier than
he'd been in years.
CHAPTER VII
Ambition
NEXT EVENING, JUST AT sunset, Will walked
out on the ranch house veranda for some ah", Supper
had been unusually good. He was well fed and content.
The seat of Ids jeans pants sagged noticeably
as
he walked. Despite all he ate, he'd lost
several pounds. His muscles were firming up. too.
There was a pink patch on his nose where the skin had
darkened, then peeled away.
He discovered Roosevelt already outside, seated in
his favorite rocker, reading a letter. He murmured
that he'd be done in a moment.
Will sat down on the steps and began fooling with a
twig. Thrushes flitted in the
cottonwoods overlooking the river. Above the
treetops, a prairie falcon wheeled. The
sinking sun turned the slow-moving Little Missouri
brilliant orange. Out in the middle, a wild
steer was wandering on a sandbar. One of the hands would
probably rope the stray before dark.
Roosevelt finished the letter and dropped it into his
lap. He told Will the letter came from a young woman
named Edith; a childhood friend with whom he kept in
touch. From the way spots of color appeared
briefly in Roosevelt's already ruddy cheeks,
Will suspected there was more than friendship involved.
Roosevelt had been a widower for a couple of
years, after all.
The rancher's unforgettable smile returned.
"Been meaning for us to have a chat, W. I'm curious
to know your ambitions. What sort of future you
want."
Will's contentment vanished. "To tell the truth, sir,
I don't have any plans. Beyond going to Harvard,
I mean. I've been admitted for the fall term."
"I believe your father did write me to that effect.
Fine school, Harvard. I enjoyed myself there. My
principal activities were working on the literary
magazine and driving a dog cart all over
Cambridge." His smile grew rueful. "I was
a passable student, but a terrible snob. Sam
Gompers drummed that out of me."
"I've met Mr. Gompers. Sometimes my father
invites labor leaders to the house for dinner.
Sometimes he even invites important businessmen
on the same evening. Then the fur really flies."
Both of them smiled. Roosevelt said, "Your father
was a trade unionist for a time, as I recall."
"That's right. He tried to organize the Erie
railroad yards when he worked there after the war."
"I used to believe the union movement would bring this
country to ruin. I still refuse to tolerate the sort
of anarchy some trade unionists advocate. But
I also think the doctrine
of
laissez faire,
carried to its extreme, is equally repugnant.
Too many capitalists use
laissez faire
as, an excuse to gouge the public and exploit the
poor."
Settling into his rocker, he went on. "I
didn't hold these opinions four years ago.
During my first year in the New York
Assembly, I even voted against a bill to put a
reasonable limit on the number of hours per day that
a municipal streetcar company could demand from its
employees. I called the bill sheer
socialism, as I recall-was
He shook his head; chuckled with chagrin. "Well,
it's to be expected that young men will make mistakes.
They aren't notoriously intelligent. They merely
think they are."
The good-humored remark had a sting Roosevelt
couldn't have imagined. With time and distance to add
perspective, Will recalled some of his behavior at
home and saw it for what it was. Callow and
boorish.
"What changed your thinking about unions?" he asked.
"Acquaintance with Sam Gompers," Roosevelt
said promptly, starting to rock back and forth. "I'd
never met anyone like him-a Dutch Jew-a
cigar-maker and all that. At first, because of his union
affiliation, I distrusted him. I soon learned that was
wrong. Sam had plenty of lessons to teach a young
man who'd lived in New York City most of his
life but never really seen it. Sam took me into the
tenements. Showed me the sweat shops. Six, eight,
ten people-entire families-rolling cigars in
a one-room flat. Sweating fourteen, sixteen
hours a day just to earn a few pennies. We have
laws regulating most of the work performed in
factories. But no laws govern labor that's
sub-contracted to private individuals in their
homes. Factory owners find the situation most
advantageous. I learned this much from Sam. The
poor are usually too hungry and often too
ignorant to protect themselves. And some of the rich, if
permitted, will exploit those weaknesses without mercy."
"I've never been in the slums-was Will began.
"The tenements are beyond belief. Duty-lightless-
Sam and his associates are trying to do what they can.
Raise wages. Improve working conditions. But
progress is so slow! Our laws are so
antiquated-was
He began rocking faster, the chair's squeak growing
steadily louder.
"Do you know that until a few years ago, dogs had
more rights than children? A little girl of eight or nine,
beaten and nearly starved to death, was brought into New
York municipal court and legally declared an
animal, just so she could get assistance under the law
protecting mistreated dogs. Only then did
someone start*work on a new law
to protect abused youngsters."
Still rocking he sighed and smiled again. "I know I'm
the butt of a. great many jokes. I've been
accused of wanting to reform everything in creation between
sunrise and sunset of a single day. By godfrey
I'm not ashamed to plead guilty. There's so much
necessary, constructive work to be done."
He gazed out across the Little Missouri, a
contemplative expression settling on his face.
"And it's because of that single compelling fact that I can't
stay here the rest of my life. I love this ranch.
I love the West. But personal gratification
isn't life's highest goal. A man has
obligations -"
The words struck a familiar chord. Will had heard
Gideon express similar sentiments. When such
things were said by a father, they could be ignored. When he
heard them from a man he admired, he paid attention.
Roosevelt continued. "To be honest, I've started
to think about selling my interest in the two ranches.
Not solely for altruistic reasons, I confess.
I'd like to spend more tune with Edith."
His hand strayed to the letter in his lap. "Miss Carow
is a fine person. I'd like to show her the home
I've built at Sagamore Hill on
Long Island. Still, I sometimes wish I could stay out
here forever. I like the active life as much as my father
apparently detested it."
A strained note had come into Roosevelt's
voice. He added softly:
"My father paid for a substitute to take his place in
the war between the states. I have heard hints that he was not
a brave man. I loved him. But there are still
aspects of his character that-was
Abruptly, he shook his head. Will sat motionless,
aware that he'd been admitted to a very private
place. Had he inadvertently been given an
explanation for Roosevelt's almost fanatic
devotion to physical activity-and for the
value he placed on bravery? One of the ranch
hands had used the word reckless to describe the boss.
Was that recklessness a reaction to his father's lack of
courage?
Odors of yeast dough and woodsmoke tinged the air
now. Inside, Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow
laughed as they began the evening baking. Dow appeared
at one corner of the ranch house, mounted on a nag
called Old Mouse. With a wave, he rode toward
the sand bar in the fading light.
The wild steer saw him coming and bolted into the
shallows, kicking up a spray of sunlit water.
Horseman and quarry disappeared in a patch of
blue shadow alongside a bluff. Roosevelt's
familiar smile returned:
"I've rattled on about myself far too much. I
want to hear about you. You said you hadn't thought beyond
college -"
"That's right."
"Mmm, well-you're a bright lad. It would be a
pity if you wasted your brainpower. You're more
fortunate than most, you know. Your family's well
situated. You can do more than choose between different
methods of making a living. You can do almost anything you
wish, with no worries about earning your next meal.
People in that fortunate position have a responsibility
to serve others, it seems to me."
"So my father always says."
"That's one reason I took to him the first time we
met. I know what the Kents stand for-and he's a
Kent through and through." He thought for a moment. "Perhaps
you'll gravitate to government, the way I did."
"Politics doesn't appeal to me very much. Nor
do any of the other fields my father's suggested.
"What are those?"
"The law. Journalism-was
"I'm fond of writing. I'll never be a
professional, but I can hold my own in the
amateur ranks."
"I read your latest book before I came out here.
I enjoyed it."
"Delighted to hear that.
Hunting Trips of a Ranchman
was well received. Publishers are a peculiar lot,
though. They want an author to participate in all
sorts of bizarre stunts in the name of publicity.
My publisher insisted I have my photograph
taken in a buckskin hunting suit-was
Stiffly, he posed with an imaginary rifle. "Do
I look like an authentic Westerner?"
"Absolutely,"
Roosevelt grinned. "Then I continue to be in the
minority. I thought I looked like an idiot."
He dropped the pose and relaxed again. "As to the
legal profession, I share your aversion. After
Harvard, I enrolled at Columbia law
school. Couldn't finish. Too musty and stale, the
whole business. I like to be in the middle of the action.
In the arena, so to speak. Besides, these days the legal
profession is a disgrace. Lawyers use their knowledge
to evade justice for their clients more often
than to promote it."
Silence then. In that sunlit moment, while the two
of them sat on the Elkhorn porch in the dying light
of a long day, Will found Roosevelt's whole
approach to Me intensely appealing.
He leaned back against the post at the side of the
steps and gazed at the river. Far away to the south,
he heard splashing as Dow hallooed the steer through the
shallows.
"Like you, Mr. Roosevelt, I think I could
spend the rest of my life here."
"If you tried to make a living from ranching, you'd
lose your shut. I'm going to urge my partners
to get out, just as I plan to do."
"Why's that, sir?"
"The Dakota cattle trade is in a precarious
state. That arrogant peacock de Mores strung
his refrigerator plants and abatoirs from hell
to Bismarck, but he didn't trouble to learn the
realities of the business. People back East simply
don't like the grass fed beef we're forced to raise
here. It's too stringy. The market wants beef
that's been fattened on corn. On top of that, the
first time widespread fires or severe winter
storms do excessive damage to what little
grass we have, the local cattle industry will go
belly up. Ranching in Dakota may be
pleasant, but it's no way to get rich."
"Well, whatever I do, I want to be well off.
Not from inherited money. From money I make myself."
Roosevelt stopped rocking and gave him a sharp
look:
"If that's how you feel, let me suggest you
decide one thing right now. Which do you consider more
important? Principles or personal wealth?
The answer to that,
and nothing else, determines the course of a man's
life. Not to mention the worth of it."
Frowning, Will asked, "You mean it's impossible to have
principles and be rich?"
The rocking chair remained motionless. "Not at all.
But it
is
nearly impossible to keep the two in perfect
balance. The odds are reduced every time you take a stand
on an issue of substance. Ask your father. Did
he prosper while trying to organize the Erie
yards?"
"No, he almost starved. He was nearly killed,
too."
"You see? Life constantly presents you with
choices. Besides that, it's capricious. Just when you
think you're secure, you're dealt a blow you never
expected. Sometimes that too forces a choice. And the
easiest choice is seldom the best one. If you
decide when you're young that come what may, you will always
favor principle above profit, life takes an
altogether different direction. A better one, in my
view. Better for you and ultimately better for your
fellow
man."
The sermonizing angered W. Politeness kept him
silent, but the mood of a few moments earlier was
spoiled. He stood up. Roosevelt could tell
something was wrong..
"Off to bed?" he asked.
"Soon," Will nodded. "Tomorrow will be another busy
day."
"That's the only land we have out here. I didn't mean
to be unduly blunt with you."
"I'm glad to know your opinions, Mr.
Roosevelt."
"But you don't share them."
"I didn't say that, sir."
"Not in words-was
"Goodnight, Mr. Roosevelt."
"Goodnight, W."
Will walked out of sight around the corner of the ranch
house. Ten minutes later, he was headed north
along the river bank. He walked fast, kicking
dirt and grumbling an occasional curse. He
didn't like the choice with which the young ranchman had
confronted him. He didn't like it, and he couldn't
push it out of his mind.
Uneasily, he wondered if he was upset because
Roosevelt's statements were in direct conflict
with the promise to Carter. There was no doubt about the
kind of choice Carter would make in a crisis.
Will vowed he'd never permit himself to be pushed that far.
Henceforward, every decision would be made so as
to protect him from the necessity of such a choice.
Much as he admired the young ranchman, he believed
Roosevelt was wrong. You could grow rich and at the
same time live a decent, honorable life. The
trick was to avoid crusades and lost causes;
something Roosevelt-and Will's father comclearly refused
to do.
Let Theodore Roosevelt be a conscience for
someone else. He'd do things his own way.
And keep the promise to Carter in the
bargain.
if
"Come on, boy, wake up. Wake up!"
"Chris? Is that you-?"
"It ain't the risen Lord."
"It can't be morning already."
"No, it's only ha' past three."
"Good God." Yawning and groaning, Will sat up.
"Sssh!"
Tompins put a finger to his lips. "Watch that
cussin'. The boss is right outside. Frettin' like
a bull pup in heat, too. He's anxious to be
away. Been up half an hour."
All at once Will recalled what day it was. His
resentment faded.
He reached for his pants, pulling them over his long
flannel underwear. The night air was frigid.
Tompkins' lantern provided no discernible warmth.
Will's breath plumed in the night air as he
dressed. "Almost ready." He fastened his chaps on
and reached for his hat. Outside the stable, he heard the
creak and jingle of a saddle and gear. Manitou
snorted. Roosevelt said something to Bill
Sewall, who answered in a sleepy voice.
Roosevelt's laugh boomed as another
horseman arrived. All three men laughed and
talked excitedly.
After the conversation on the veranda, Will and Roosevelt
had continued to treat one another politely. But some
of the friendliness had faded from their relationship. Now Will
put the disagreement at the back of his mind and let
himself share the excitement of the day. Before sunrise, the
Elkhorn men would be on their way to the roundup.
Night Thunder
AFTER AN OVERNIGHT STOP at the Maltese
Cross, the men from the Elkhorn pushed south again.
They reached the roundup at noon on their second day
of travel.
x
The June sky was cloudless, the air warm but not
hot. Yet Will was soaked in sweat, and layered with
dust that turned to mud in the creases of his
were
skin. He was tired, too. Even Tompkins
admitted to being worn out from pushing the cawy of
twenty-four horses so far so quickly. Luckily
Will had ridden the whole way on a gentle,
dependable mount, a little gray cow pony he called
Boston.
He forgot his tiredness and discomfort as he
gazed at the panorama of the roundup camp.
Cowboys who had ridden the long circle all
morning were coming in, driving strays and newborns
ahead of them. Other hands were already at the chuck
wagon, eating their noon meal in the midst of dust,
smoke from branding fires, and a continual din created
by profane men, high-spirited horses, angry steers,
and forlorn cows bawling for their lost calves. It was
a thrilling sight; Will could hardly get enough of it.
All the ranches taking part in the roundup contributed
men to the work force. The cowboys, in turn, elected
a foreman-in this case a well-respected man
named John Goodall. The Elkhorn was
supplying three experienced hands: Roosevelt;
SewalFs nephew Dow; and Chris Tomp- --
kins, who preferred working on the range to busting
horses, but did the latter because his skill was in
demand.
A few minutes after Will and the others arrived, they
located the day wrangler, who would tally the
Elkhorn's contribution to the roundup cawy: six
newly broken mustangs for each of the three men
riding for the ranch, plus
six more ponies available for use by any of the trio,
as needed. This last half-dozen consisted of
cow ponies trained for the more difficult work of cutting
and roping.
The day wrangler was a muscular, friendly man with
skin the color of black coffee. He introduced
himself as Robert Beaufort; the first syllable of his last
name rhymed with dew. "Most folks call me
Bob," he said.
When the wrangler met Will, who would be helping him,
he shook Will's hand and said with a grave smile,
"You're in, plenty of time for hard work, but you
missed all the fun." He was referring to the
festivities that took place at the start of a
roundup. The cowboys from the various ranches gathered
a day or so early for horse racing, shooting
contests, bareback riding, mock trials, marathon
gambling, and just plain socializing.
The black cowboy spoke to Roosevelt. "We just
pulled in. The main cawy's on the way. If
you'll keep your horses close by for a few
minutes, we'll get the afternoon corral up. You can
help me string it, Kent. You know how, don't you?"
Will glanced at Roosevelt. Luckily the
ranchman was saying something to Wilmot Dow. Will
shook his head. To which Bob Beaufort replied:
"You will soon. Follow me. And shake a
leg."
Long, heavy ropes were quickly tied to the rear wheels
of the wrangler's wagon. The ropes were laid out in
the dirt to form a large circle. Jumping to obey
Beaufort's orders, Will scrambled into the wagon and
located half a dozen strong, well-worn tree
limbs, each about three feet long. They had been
cut to preserve a natural fork.
Beaufort showed Will how to set each limb vertically so
the fork supported the rope, and how to brace the
limbs in the ground. Then the cowboy untied the end
of a rope attached to one of the wagon wheels and handed
the rope to Will:
"This is your gate. Swing "er open. Jump to it!
Here comes the night man with the herd."
Will had been too busy to pay much heed to a rumbling
behind him. Now he turned, and his jaw dropped. A
yelling rider was barely visible in a cloud of dust
billowing behind sixty or seventy ponies. The four
leaders of the horse herd were within a dozen yards of
Will, and coming lickety-split.
He ran to the right, carrying the rope and thus opening the
gate-the side of the corral nearest the horses
Beaufort, meantime, started uncoiling a second
rope to be strung below the first. He tossed
the end of that rone to Will, who had to leap for it, his left
hand outstretched. He stumbled.
Down he went, tangled in rope. From the ground he
had a distorted view of manes streaming, hooves
pounding, white eyes rolling. Then he himself rolled,
frantically churning the dust. He escaped the
trampling hoofs of the first horses with only inches
to spare.
As he lay on his belly, blinking and coughing in the
dust, he realized something had nicked his forehead as
he rolled to safety. A hoof, most likely.
He touched the site of the nick. No blood. But the
narrowness of his escape hit home, and his heart
began to thump.
He scrambled up and ran to help Beaufort, who was
attempting to close and re-tie the gate rope Will
had dropped. The mounted wrangler who'd come in with the
horses was driving them into a circle within the
enclosure while loudly cursing them, Will, and the
situation in general.
The black wrangler moved fast and expertly. He
kept his eye on the rope he was swiftly re-tying
to the wagon, saying to Will at the same time:
"You in one piece?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry I dropped
that rope."
"No harm done this time. You're the one who almost got
the worst of it."
Beaufort straightened up and wiped calloused palms
on his jeans. Twisting his bandana up to his jaw,
he mopped perspiration from his face. "Five
seconds more and you wouldn't have been alive
to apologize."
With a shiver, Will nodded. Cowboys were starting to emerge
from the chuck wagon to pick their horses for the afternoon's
work. Beaufort climbed under the top rope, which was now
strung taut to form the perimeter of the large circular
corral. The horses were milling and, to Will's
surprise, staying inside the enclosure. Beaufort
picked up the second rope and began to loop it
around the tree limbs. As Will moved to help him, the
black wrangler closed the conversation in terse
fashion:
"Just don't make the same mistake again. We
need more help 'round here, not less."

It seemed to Will that never again would he be allowed
to sleep past sunrise. In fact, the hour for
rising seemed to get steadily earlier. On his
second day at the roundup, he was wakened
in the dark by the cook's hoarse cry:
"Get up, get up an" greet the little birds
an' other signs and symbols of the Good Lord's
handiwork!"
He asked the time of Bob Beaufort, who was just
climbing out of his wagon. Will had slept on the
ground beneath.
Beaufort tugged out his pocket watch. "Quarter
to three."
It was freezing cold. Will pulled his top blanket
off the lower one and rolled them together. He was about
to complain about the early hour when he spied
Roosevelt at a nearby fire. With the aid of a
scrap of mirror and a tin cup of water, the
Elkhorn's owner was shaving.
Beaufort noticed Will watching, and chuckled:
"He's just about the only man in the crew who shaves
and uses a toothbrush."
Will didn't have a toothbrush, so he had to settle
for a leafy twig. For a toilet, there was a bush
to step behind. Beaufort gave him ten minutes
to prepare for the day. Then they began stringing the morning
corral. Since the roundup was constantly on the
move, the corral had to be put up and taken down
twice a day.
Soon the night wrangler and another young hand brought
in the cavvy. The two men had stood guard as the
animals grazed and rested during the last four
hours. Before that, Will and Beaufort had taken their turn
on watch.
The night wrangler and his helper saw the horses
safely inside the corral, then went off for their
breakfast. After eating, both would sleep a while,
then help bring the wagon and the cavvy forward to the
noon campsite.
The roundup proceeded along a route which had been
agreed upon ahead of time. Every morning a line was
mapped out, along which the chuck wagon and horse herd
would travel until midday. The riders, meantime,
fanned out through the countryside on either side of the
line,
scouring every creek bed and hidden gulch for strays and
newborn calves. The methodical search was
called covering the dog. About noon the cowboys
circled back toward the rendezvous point, herding the
animals they'd found.
While the cowboys rode the long circle during the
mornings, Will helped Beaufort and the other wranglers
drive the cawy forward. The horses raised great
clouds of dust, and he soon learned
to keep his water-soaked bandana tied tightly over
his nose and mouth. Little more than his griray
eyesockets showed beneath his hatbrim.
He noticed that Roosevelt rode the long
circle, wrestled calves to the ground at the branding
fire, and took his turn standing night guard over the
growing herd. But he never slung a rope or
attempted to cut a cow from the herd for branding. One
noontime he asked Chris Tompkins about this.
Tompkins told him Roosevelt knew his
limits-the ones imposed by bad eyesight:
"He don't like "em, but he lives with 'em.
Does a right smart job of it, too. First time he
come out on the roundup, a lot of the boys snickered and
called him a damn dude. They don't no more."
In the afternoons, Will usually had some time to watch the
activity at the branding fires. There the air
rapidly clogged with smoke and the stench of seared hair
and hide. The first time he observed the afternoon routine,
Bob Beaufort was with him. The black man took
notice of the calm way Will studied the contents of the
work bucket next to the tallyman-the cowhand who kept
the official count of the recovered strays, a list of
their brands, and notes on the disposition of all
unbranded calves and mavericks. In
addition to the tallyman's work sheets, an informal
second count was-provided by the contents of the
bucket. There was one bucket at each fire.
Into it went a bit of ear from every branded animal, and
bloody scrotums cut from the steers with metal
loppers.
"Doesn't it make you sick to look at that
stuff?" Beaufort asked, and his lips tightened in
queasiness.
"Not particularly," Will said. "I've never been
bothered by the sight of blood. Guess a lot of people
are, though."
A cowboy grunted and snapped the loppers shut.
The castrated steer howled. Beaufort pressed his
fingertips to his mouth for a few seconds. "Yes,
indeed. First time they spy what's in one of those
buckets, most new hands puke up a
stream big as a geyser. Ever thought about being a
sawbones?"-
"A doctor?" Will shook his head.
"Well, it certainly appears you've got the
stomach for it, if nothing else."

Toward the end of each afternoon, the chuck wagon and the
cawy once again moved forward to the site
chosen for the night camp. There, after nearly sixteen
hours of work, Will could finally eat a solid meal and
spend an hour talking to the black wrangler before
exhaustion, their bedrolls, and then more guard duty
claimed them.
Bob Beaufort was older than he looked. He'd
been sixteen when horsemen in Union blue
galloped up the lane of his owner's South Carolina
rice plantation. The horsemen of Old
Linkum-come to set him free:
"They came too late for my papa, Robert
Senior. He died six months before Old Gray
Fox Lee surrendered. All at once I had
my liberty and no family left to share it with-was
Beaufort's owner had been a relatively
benevolent one. He'd permitted a few of his best
house slaves to learn to read, write, and cipher.
In long night sessions before his death, Robert
Senior had re-taught each lesson to his only
son. Neither of them knew where young Bob's mother was.
Eight years before the war, the fluctuations of a
dwindling rice economy had made it necessary for the
master to sell her off:
"No matter what else the master did for my daddy
and me, it never made up for that. I hated
him and I prayed he'd burn in hell when he
died."
Lonely but hopeful, Beaufort had gone North right
after the war. He'd had no last name, so he'd
picked one he liked-the name of a small but
fashionable seacoast town in the Carolina low country
near the plantation.
The industrial North had proved a mighty
disappointment to Robert Beaufort, freed man.
He'd spent eight months tramping the streets of
Pittsburgh, finding no work and sometimes sleeping in
snowy alleys. On three occasions he'd been
beaten by gangs of white steelworkers who
resented all the blacks pouring in from the South in
search of jobs.
The experience convinced Beaufort he wanted no part
of the North. But what could he do? It was his ability
to read that led to the answer. In a discarded newspaper
he chanced upon an article about the rapid postwar
development taking place in the Western "beef
cattle industry. War-ravaged Texas was pulling
itself up by its bootstraps.
He'd traveled all the way to Texas on foot,
with only determination and his wits to help him make the
journey. The effort had been worth it.
After a number of setbacks, he'd gotten a
ranch job and settled down to learn cow, as the saying
went. Eventually he'd worked his way north
to Kansas with a trail drive, and pushed on alone
to the Dakota Territory. He meant to spend the
rest of his days as a cowboy:
"Can't think of a finer existence. 'Specially for a
man of my color. That's why you see quite a few
black cowboys. I wouldn't say they love
nigras out West. But most white men leave you
alone if you pull your weight." With a teasing
smile, he added, "Why, sometimes they even break
down and act friendly for as long as five or ten
minutes. Only time I don't like being a cowboy-was
Slowly he raised his right hand toward his neck.
"comis when it gets this warm-was
Smack.
He studied a smudge on his fingertips. "My
Lord, the skeeters look big this year."
The weather had turned sultry during the day. A
south wind blew intermittently. Will started to wrap
himself up in his tarp-which was like consigning himself to an oven,
but was the only decent protection against the attacks
of the mosquitoes.
Suddenly he felt the wind begin to change.
He looked at Beaufort. Firelight glinted in the
cowboy's eyes as he turned his head and gazed into the
northwest. He watched a moment. Then:
"I saw lightning, W."
"Storm coming?"
"I think so."
Neither of them needed to say more. Will lay down and shut
his eyes, but tension kept him awake. Soon he
could
hear Beaufort's shallow breathing up in the wagon.
He was awake too.
After a while, Will heard a rumble of thunder. A
silver flickering filled the northwest quadrant
of the sky. Beaufort jumped down from the tailgate of the
wagon:
"I'm going to saddle my pony. Yours, too."
"I'll help."
"No need for two of us to get up. Stay put."
He vanished in the dark. Will's mouth grew dry.
His stomach began to hurt. He knew stampedes were
dreaded above all else. He also knew that if one
started, every man had to be in the saddle to help stop
it.
He lay rigid, listening as Beaufort saddled his own
horse, then Boston. Far out in the
darkness, beyond the campfires beginning to stream sparks
in the rising wind, a man started to sing.
It was a wordless, nearly tuneless song. More of a
chant than anything else. A second singer began
somewhere else, with a little more melody.
"Are those the night herders?" Will whispered as
Beaufort returned.
"Yes, indeed. When they start Texas
lullabies, you know they're getting worried."
Will rolled on his belly. A third man began
singing to the cattle, trying to distract and soothe them.
A fourth voice joined the others. Will saw men
damping the blowing fires. The last thing anyone
wanted now was a sudden eruption of flame in the
prairie grass.
Behind a low "sentinel butte in the northwest,
another white glare lit the sky. Will held his
breath. There was thunder, but muffled. After it died
away, you could almost hear the silence; an eerie,
oppressive kind of silence in which the only sounds were
the herders" voices. The herders matched their
chants to the slow rhythm of their walking ponies.
Dust blew against Will's cheek. He started to speak
to Beaufort again, but there wa caret so a new burst of
lightning followed by a deafening roll of
thunder. Oddly, the thunder didn't die away as it had
before. It continued. Will heard rather than saw Beaufort
grab his hat and scramble to his feet. All at
once Will realized the thunder wasn't coming from the sky.
The earth beean to vibrate. "They're up,"
Beaufort said in a hoarse voice.
"Move!"
The thunder of running cattle grew louder,
interrupted all at once by a cow's bellow. Then
another. A night herder yelled the warning that was already
unnecessary:
"Stampede!
Stampeeeede!"
iv
The sky roared and the ground shook. Lightning flashed
almost continuously as the storm came scything out of the
northwest at incredible speed, whirling the grass
all around Will's galloping pony. He and Beaufort
were part of a group of riders racing along the left
flank of the charging herd-two or three hundred
animals strung out over a distance of a half mile.
The herd was stampeding south, along a dry, shallow
watercourse. Once the stampede was on. the night
herders had immediately ridden to the left side of the herd.
Will and the other men had fallen in behind. Now,
up ahead, cowboys began firing their revolvers
into the air. As they shot, they hallooed and edged their
racing ponies toward the leaders of the stampede, hoping
to turn them to the right and keep turning them, until the
leaders were into a spiral that would wind in upon itself and
thus spend the stampede's force.
But turning the leaders was no easy trick.
Especially when the cattle were aware of the men riding
alongside. The presence of the cowboys only
heightened the animals' fear and fury. Long
horns shiny with lightning, a big steer came lunging
out of the herd at Will and his pony.
One horn pricked Boston's right haunch. The
pony leaped. Had the watercourse not been fairly
level, horse and rider might have fallen. But
Boston came down with a jolt, and barely broke
stride.
The charging steer had already turned away and been
absorbed back into the herd. Will tore his hat off,
slapped it against his right leg, and yelled himself
hoarse. Boston was moving so fast, he could only
trust to the pony's instincts and hope they didn't
chance onto some unexpected gully or unseen
animal burrow. He kept yelling. Ahead,
spurts of flame showed in the darkness. The
gunfire was continuing. But the herd refused to turn.
Lightning again.
Thunder.
More lightning-
Will felt as though he were aboard a train hurtling out
of control. In the next flash of lightning, he saw
a cowboy lying on the ground ahead of him. The
man's pony had broken a leg and was sprawled on
its side, bellowing. The man's leg was pinned beneath
the animal. Will reined Boston to the left to avoid
a collision.
Before the lightning faded, the man saw Will coming and
redoubled his efforts to pull his leg free. Thunder
pealed. Will and Boston bore down on the cowboy at
incredible speed.
Boston wasn't a cutting horse. Will had to rein
him very sharply to signal that the fallen rider was the
object of his attention. Once the little pony
understood, he dug in his front hooves so
suddenly, he nearly pitched his rider off.
Will clung to the saddle and mane as Boston rocked
to a stop, stiff-legged. He shot his right hand down,
shouting over the bellow of the injured horse:
"Grab hold and pull yourself up!"
The other cowhand freed his leg at last. But
all the commotion attracted some of the charging cattle.
Two steers and six or seven big cows left the
main body of the herd, lumbering straight at Will and the
man he was attempting to help.
Will leaned down further, his hat falling off and
getting lost. He touched the man's fingers. Boston
was shying away from the charging cattle, making contact
difficult.
"Hurry up!"
Will shouted. "Grab on!"
The man seized his arm as if it were a tree limb.
For a moment Will's back felt as though it might
break. But he stayed in the saddle.
He jerked his right leg back to permit the fallen
man to use the stirrup. With a grateful cry, the
cowboy swung up behind him. Will yanked the rein to the
left, to get them out of the way of the cattle bearing
down on them.
Boston answered the rein and spurs, and bolted.
They'd have made it safely away but for one of those
burrows Will had fretted about. The pony's left
foot went straight down
into the hole. Bone snapped. With a shriek of pain,
Boston fell, spilling both the cowboy and his
rescuer directly into the path of the charging
animals.
CHAPTER IX
backslash
Tfic Victim
WILL LANDED ON HIS side and took a severe
jolt-perhaps the only thing that saved him.
The pain goaded him to his feet. Without a conscious
thought, he twisted his hands in the fallen cowboy's
collar. The man Was stunned; groaning. Will
groaned too, from exertion, as he pulled.
Fortunately the cowboy wasn't too heavy. And
there was desperate strength in Will Kent at that moment.
The snorting steers were only fifteen or twenty
feet away, coming fast.
He dragged the cowhand one more yard, dropped him and
jumped in front of him, waving his arms and yelling
at the top of his lungs.
On came the lead steer, head dipping, horns
glinting as lightning streaked down the sky. Will's
insides turned to water. But he stood his ground,
shouting himself raw in the throat and waving his arms like a
madman-
At the last instant, the steer veered away from the
noise and motion.
Once the leader changed direction, the other
animals followed. In seconds, Will and the other
cowboy were safe.
As he knelt beside the man he'd rescued, he
began to tremble from the shock of what had just happened.
The other cowhand was a towhead not much older than Will
himself. He came back to his senses slowly-a
blessing, since it took Will a minute or so to get
himself under control.
It wasn't easy. Aeafew feet away, poor
Boston was
thrashing and screaming, a goner. The cowhand's pony was
no better off.
The wind dried some of the sweat on Will's face. In
the northwest, the horizon had disappeared in pouring
rain. Pushing his hair off his forehead, he peered through
a sudden puff of dust. Unless the lightning was
tricking him, the leaders of the stampede had swung to the
right. The forward momentum was slowing. If that was true,
the danger was over. Once the leaders began milling,
herd instinct would end the stampede just as herd instinct
had begun it.
The injured horses kept bellowing. Will had never
heard such cries of pain.
Something cold jabbed against his palm. Lightning
reflected on metal. The groggy cowboy
was trying to press his Colt into Will's hand:
"Use it, for God's sake," the cowboy gasped.
"Don't let the poor things suffer that way."
With a stricken look, Will staggered to his feet. He
tried to tell himself it was an act of mercy, not an
act of murder. He stumbled to the cowboy's horse;
waited for a thunderclap so he wouldn't spook the herd
again. While the lightning flickered out, he raised the
Colt with both hands-
The thunder muffled the sound of the shot, but not the pony's
scream. As the animal went into its final
agonies, he bit down on his lower lip and turned
toward Boston.
The pony held his head still a moment. He seemed
to be looking at Will with his left eye-

can't do it.
Boston slammed his head against the earth, bellowing.
And Will knew he could and would do anything to prevent an
animal, or a human being, from enduring that kind of
terrible pain.
Tears running down his face, he killed Boston
with a single shot.

The other cowhand mumbled half-coherent words
of thanks. Will asked the cowhand his name. Frank
Hixson, the young man said. He'd twisted his leg
when he fell and
was unable to walk. Will had to lift him, prop him
up, and carry him back to the night camp.
By the time he reached it, the rain arrived. He barely
had time to slide Hixson under the wrangler's
wagon before the rain poured out of lightning-lit
clouds, soaking him. All the fires were instantly
drowned. Soon the area was swimming in a foul
smoke. Out of the smoke a bedraggled Bob Beaufort
came riding.
Will was on his knees in the mud next to the wagon,
watching over the groggy Hixson. "Got a man
hurt here, Bob," he called as the tired cowboy
dismounted.
Beaufort limped toward him through the downpour. "We
got more than one, W. I heard one of the boys was
really torn up when his pony took a tumble."
"Do you know who it is?"
Beaufort shook his head. "What happened to you?"
"Same thing. My pony fell. So did his.
Had to shoot both of "em."
"comsaved me-I'd've been killed," Frank
Hixson was muttering. Beaufort knelt
next to Will, resting a forearm on the wagon wheel.
Little waterfalls of rain water poured off the hub and
spokes. Beaufort bobbed his head at the half-
conscious cowboy:
"Does he mean you?"
"com
saved me, he surely did."
Will shrugged. "I just pulled him out of the way of some
beeves that were chasing him. I did it mainly because they
were chasing me too."
But it was one time I didn't bungle.
"Umm." Beaufort studied Hixson for a moment
longer. "Maybe we can find some help for this
fellow."
Will knuckled rain from his eyes. Exhaustion and
shock were beginning to make him tremble again. He fought
the shuddering.
"I didn't know there were any doctors in these
parts," he said.
Beaufort laughed wearily. "There aren't. The only
sawbones within miles of here is Doc Stickney in
Dickinson, and he isn't home but three or four
nights a month. Someone told me he has
patients strung out across a territory as big as
all the New England states put together.
We have to rely on somebody with a lot less book
learning than Stickney."
"Who are you talking about?"
"Ever seen that lanky cowhand with the black sugarloaf
hat?"
Will had seen a lot of cowboys at the roundup; it
took him a while to remember this one. He finally
did:
"The one who looks like an Indian?"
"That's right. He's one quarter Cherokee. He
works for Murtry of the Slash Bar. When Murtry
can keep him sober. Name's Lon Adam. Doc
Adam, some call him, though he's got neither
license nor formal education. All he's got is
a flannel bag full of dried-out plants, and
plenty of experience. They say he's a good cowboy
when he isn't drunk. I expect they've got
him working on that man who's hurt bad. You might
hunt around till you find him, and ask him to come by when
he has a chance."
"Lon Adam," Will said, to fix the name in mind.
He found a dry shirt, donned a slicker from the
wagon and set off through the rain.
in
It took him twenty minutes to locate the
man he wanted. Lon Adam was working beside a
newly kindled fire that generated more smoke than
light. He'd supplemented the fire with a lantern,
and was busy bandaging a cowhand's swollen ankle.
Lon Adam struck Will as a nondescript man
except for his immense black hat, his huge sharp
nose, and his hands. Despite weather-roughened skin and
calloused palms, they moved with the grace of a
woman's.
Will watched a moment or so, then he approached and
asked whether he'd located Mr. Lon Adam.
Adam nodded, a trickle of rainwater falling off
the front of his hatbrim. "What do you want?"
Will told him.
"I'll come as soon as I finish here. This appears
to be our worst casualty so far-was
"No, Mr. Adam. I'm afraid we have a much
more serious one."
At the sound of the familiar high-pitched voice, Will
spun around. Roosevelt walked into the dim
circle of the firelight. His eyeglasses were
canted on his nose, the lenses
fogged with condensation. Raindrops gleamed on his
cheeks. Almost like tears, Will thought.
Roosevelt gestured behind him in an
uncharacteristically vague way. "It's my man
Tompkins-was
"Oh my God," Will whispered. Was he the one
Bob Beaufort had talked about?
Roosevelt confirmed it:
"His horse went down near our campsite.
I've ordered that he not be moved. I fear his
back's broken."
CHAPTER X
Old Doc Death
QUICKLY, LON ADAM TIED a knot in the
flannel strip with which he'd wrapped the cowhand's
ankle. He gave the bandage a pat, then stood
up. At his left hip hung a bulging bag made
of worn material that had once been bright with madder
dye. The bag was tied to his belt by a piece of
frayed rope.
"Let's look at him," Adam said
to Roosevelt. "You have whiskey?"
"I don't think it would be advisable for you to drink
any-was
"Not for me, Roosevelt." The man's dark eyes
shone with rage. "For him."
"I'm sorry, I misunderstood. I'm afraid
I don't keep that sort of thing in my
kit."
"I know you don't. But there are men around here who do.
Find them. Find me some whiskey."
"Yes, of course," Roosevelt said as they
hurried away through the rain. Will had never heard the
ranchman speak so meekly.
The storm blew itself out within two hours. The sky
cleared, revealing a brilliant moon. The dry
watercourse down which the cattle had stampeded contained
a half inch of water now; water that looked like
flawed onyx in the moonlight.
No one in the roundup crew slept much that night.
The men were still keyed up over the stampede, and worried
about Chris Tompkins. Quite a few of the hands
drifted to the place where the Elkhorn men had been
sleeping before the alarm sounded. There, beside a
cottonwood fire, Lon Adam bent over the
injured Tompkins.
The cowhands stood or sat in silent vigil on the
other side of the fire. Will took his place among
them. Every eye was fixed on Adam's patient. He
lay under a blanket, his head thrown back, his
cheeks and forehead sweat-covered despite the
breeze. He was breathing through his mouth in a loud,
labored way, as if to draw something from the
air that would put an end to the agony visible on his
face.
Adam crouched down beside him. Close by stood a
bottle containing three inches of whiskey. From the
bag at his hip, Adam took a gnarled root the
length of a little finger. He placed the root on a
flat stone one of the cowboys had washed and dried, and
chopped the root into small pieces with his sheath
knife. Then, using the flat of the blade, he
crushed each piece into powder. Will was fascinated
by Adam's supple brown hands.
Again he reached for the faded bag. When he opened it,
Will saw that the bag had a buckskin lining. Adam
pulled out something resembling dried grass. He
crumbled this into an old tin cup, carefully added the
powdered root, and poured in the whiskey. He stirred
the concoction with the tip of his knife, smelling it, and
seemed satisfied.
Tompkins" eyes had a glazed look. Every
minute or so, pain contorted his face, and he
groaned. The sight brought tears to Will's eyes.
He sniffed and blinked, not daring to look at the
cowboys standing next to him.
Adam wiped his palms on his jeans and slowly
slipped his left hand under Tompkins'
neck. Tompkins moaned. When Adam had his hand
in position, he held his breath
and exerted gentle upward pressure. Tompkins
screamed as if he'd been seared with a branding iron.
Will dug his nails into his palms.
"I know it hurts," Adam murmured. "But
I've got to raise you so you won't gag when you
drink the medicine I fixed."
Comprehension and panic showed in the eyes of the injured
cowboy. He tried to speak, but the only sound he
could produce was a kind of rattle.
"I've got to go ahead, Tompkins," Adam said.
After a moment, Tompkins blinked. Adam took that
as a sign of permission. With a grimace, he
exerted more pressure. Tompkins screamed again.
Several of the hands turned away. Will heard one
walk into the dark and retch. Even Roosevelt
looked ill as he said:
"In the name of God, be merciful to him."
Adam fixed Roosevelt with a ferocious stare.
"I'm trying. I can't save his life, but if
he'll drink what's in the cup, the dying will be a
mite easier."
"Dying?"
Roosevelt swallowed. "I thought-was
"That I knew how to mend a broken back? No,
sir. I kave a certificate from a Chicago
diploma mill, and
a.
bag of remedies I've gathered in my travels.
I've got some tricks I learned from my mother, who
was an Ozark granny woman, and I know from first-hand
experience how much the human body and the human soul
can hurt. I also know how many charlatans sport the
title doctor, and I know I deserve it as much
or more than tkey do. In other words, Roosevelt,
I know what I am and what I'm not. The main thing
I'm not is a magician. This man's dying. Now
if it's all right with you, I'll get on with helping
him the best I
can."
Roosevelt gestured again, for once at a loss for
words.
in
It took Adam five minutes to elevate
Tompkins' head far enough so that the contents of the tin cup
could be administered. Will found those five minutes almost
unendurable. No matter how gently Adam lifted
him, Tompkins experienced excruciating pain.
He screamed repeatedly. And
after he'd drunk the potion, he screamed again while
Adam lowered his head to the ground.
By then all but the hardiest had left. Those who lingered
did so because they wanted to pay their respects to a
man they had known and liked. Will, too, had
ultimately come to like Christopher P. Tompkins,
hard and profane though he was. That bond held
him at the hissing fire with five other cowboys; that
bond, and the fascination of watching Adam at work.
He gently stroked Tompkins' cheek until the
man's eyes closed caret nd he began to breathe in
a more relaxed and regular way.
Will had already been in the presence of great suffering
once tonight. Now he was in its presence again. This time
it wasn't the suffering of an animal, but of a human
being. What a detestable thing that was, he thought while
he watched Adam's hand. How terrible that it should
exist at all.
The sight of Tompkins brought Margaret to mind.
Could a man like Adam have helped her? Given her
some powder or elixir to relieve the anguish she'd
suffered almost daily during her last years? Adam
might be a drunkard, as Bob Beaufort said, but that
hardly mattered in light of his talent. The slow,
caressing movement of Adam's hand on
Tompkins' face became for Will the symbol of the
most meaningful skill a man could possess.
Awed and moved, he watched for another hour. By then
he was among the last three lingering at the low fire.
Roosevelt sat on a log to his right.
Abruptly, the motion of Adam's hand stopped.
He frowned, then moved his hand so that the palm was almost
touching Tompkins' mouth.
The fire sputtered. Smoke streamed out. Adam
looked from face to face, his gaze coming to Will last of
all. Softly, he said:
"He isn't breathing."
"God pity the poor fellow," Roosevelt said.
"At least he was in much less pain at the end. You
helped him immeasurably."
Adam snorted. "But not enough. You can never help
anyone
enough.
They always end up taking their business to old doc
death. Sometimes I wonder why we bother trying
to outfox him."
There was an almost feverish glare in his eyes. He
gazed
.
s
down at the dead man, who was beginning to give off an
odor that was familiar and unpleasant. "Someone
clean him up and cover him, for Christ's sake."
Venomous, Adam looked at Roosevelt. "And
even if it offends your morals, I'm going to have a
drink now."
"Of-of course, Doctor Adam," Roosevelt
murmured. 11 Til find you one myself."
IV
Lon Adam stood with his head down, his great black
hat in his left hand and his right moving back and forth
across his eyes, as if he were trying to rub away a
bad memory. Day was breaking. The cattle were
becoming visible. They were lying down, spent after their
run during the storm.
Will wrenched his gaze from the dead man who had been his
teacher to the other man who had succored him. In his
cast-off clothing, Adam was a queer-looking sort.
Obviously not a white man, nor a
full-blooded red one either. He was unlike any
human being Will had ever met.
"Mr. Adam?"
The man pulled his hand down. Focused his eyes on
W. Finally remembered:
"Oh, yes. You had someone for me to see."
"He wasn't very badly hurt. I suppose
he's sleeping by
now."
"Let me come have a look anyway."
They started to walk toward Bob Beaufort's wagon.
The ,, grass was wet and slippery. Adam
momentarily lost his balance. To keep from falling, he
grabbed WU-FT shoulder,
then apologized.
"I'm worn out," he said. "I feel like my legs
are about to give out."
"You worked hard," Will said. "Go ahead and lean on
me."
Adam accepted the offer. Tired though he was, he
didn't miss the worshipful look in the younger
man's eyes.
Christopher P. Tompkins, address and origins
unknown, was buried in the buffalo grass that morning.
A crude wooden cross was pounded into the ground
to mark his resting place. At noon the roundup moved
on, behind schedule but having lost only eighteen head
in the stampede-a surprisingly low figure,
Beaufort said.
When they reached camp that night, Roosevelt
appeared. He drew Will aside and
complimented him on his bravery. Frank Hixson
had wakened and was repeating the story of Will's quick
action to anyone who'd listen.
"I appreciate your telling me, Mr.
Roosevelt," Will said. And he did. For the first time
in years, he'd done more than shout silent denials
of Margaret's accusations. He'd done something
to prove them wrong.
Roosevelt started to say something else. Will spied
a familiar figure and spoke first:
"I wonder if you'd excuse me, sir."
Before the rancher could answer, Will was off to catch up with
Lon Adam.
CHAPTER XI
A Plan for
the Future
THE ROUNDUP MOVED ON to Gardiner Creek,
Bullion's Creek, and Chimney Butte with no
further mishaps or interruptions. Will enjoyed each
one of the warm June days, and found the work
exhilarating. He understood the routine of the
wranglers now, and could handle all that was expected of
him.
Each evening he managed to find a few minutes
to wander by the fires of the Slash Bar and talk
with Lon Adam. More often than not, Adam could be
found sitting by hmblebee
self, a clay bottle not far from his hand. The first
time he offered Will a drink, the young man hesitated.
Adam laughed:
"You won't be breaking any rules, Kent. This is
my pokeroot tonic. There's hundred proof
whiskey in it, all right. But since the purpose of the
beverage is wholly medicinal, the boys can all
take a dollop after a day's work and there isn't a
blessed thing Boss Murtry can do about it."
Will took the bottle. One drink taught him that if
swallowed too fast, the tonic had an effect
similar to a blow on the skull. But it was
flavorful. And it certainly relaxed a body.
It also loosened the tongue. On his fourth visit with
Adam, he took two long swigs and then mentioned
his new-found ambition.
Adam laid his sugarloaf sombrero on his knee.
By day he always looked undistinguished, even
pitiable in his shabbiness. At night, with the fire
chiseling his face into planes of light and dark, he
acquired a kind of regal aura. Now that aura was
heightened by the cool, almost contemptuous way he
responded to what Will had just told him:
"You mean to tell me you're seriously considering a
career in medicine?"
Will was disappointed by the reaction but tried not to show it:
"Yes, indeed."
"When did you come to this momentous decision?"
"The night I watched you help Chris Tompkins
through his last hours."
"That a fact. Sorry I'm the one responsible."
He took another pull from the clay bottle.
"Doctoring's fine if all you care about is feeling
like a saint. If you like a roof over your head and
three square meals a day, I recommend
carpentry."
"If doctoring's so bad, why'd you take it up,
Mr. Adam?"
A shrug. "Runs in the family. My mother was a
granny woman. Winter or summer, she'd ride
miles and miles on her mule to help birth a
baby. All she had with her were her little black bags
of muslin and camphor, cornstarch, and goose
grease. That and the things she learned from her mama, and
her mama's mama before her."
He brushed at a fly deviling hjs veined nose.
"Mama was a small woman. No more than
ninety-five pounds. Tough as a
she-wolf, though. Pretty as a daisy. A cancer
took her when she was only in her forties."
His eyes looked beyond Will, full of hurt. "The
cancer ate her prettiness an inch at a time, and there
wasn't a goddamn thing anyone could do except
fill her full of tonic to kill the pain."
Like an animal shaking off rain, he stirred his
shoulders. A melancholy smile stole over his
face, a smile of remembrance:
"I grew up with dirt and disease. They're staples
of life in the Ozarks. I watched old doc death
take over the treatment of anyone he pleased, any
time he pleased. Seemed to me there should be a way
to put a stop to that. When my mother died, I decided
to hunt for the way-which was my number one mistake.
My life's been nothing but poverty and ruin ever
since. In case I haven't made it clear by now,
doctoring isn't a good way to make a living-not
even for people who can afford to go into it with a proper education,
which I couldn't."
"That's all ne'w to me," Will said. "I don't know
anything about the way doctors live."
"They live miserably. Most of "em have another
business to put food on the table. Medicine's just
their sideline. I ran a farm implement
store in Sedalia, then an apothecary shop in
Colorado Springs, then a greasy spoon down
near the Rio Grande where I went to study with the
Mexican
curanderos.
All three of the businesses went bust. My three
marriages broke up, too. My first wife was a
poor crazy squaw who couldn't stand white men's
ways. One night when I was off delivering a
calf, she put a rifle bullet in her head.
Second wife got weary of being poor and left
me for a traveling preacher. Not much improvement that
I could see. Third one disappeared too. To this day
I don't know why, or where she went. She never
even left a note. Amongst those three women, I
fathered seven children. Before age five, every one of them died
of measles, typhoid, grippe, or some damn
thing. Always figured most of the fault was
mine."
"How could that be, Mr. Adam?"
The older man shrugged. "I paid too much attention
to doctoring and not enough to keeping the accounts, or mak-
ing a woman happy, or putting shoes on the wee
one's feet. Irresponsible, that's the word my
second wife used. If I had to put a
description to it, I'd say it was being too interested
in death. Interested in trying to stop some of it because it's
such a goddamn, dirty, disgraceful waste-was
Once more he swigged from the clay bottle. Will
didn't quite know what to make of this unkempt, sometimes
wild- eyed man with the immense nose and gentle
hands. Was he a lunatic or, to use Adam's own
words from a while ago, a saint?
"Had another problem since I was twelve or
thirteen," Adam went on, waggling the bottle.
"After I got married, it was worse. My drinking
didn't contribute to the peace of mind of any of my
wives. Sure helped mine, though. Say- you care
for another sip?"
"No thanks. You were saying doctors don't live
very comfortable lives-was
An emphatic nod. "I've been told only a
few at the very top in the big cities make anything
at all. If I were you, I'd avoid the
profession like the plague. 'so, of course, you
find you can't do anything else. That's the real cause
of all my problems. I can't do anything else.
If there aren't any humans who need help, I can
treat a horse or cow and be damn near as happy.
Yes, sir, Kent-was
He drank again, finishing in a grave way: "I'd
think twice about doctoring."
Whenever Will visited the Slash Bar campsite and
prodded Adam to talk of his favorite subject,
the older man never struck anything but that same
half-bitter, half-proud note. He repeatedly
said it was doctoring that had destroyed all his chances
for a normal existence. Yet he admitted he
probably would have remained illiterate if his thirst
for a knowledge of medicine hadn't driven him to learn to read.
And if someone needed his help, he was always ready,
no matter what the hour.
On the icundup the demand for his services was
fairly steady. One night one of the hands shot himself
in the foot while cleaning his Navy Colt. Adam
had an item in his bag to fit the problem. He worked
up a paste from a kind of thistle called
contra yerba.
The paste kept the wound clean and free of infection.
Two days later, Bob Beaufort complained of
cramps and a bowel stoppage. Adam powdered a little
of Ms preciously
hoarded mandrake root, mixed it with whiskey, and
next morning Beaufort was good as new.
A third cowboy came down with the
sniffles, then a high fever. Adam brewed a
strong tea with something he called a fever plant.
The tea brought the temperature down within twelve
hours.
Adam's activities continued to make a profound
impression on Will, to the point where his worship of the
raffish cowhand became a kind of joke. Other
cowboys teased him about wanting to play medicine
man. He surprised them by saying they were
absolutely right.
The roundup ended in late June. On the final
day, Will went to say goodbye to Adam, who was already
packed up and ready to ride out. He leaned down from
his saddle to shake Will's hand:
"If you're serious, and doctoring's still your choice,
so be it." A smile, almost ugly in its mockery,
twisted his mouth. "Just don't hold me responsible
for what happens later."
Will wished he could smash that smile to pieces.
Adam was making light of his own gift. "You don't
mean that, Mr. Adam."
"Hell I don't. So long, Kent."
Adam turned his pony to join the amused Slash
Bar hands who were watching the exchange. Will started
to run after Adam; felt foolish; stopped
and called:
"We never had time to talk about the plants and herbs
you use. I'd like to write you-was
"Do that. Be happy to hear from you," Adam called
back, waving. His other hand was reaching for the clay
bottle tied to his saddle by a thong. He was
drinking as he rode out of sight.
Eventually Will wrote three letters to the Slash Bar
ranch. None was ever answered.
ii
On the first night back at the Elkhorn,
Roosevelt came in after dark to find Will examining
the book shelves.
"Hunting anything special, Will?"
"I wondered whether you might have a book on
medicine."
"I'm afraid not." Roosevelt eased himself
into his rocker
and plucked off his eyeglasses. That Indian made
a profound impression on you, didn't he?"
"Yes, sir. For the first time, I saw a man doing
something I'd like to do myself. Something worthwhile."
Dubious, Roosevelt countered, "Medicine
isn't exactly a highly paid profession, you
know."
"So Mr. Adam told me."
"Still, I applaud your humanitarian impulse.
Even if it was prompted by someone as bizarre as
Lon Adam. His boss, Dick Murtry, thinks
the fellow's only half there. Dick wouldn't put
up with him, but for the fact that Adam has a fine way
with sick cows and horses." Roosevelt paused.
"May I ask you a candid question?"
Will grew apprehensive. "Of course."
"Lon Adam was absolutely right. Most
doctors can't earn a living wage. The night we
talked on the veranda, you said you wanted to be well
off-and achieve success on your own, not by inheriting
your father's wealth. Have you suddenly abandoned those
objectives?"
Softly, almost heatedly, Will said, "No."
"Then how do you reconcile them with this new
ambition?"
"Why do I have to, Mr. Roosevelt? I should be
able to be a doctor and earn a good living at the
same time."
"Given the state of the profession, it's doubtful."
"I'll find a way."
"You'll be a very clever fellow if you do. It's more
likely that at some point, you'll be
required to make a choice." Roosevelt rose
and started for the door. There he turned and looked at
the younger man. "We discussed what kind of choice it
will be. I'm sure you haven't forgotten." With a
wave, he walked out, calling goodnight as he went.
Will was so angry, he barely remembered to respond
with a goodnight of his own. He glared at the doorway.
You're wrong. I'll have it all. Without a choice.
Without sacrificing any of it.
Somehow, I'll find a way to have it all.
in
It almost seemed that events conspired to allow
Roosevelt to keep reminding Will of the need to make
a choice.
The young rancher was invited to be one of two featured
comspeakers at the Fourth of July celebration over
in Dickinson, the county seat of Stark County which
adjoined Billings County on the east.
Roosevelt was flattered by the invitation, and immediately
accepted. But as the Fourth approached, everyone on
the Elkhorn saw the boss grow increasingly
nervous. He'd often said he was no orator. With his
high voice, he was handicapped the moment he stepped
on a platform.
Nevertheless, he worked hard on the speech,
staying up till two and three in the morning several
nights in a row. On Sunday, the third of
July, a group which included Will left the
Elkhorn and rode to the Maltese Cross, where
they stopped overnight. Roosevelt was up long before
dawn the next day. Shortly after first light, the
group rode into Me- dora to hop an eastbound
freight. It was less than fifty miles
to Dickinson; they would arrive in plenty of time
to see the big parade at ten o'clock.
The weather was perfect for a holiday; cloudless and
cool. While they waited for the train, Will found himself
glancing up and down the platform. He hadn't been
in Me- dora since the day after he'd arrived. The
depot brought back unpleasant memories.
Abruptly, he saw the skinny station agent looking
his way and whispering to Wilmot Dow. When they were
aboard the caboose of the freight rolling toward
Dickinson, Dow took him aside:
"I'm not trying to alarm you, but I think you should be
forewarned. Back at the station, Perkins told me
Cletus Maunders is still talking about getting even
with you. Guess it hurt his pride pretty badly
when you stomped on his hand and the boss ran him off."
The caboose swayed and rattled around a
curve. Will tried to shrug as if he wasn't
concerned. "Mr. Roosevelt said Maunders was that
kind. I'm not surprised he's holding a
grudge."
"Thing is," Dow went on, "Perkins said
Maunders and his two pals jumped on a freight
for Dickinson late last night. They were already
drunk as ticks in a vat of beer. I'd keep
my eye peeled today."
Will's stomach started to hurt "Thanks very much for the
warning," he said.
The county seat of Stark County had been laid out
on a hillside overlooking the Heart River, which
cut across the prairie south of town. Dickinson
had never before celebrated the Fourth in an official
way, so that made the day doubly festive. People from
miles around had driven, ridden, or walked to the
celebration. A big crowd lined the main streets as
the Dickinson Silver Cornet Band struck up
a march and stepped off to start the parade at one
minute past ten.
Next in line came a corps of mounted
horsewomen, their riding habits as elaborate as
the trappings of their mounts. On a float created from
a draped wagon rode thirty-eight little
girls in white, each representing a state. The
float drew heavy applause. So did the local
Union Army veterans, who marched with tipsy
enthusiasm but not much precision.
Farm machinery went by, and dignitaries in
buggies. The parade proceeded to the town square,
where it disbanded. Will kept searching the crowd for
Cletus Maunders and his friends but didn't see
them. Perhaps the three men had already drunk too much and
passed out in one of Dickinson's dingy alleys.
A free picnic dinner was served on trestle
tables in the square. Afterward the crowd was called
to order for the program. It began with a lengthy
invocation. Then the first orator, a politician
named John Rae, was introduced. He delivered
a typical Independence Day speech-too long and
too bombastic. The crowd grew restless.
Roosevelt followed Rae. The boss of the
Elkhora looked ill at ease as the master of
ceremonies introduced him. He got very little
applause from the bored spectators. When he
acknowledged his introduction, soft laughter rippled
through the crowd. Someone behind Will made a caustic
remark about Roosevelt's voice. Will turned
around but couldn't identify the offender.
Roosevelt launched into his address, speaking
loudly enough so that even the men and boys clinging to nearby
roof peaks could hear him:
"I am particularly glad to have an opportunity of

dressing you, my fellow citizens of Dakota, on
the Fourth of July, because it always seems to me that those
who dwell in a new territory, and whose actions
therefore are peculiarly fruitful, for good and bad
alike, in shaping the future, have in consequence
peculiar responsibilities-was
The beginning didn't sound promising to W. It was as
flowery as Rae's, if not more so. The bright sun
glared on Roosevelt's glasses. Someone in the
front row interrupted to point this out. Pink-faced with
embarrassment, he removed the glasses and said in
an aside, 'There. I'm surprised anyone would
want to see more of this phiz of mine. I'd expect
it to be the other way around."
The little joke provoked laughter, friendly this time.
Roosevelt capitalized on it:
"Without my glasses, I can't see my text. That
should improve the speech a hundred percent."
More laughter, loud and prolonged. With just a few
sentences, Roosevelt had overcome the
crowd's hostility. He smiled that dazzling smile
and took a more confident stance at the podium. Wind
snapped the tri-color bunting nailed all around the
edge of the speaker's platform.
Will was watching from halfway back in the crowd. He
was standing beside young A. T. Packard, the owner and
editor of the
Bad Lands Cowboy.
The newspaperman had also ridden the freight train
from Medora. But Will was hardly aware of him, or of the
rattle of firecrackers a block away-or of
anything except the speech. Roosevelt seemed
to be talking directly to him:
"But as you already know your rights and privileges so
well, I am going to ask you to excuse me if I
say a few words to you about your duties."
Sentence by sentence, the address stung Will with its
relevance to his own situation. There was nothing wrong
with enjoying the material prosperity which the country had
achieved, Roosevelt said. But that prosperity could
become a destructive force if it took precedence
over principle.
It was clear Roosevelt had committed most of his
text to memory. He used his eyeglasses only
a few times to remind himself of a word or
phase. He expanded and restated his theme-wealth must
never be allowed to corrupt national or individual
virtue.
still
am going to ask you to excuse me if I say a few
words to you about your duties
-
Will knew what Roosevelt was really talking about.
Choices. Choices between responsibility and the
lack of it; between personal success and personal
morality. He resented having to listen to one more
discussion of the subject.
The crowd listened in silence, completely won over
by the speaker and his idealistic message. When
Roosevelt finished, there was another moment of
quiet, then an eruption of applause punctuated
by cheering.
Editor Packard said, "Fine speech, eh?"
Will didn't answer. Packard gave him a
puzzled look. "Nothing to get angry about, is
it?"
Again Will was silent. The editor didn't press the
issue, saying instead, "I've never heard
Theodore speak before."
"I have."
"What? I thought you told me you met
him
only a few weeks ago."
'That's right. But he sounds exactly like my father."
And I'll be hanged
7st still"
listen to either of them.
Several people from Medora had gathered around
Roosevelt at the foot of the platform steps. They
were shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. The young
newspaper editor went to join them. Will knew he
should add his congratulations but he couldn't. He was still
seething.
He turned away and walked swiftly toward the
back of the crowd and across the square to a plank
sidewalk. Head down, a frown on his face, he
paced toward the next corner. He was completely
unaware of his surroundings until the door of a
saloon swung outward and whacked his right arm.
"Christ sake, boy, get outa the-thunderation!"
Will stopped short, turned toward the speaker-and
froze. He'd forgotten to stay alert. Now he'd
paid the price.
"Cletus? Cletus, hurry up an' come out
here," said the man called Sweeney. The
second man from the depot, Chadburn, appeared
behind the first in the saloon entrance. Will took a step.
Sweeney grabbed his forearm with fingers that dug in and
hurt.
Panicky, Will saw that no one in the street was
paying
attention to what must have struck them as just another
saloon altercation.
"Caught us a fish, Cletus," Sweeney said.
"A Medora minnow. You been hopin' to get this one
on your hook for quite a spell."
Cletus Maunders came shuffling through the sawdust
spread on the saloon floor. He was unsteady on
his feet, but he wasn't so drunk that he failed
to recognize the prisoner. He licked his lips and
smiled.
"I have," he said. "I surely h.**
CHAPTER Xn
Maunders Again
CLETUS MAUNDERS WAS AS filthy as Will
remembered. He reeked of whiskey and other, less
appetizing things. So did his cronies. They
stepped from the saloon door and crowded Will on both
sides. The younger of the two, Sweeney, kept a hand
fastened on Will's arm. A few
pedestrians were struck by the group's odd tension. But
no one interfered.
Maunders squeezed his nose with his thumb and index
finger. Then he held out the hand, fingers spread.
was "Member this, punkin lily? 'Member the harm
you done to it? Damn thing was stiff for nigh onto a
month. Gonna have to chastise you for that."
Chadburn faced away from the street. "Not out here,
Cletus."
A withering look from Maunders. "Why, sure.
We'll sashay into the square and invite the whole
town." Chad- burn reddened. Maunders" eyes
slid back to W. "No, we want someplace real
private. Alley, maybe-was
Will was watching for a chance to pull free of the grip of
the
emaciated, pop-eyed man called Sweeney. His
stomach ached ferociously now. He stiffened when
Maunders
reached toward his cheek. Grinning, Maunders
slapped him lightly and whispered:
"This time you'll be on your own, punkin lily. You
won't have Four Eyes to come along and save your
hash-
look out!"
Will lunged away from Sweeney, then rammed his elbow
in the man's midsection. As Sweeney staggered, Will
spun around. A father, mother, and three little girls from the
state float blocked the sidewalk on his left.
He whirled and ran the other way.
A short distance down the block, an alley opened
on his right. Will ran down the alley, toward the point
where it intersected a second one which formed the
crossbar of a T. He glanced over his shoulder.
None of the three had appeared at the alley mouth.
Maybe they hesitated to chase him in broad
daylight with the town so crowded. He ran on.
Damn you for not keeping your eyes open!
an inner voice raged. Margaret's face
flickered in his mind. Smiling a smug smile, as
if he'd done exactly what she expected of him.
At the junction of the alleys, Will headed left.
He was into the turn when he heard a crash and a
thump. Panicked, he looked back. Sweeney
ran out of the saloon's rear door followed
by Chadburn, then Maunders. They'd seen him
flee into the alley and taken a shortcut.
"Catch the little bastard!" Maunders panted, already
out of breath. Sweeney sprinted past Chadburn.
Will ran only four or five steps before
Sweeney tackled
him
and knocked him down.
Tears of fury filled his eyes as he struck the
cinders and sand of the alley.
A back door. Why didn't you stay out in
front? Why didn't you
think?
Bungler.
Sweeney grunted, climbed off Will and rolled him
over. Will pulled his right knee against his belly and
kicked. Sweeney jumped out of the way. He caught
hold of Will's boot and twisted until Will slammed
his palms against the dirt, his face wrenched by pain. his
Maunders pulled his little finger out of one of his
nostrils, flicked something off the tip and waved:
was "Nuff, Sweeney."
Sweeney let go. Will gasped and shook his head.
Now
that it was getting on toward midafteraoon, no
sunlight reached the alley. The shadows were cold.
Will's teeth began to chatter.
"Get him up," Maunders ordered, shutting the
saloon's back door. Sweeney took one arm,
Chadburn the other. Will was jerked to his
feet.
He could barely stand on the twisted ankle. But he
quickly forgot the pain. Chadburn was subjecting him
to a strange kind of scrutiny. It wasn't quite a
bullying look; Chadburn was almost smiling.
Will really hadn't paid much attention to Chadburn
until now. He was a powerfully built man about
Maunders" age. White hair hung down beneath his
hat, half concealing his ears. White stubble showed
all over his chin. He had plump, sun-reddened
cheeks, a pink mouth, and eyes so large and softly
blue, they were almost girlish. With no warning at
all, he reached out and pinched Will's buttocks.
"Don't make trouble, now, punkin lily." His
faintly moist eyes darted to Will's lips.
"Wouldn't want to hurt a fine lookin' boy like
you."
"Just your type, huh?" Sweeney asked with a grin.
"Anything in pants is Chadburn's type,"
Maunders said.
A vile taste filled Will's mouth all at once.
He was scared to death. He knew that unless he got
out of the alley under his own power, he might wind up
being carried out. Wounded, dead, or-or God knew
what, he thought with a glance at Chadburn.
Godamighty! The man didn't even bother to deny
what Maunders said about him.
Still staring at the prisoner, Chadburn ran the tip
of his tongue across his upper lip. Maunders walked
around a brimming rain barrel, and leaned back, his
knee bent and his boot braced against the saloon
wall. He leaned there, relaxing. His helpers had
dragged Will out of the alley intersection. They were safe
from observation by those on the street.
Maunders fingered his groin. "Chadburn gave me
an idea, punkin lily. The three of us spent every
last cent on whiskey. Been drinkin' since
sundown last night. All that liquor made us
mighty randy. But we can't afford no whores."
His gaze slid down Will's legs, then back to his
face. "Maybe we got us a passable
substitute."
"Say, maybe we do," Sweeney said with a grin.
"Way I been feelin', anything short of a
sheep'd be fine."
Chadburn's breathing quickened. His fingers began
to drum a little tattoo on Will's forearm. With
unmistakable eagerness, he said:
"The storeroom of the saloon was empty, Cletus.
Shall we take him in there?"
"Jesus, Chad. Sometimes I think all you got for
brains are your balls. We gotta take him
someplace where it won't make no difference if he
hollers. South of town, maybe. Out past that
river-was
Maunders sauntered forward, his revolver bobbing on
his hip. He squeezed Will's cheeks between his
palms:
"Ought to be a real nice walk for you, punkin
lily. You can think about all the sweet stuff that's in
store for you when-was
Will brought his right knee up into Maunders' groin.
Maunders staggered and gasped. Will reached across
Maunder's right hip and yanked an old Smith and
Wesson from the worn leather holster. Chadburn and
Sweeny were yelling and starting to pummel him. He
shoved the muzzle against Maunders' belly and
cocked the hammer.
"Let go," he said to the men on either side of him.
"Turn me loose or I'll kill him."
ii
A cloud passed in front of the sun, darkening the
alley even more. Sweeney swore and reached for the
revolver. Maunders whispered,
"No."
Sweeney pulled back. Maunders eyed Will,
trying to judge the extent of his nerve. Angry,
Chadburn said:
"Shit, I'll bet he don't know how to use it,
Cletus."
"I do," Will said.
"We ain't gonna wager on it and find out we was
wrong," Maunders said. He glanced at the gun
barrel digging a crater in the stained front of his
hunting shirt. "What happens now, punkin
lily?"
"You and your friends leave. I keep the gun and that's the
end of it."
"Until you send the Elkhorn crew after us?"
"No, I won't do that."
Sweeney snorted. "Don't trust the little son of a
bitch, Cletus. It's three on one. We can
dig his ditch for good."
"Shut your damn mouth!" Maunders cried in a
hoarse voice. Nervous, he peered at W. "You
mean to say that if we let you go, you won't try
to get even?"
"Not unless you make trouble for me in Medora."
"We call it a draw, that it?"
Chadburn was furious: "Cletus, you
don't have to call it a draw with some weak-livered
city boy who-was
"Shut
up.
The gun's in
my
gut, not yours." For a second Will thought he
detected a foxy glint in Maunders' eye. Then
it was gone. Blowing rancid breath in Will's face,
the older man said:
"All right, punkin lily. It's a draw. Ill
put both my hands in the air. At the same time,
Chad and Sweeney will let go of you. Then I'll
back away from that pistol and walk toward my friends and
we'll light out. There'll be no trouble for you in
Medora long as we don't get none either.
Bargain?"
Will's right arm was aching with tension. The revolver felt
heavy and sweat-slippery in his hand. His hand and forearm
started to tremble. So did his right leg. He held
steady by force of will and said:
"Bargain."
"Okay, then. Let him go, lads."
Grumbling, Sweeney and Chadburn released W.
He heard their boots scuff as they moved
behind him. He concentrated his attention on
Maunders, who had raised his dirt-encrusted hands
over his head and was stepping backward slowly.
Maunders put his weight on his right foot and
winced.
"Got a pebble in my boot. I'm gonna try
to shake it into another position. Don't get
spooked and shoot me."
Sweat shone like grease on Maunders' face. He
lifted his right boot eight inches off the ground. In
the process, he executed a turn, so that his left
leg partially blocked Will's view of the right one.
Maunders grasped the top of his right boot with both
hands, a peculiar maneuver for loosening a pebble
way down at the bottom of-
"Duck, Chad!" Sweeney shouted as Maunders
yanked a hideout knife from his boot top.
Maunders pivoted back toward Will, his hand streaking
upward for the throw. The hand started forward. Will leveled
the Smith and Wesson and fired.
The badly aimed bullet tore through the outside of
Maunders' right thigh. The impact of the shot staggered
him. His knife hand flew open. The blade
dropped and hit the ground.
Will hurled himself against the saloon wall.
He bumped the rain barrel. Water sloshed on his
sleeve.
Chadburn and Sweeney were too stupefied to draw
their revolvers. They stared at their friend, who was
clutching his right leg with both hands. Blood leaked
through a powder-blackened tear in his buckskin
trousers, then oozed between his fingers.
"Oh Jesus it hurts,
Jesus
-"
From the direction of the street came a rising
clamor:
"Was that a shot or a firecracker?"
"A shot."
"Where'd it come from?"
"The alley behind the saloon."
"We got to get out of here," Maunders whimpered.
Tears were trickling down his cheeks.
"Got to kill
him
first, Cletus." Chadburn pulled his revolver.
The voices were growing louder. Maunders shook his
head, weeping as he squeezed his wounded leg:
"We got to get away or they'll lock us up.
You want to get locked up, you stay. You
want to get chased and lynched, go ahead an' shoot
him." He turned and started hobbling.
Chadburn looked at Will and raised his revolver.
Sweeney seized his arm. Will waited, knowing that if
Chadburn decided to fire, he probably
wasn't fast enough to beat him now that they both had guns
in their hands. Sweeney heard the men approaching in the
other alley around the corner. He shook
Chadburn's arm:
"Don't do it. You're liable to hang. The
satisfaction ain't worth the cost."
Chadburn glared at Will a moment longer. Then he
rammed his revolver back in the holster.
He and Sweeney raced forward to Maunders. They
propped his arms over their shoulders. Maunders beat
a fist on Chadburn's back. "Come on.
Hurry it up!"
The three of them turned left at the mouth of the
alley
beyond the saloon's back door. The instant they were
gone, Will started to close his eyes. Then he saw the
knife shining just a yard away. He sprang toward
it, groaning when he put sudden weight on the
ankle Sweeney had twisted. He snatched up the
knife and flung it in the rain barrel, and
Maunders' revolver after it. He wanted no
questions. No more trouble. He just wanted the whole
business over with, because he hadn't acquitted himself
well. Out in front of the saloon, at the very moment
he'd needed to think clearly, his ineptitude had
undone him.
Men turned the corner from the other alley and then they
were milling around him. He seemed to hear a dozen
voices, all shouting the same questions:
"What happened, boy? Who fired a shot?"
In fascination, Will watched the last of a stream of
small bubbles rise and burst on the surface of the
rain barrel. The bubbles had streamed upward from the
sinking gun.
The men kept shouting at him. He wiped his sweating
face to gam time. Over the back of his hand he
scanned the alley for signs of Maunders'
blood. He saw none. The final bubbles popped
in the rain barrel.
"I don't know who fired the shot," he said finally.
"I heard it too. Must have come from the next
street."
In moments they were gone, pursuing the gunman. Will
hurried toward the square to find the Elkhorn men.
When he was asked why he was limping, he
said a drunk had lurched into
him
and he'd twisted his ankle, that was all.
Leaner, browner and more fit than ever before, Will boarded
an eastbound Northern Pacific express in
mid- August.
He'd planned to stay on the Elkhorn until
September first. But Gideon had written
to suggest that he come back before that. They had to arrange
plans for schooling, Gideon said. Since
Roosevelt had no objection to the early
departure, Will didn't argue.
He had said nothing about the encounter with Maunders and his
friends. For weeks after the celebration, Maunders'
name hadn't even been mentioned on the ranch. Will
finally assumed the secret was safe.
Then, two days before he was to leave, Bill
Sewall had returned from a trip to Medora with some
startling news. One of Maunders' kin was saying
Maunders had died in a sleazy hotel in
Bismarck.
According to what Sewall had heard, Maunders and his
friends had shown up in Bismarck about the middle of
July, intending to drink and gamble for a few days.
Obviously they'd gotten money somewhere;
stolen it, most likely. Maunders had been wearing
a dirty bandage on one leg, and limping. Soon
pain drove him to a doctor. The wound had become
infected. Mephitic gangrene had already set in.
Maunders had lasted only a couple of weeks after
that. His friends had buried him in a pauper's grave,
then telegraphed the news to relatives. Neither
Chadburn nor Sweeney had come back to Medora.
Expressionless, Will had listened to Sewall finish the
story. The whole business left him with a bad
taste. He felt neither glad that Maunders was dead
nor, God help him, more than fleetingly sorry.
What he felt most of all was a renewed sense of
his own inferiority. His penchant for doing things wrong
had precipitated the tilt in Dickinson.
Now he was at the depot, ready to board the train.
In many ways he hated to leave. The weeks he'd
spent in the Bad Lands were among the happiest and
most rewarding he'd ever known. He had learned a
great deal about ranching, and he'd learned a few things
about himself, some not very pleasant.
Roosevelt had come into town to see him off. So had
some of the hands. Wilmot Dow was there, and Ferris, and
Bob Beaufort. Roosevelt himself had just returned
from a trip East. Gossip among the
cowboys said he was tiring of a widower's existence, and
spoke often of his old friend, Edith Carow.
Dow shook Will's hand and wished him good luck. Then
Beaufort stepped up. Will especially valued the
black cowboy's handshake, and the moment when Beaufort
smiled and said, "Come back next summer and we'll
make you into a first-class wrangler. You already
turned into a pretty good one."
"Thank you, Bob. Look me up in Boston
sometime. You've got the address-was
"Right here," Beaufort patted his pocket.
Sylvanus Ferris of the Maltese Cross took
his turn shak-
ing hands. In a voice pitched so only Will could
hear, he said:
"See? The summer turned out a lot better than
you thought. And I'll bet you did a lot more than you
thought you could."
Will remembered how unsure of himself he'd been the
first time he spoke with Ferris. Much of that
uncertainty had indeed been unwarranted. He'd
found that if he pushed himself, he could do many things
he'd thought were beyond his capabilities. He'd even
saved a man's life on the roundup. A good
feeling.
But the confidence he'd built up had been severely
undercut by his experience in Dickinson. There,
he'd learned that the past hadn't really been laid
to rest, and would continue to undo him when he least
expected it. That was the final, discouraging lesson
of the summer. Some things had changed, but not the most
fundamental one.
He refused to show Ferris how he felt. He
smiled and said, "You're right, it did turn out a
lot better."
"Glad you feel that way." Ferris clapped him
on the shoulder. "Safe journey to you."
Roosevelt joined them. Ferris touched his hat
brim and sauntered off. Will was happy to have a moment
alone with the ranchman. For weeks, his conscience had
been bothering him.
"Mr. Roosevelt, I made a mistake on
Independence Day. I never told how well you
spoke."
Roosevelt looked at Will in a sober way.
"Generous of you to say that. I didn't compose that
address with you in mind. I was stating what I
believe. But when I spotted you in the crowd,
frowning and looking ready to explode, I realized that
perhaps I'd unconsciously included some
phrases and some thinking that came right out of our
discussion. I was speaking to an issue on which we
disagreed and still do, I suppose. I'd have been
thunderstruck if you'd been among my well-wishers
afterward."
"But I was rude not to tell you that you did a fine
job.**
Roosevelt's eyes grew merry then. "An
apology along with a compliment! There's no need for the
former-but it makes the latter doubly important.
Thddank you very much."
The conductor called all aboard. The whistle
shrilled. Plumes of steam shot from under the
locomotive. Roose-
velt added, "YouVe been an asset to the ranch.
I hope the summer's been to your liking also."
He thought of Lon Adam and nodded. "I'll never
forget it."
A few backslash vords about your duties
-
Why did that damned speech nag him day in, day
out? It had no application to him. He had no
duties
in connection with anyone but himself; and he'd already
decided on the direction his life was going
to take.
Oddly, Roosevelt thought of the same thing just then.
Sunlight flashed on his glasses as he said, "And
medicine still captures your fancy, does it?"
"Yes, sir* Definitely."
"That's fine if it's what you really want. However,
I'm sure your father will have strong opinions about its
suitability as a career. Write and tell me
whether there's an argument. And who wins."
The train began to move. Will jumped up on the
steps of the coach. He clung to the hand rail,
frowning. The ranchman had just articulated a fear
he'd been trying to ignore ever since it popped
into his head some days ago. Gideon
would
have something to say. But what?
Roosevelt whipped off his big sombrero and
wigwagged it in farewell. The other cowboys waved
their hats too. Roosevelt's voice boomed as
the train pulled away:
"Delighted to have had you with us! Deeeee-was
The rest was lost in the howl of the whistle.
CHAPTER XIH
What Gideon Said
GIDEON LIKED TO INSTALL the
latest conveniences in his suite at the Fifth
Avenue Hotel. He felt it was his duty as a
newspaper publisher to stay abreast of the inventions that
were appearing at a dizzying rate, and
he had the money to buy anything when it was new and hence
at its most expensive. Some of the conveniences
didn't always prove to be convenient, however.
He was on the telephone, approving a long list of
stock purchases one by one. The voice at the other
end of the connection began to fade. Then, in a burst of
crackling, it died altogether. A moment later the
crackling was replaced by silence.
"Daniel? Can you hear me, Daniel?"
The instrument emitted a low buzz.
Gideon cursed. He'd been speaking with Daniel
Roth- man, the eldest son of his Boston banker,
Joshua Rothman. The Wall Street firm of
Rothman Freres had been started by Daniel and his
younger brother Micah just five years ago. It was
already one of the most successful brokerage houses in
New York.
Now Gideon's attention-and his wrath-were fixed
on the telephone. Timing was essential to the
success of a large-scale maneuver in the stock
market, and the telephone had just caused his
timing to misfire. He tore the instrument from its
mounting, yanked the wires out of the wall and hurled the
whole clanging mess on the floor.
"Good heavens," Julia cried. "What on earth
are you doing?" She was just coming through the foyer, her arms
full of Lord and Taylor parcels.
"Destroying Mr. Bell's infernal machine."
Gideon pointed to the wreckage. "That's the fourth
time in two days it's betrayed me. The last time,
too."
He wrenched the crank of another recently installed
device, the telegraph call box. Then he
snatched a Western Union blank from a desk
pigeonhole and scribbled on it:
D. ROTHMAN, ROTHMAN FRERES, WALL
STILL CITY. BUY ALL ON LIST AT
PRICES QUOTED. TELEPHONE NO LONGER
OPERATING. USE MESSENGER HENCEFORTH.
He signed his initials, cursing under his breath.
"Calm down, dear," Julia said. "Surely
something can be done to protest such bad service-was
Gideon's face lit with inspiration. "You're
absolutely right." He grabbed another blank and
wrote a message to the telephone company:
TAKE OUT YOUR DAMNABLE MACHINE.
To that one he signed his full name.
Julia bent over his shoulder, watching. The touch of
her Abreast stirred him in a familiar but
pleasurable way. She tapped a finger on the
second telegram.
"I don't believe they'll transmit
profanity, dear."
"I know. But it will get their attention."
Julia suppressed a smile and walked to the
window. The , late summer sunshine lent a golden
cast to Madison Square, and to the suite's large
sitting room. As she let the curtain fall, she
asked:
"Is Will home yet?"
"No. He promised to be here by five." Gideon
indicated a book on the floor next to his
favorite chair. "I'm ready for him."
"Dear-was She faced him, her dark eyes luminous
in the muted light. "I'm sorry to say this, but I
can't see the sense of what you're planning to do."
"You can't see the sense?" he exclaimed.
"Julia, his chosen profession is one which is in
complete disarray!"
"Even so, we both feel-was
"Please, Julia," he interrupted,
almost testily. "Let me handle it my way. Will's
decision is extremely important to all of us."
That, she understood. Gideon was constantly worrying
about who would head the family when he was gone, and Will
was his father's brightest hope. She supposed that
explained all the reading and research Gideon had
done in preparation for the forthcoming talk-and his nervousness
now.
"By the way, you should read this." He showed her a letter.
"It arrived in the afternoon delivery. It's from
Theodore. He's back at Sagamore Hill and
may go to Europe. To see Miss Carow, I
suspect."
She read the letter, her face brightening:
"Oh, Gideon, how grand. He's absolutely
glowing in his praise of Will's work this summer."
Gideon nodded. Will had been home for a couple of
weeks; two days earlier, the family had steamed
down to New York aboard
Auvergne.
L
*The trip worked miracles on his attitude,"
Julia went on.
Hisby '"More than I could have hoped for," Gideon
agreed. "I never imagined Dakota would
give a direction to his life, but it did. That's
why I'm so anxious for him not only to make the right
decision, but to stick with it. A wrong choice now could
ruin everything."
He strode to the window; whipped the curtain aside.
"Where the devil is he, anyway?"
"It's a long way to the Annexed District,
remember.** She was referring to the section of the
city which lay beyond the Harlem River in We/chester
County. It was open country for the most part, popular
with young sportsmen. Gideon kept one of his
carriages, the expensive Brewster, at the city
stables of the Coaching Club. With had taken the
carriage for the day, hired four horses at a
livery stable, and gone to the Annexed District
to practice four-in-hand driving.
"And coaches do break down," Julia added.
"Yes, but-was
He started at the sound of knocking. Of course it
wouldn't be W; he'd have walked right in.
It was the messenger boy from the neighborhood
telegraph office, responding to Gideon's
signal on the call box. The boy took the two
printed messages. He was all smiles until
he saw the second one:
"Oh, sir, it isn't permissable to send-**
"Just make sure you give it to your supervisor. I
wish to have this thing removed as soon as possible." He
kicked the wreckage of the phone, producing a feeble
ping
from the bell.
A tip pacified the shocked boy. Just as the
messenger was leaving, Will walked out of the elevator and
into the foyer. Julia spied him and gasped.
Will's suntanned face was filthy caret There were
big black stains on his bottle green coat,
gold waistcoat, and white trousers. His boots were
dirty, and a fine rust-colored powder had sifted
through his hair. The messenger boy gaped as Will said:
"Those damned elevated railways will kill us
all."
"What happened to you?" Julia asked.
"Nothing happened to me. Oh, I got shaken up a
little, but otherwise I'm fine."
Gideon shut the door in the messenger's face.
"You didn't have an accident with the carriage-?"
Glum, Will nodded. "The Third Avenue
Railroad's the culprit. I made the mistake
of returning that way. The usual deluge of
cinders, oil, and sparks came down. The
off leader took a hot coal on his neck and
bolted. The horses are all right-was He dropped
into a chair, sighing. *'But the Brewster's a
total wreck. I seem to make a botch of
everything."
ii
At first Gideon was upset that one of his best
carriages had been overturned and wrecked. Will was
apologetic, and repeatedly promised to earn the
money for a new vehicle. Somewhat testily,
Gideon replied that a Brewster wasn't the same
as the bakery wagon Carter had destroyed, and that
unless his son had an income comparable to Jay
Gould's, he might be a long time paying off the
debt.
A moment after he'd made the remark, he
apologized. He knew Will was a first-class whip,
a fast driver but not a reckless one. And runaway
horses were a frequent sight on the streets beneath the
Third, Sixth, and Ninth Avenue Elevated
Railroads. Once Gideon calmed down, he
was inclined not to blame his son for the accident. He
finally said so.
Will was grateful. He told his father that immediately after the
wreck, he'd sent a bootblack to fetch
the stable owner. From that individual he'd obtained a
written statement acknowledging the horses were
returned unhurt. He passed the paper to his
father. "Now he won't try to sue you for trumped up
injuries to his animals."
Next Will had squared matters with a policeman from
the patrol district in which the accident had occurred.
The policeman had been sympathetic, and had
helped Will find and hire some men with a wagon
to remove the wreckage of the coach from Third
Avenue.
Gideon was pleased by the presence of mind his son had
displayed. It was a characteristic new to Will's
personality; surely one of the beneficial
results of his summer with Roosevelt. Another
result of that summer remained to be discussed.
"I'm thankful you weren't injured," Julia was
saying. backslash Gideon nodded. "So am I.
Do you want some whiskey?"
"No thanks."
"Care to get rid of that coat? I'd like to have a
talk with you."
"A talk? What about?"
"Your plans."
Will stuck his scuffed boots out in front of
him. "As far as I'm concerned they're settled. I
don't want to enter Harvard as a regular
undergraduate. I want to take the fall entrance
exams for the Medical School."
"You mean it isn't too late?" Julia asked.
"No," Will answered. "They're given just before the
term starts at the end of September. If I
pass and the school still has an opening, I can enroll
right away. I want to."
Gideon sat in his chair, facing his son. He
laced his fingers between his knees as he leaned forward.
"I appreciate the sincerity of your wish. I
appreciate that you met a man out West whose work you
thought important, and worthy of emulation. I had a
high regard for the one doctor I knew
well-Cincinnatus Lemon, the man who took
care of me when my eye was put out at Fort
Delaware. But the worthiness of the work doesn't
change the nature of the medical profession-or the
way the public perceives it. .medicine has never
been an altogether respectable calling. Have you ever read
the apocryphal books of the Bible?"
"No, sir."
"In Ecclesiasticus, the author says, "He that
sinneth before his Maker-let him falleth
into the hands of the physician." his
Julia smiled. But Will didn't-. He propped
his elbow on the chair arm and put his chin on the heel
of his palm, watching his father warily.
"Since that uncomplimentary statement was made
centuries ago," Gideon went on, "there's been
very little reason for anyone to amend it. Medicine has
always been a haven for idiots and charlatans. It still
is. This sterling work-was He picked up the book at
his side. "comis
Dr. Paul's Remedy Compendium,
It was published just last year."
He opened the book. "I quote.
Sleeplessness. Take half a pound of fresh hops
and put into a small pillow case and use for a
pillow."
He turned the page.
"Moles
-
to remove. Apply nitric acid with a pointed
quill toothpick.
I'm sure that will remove moles, all right.
Half your skin, too." Another page.
"Baldness

to cure. One pound pressed hemlock bark
-"
He snapped the book shut. "I needn't go on.
The point's obvious. Here we are in the modern
world, and someone who styles himself a doctor is
writing prescriptions that are mostly nonsense, and
in some cases downright harmful." He waved the
book. "Unfortunately, this is all too
typical of the profession."
"I admit the truth of what you say, Papa. I
just dont know why you're saying it."
"I should think that would be obvious."
Ignoring Gideon's sharp tone, Will shook his
head. "I watched Lon Adam cure sickness and
help people who were suffering. When I saw that, I saw
something I admired. I also discovered I could do it.
I mean I have the stomach for the grisly part. The
sight of blood doesn't bother me. I want to go
to medical school and I'm not going to change my
mind."
"But you must have all the facts before you commit yourself,"
Gideon insisted, jumping up and beginning to pace.
"Medical education in this country is a joke.
Anyone who apprentices for a few weeks can
obtain an impressive- looking degree
from a diploma mill."
Will nodded. "Adam had one of those."
"The medical schools aren't much better than the
apprentice programs. Charles Eliot has
made some improvements at Harvard since he
took over as president, but professors of the
caliber of Oliver Holmes are rare."
"Then if Harvard isn't all that good, I should have
no trouble getting in. I can enter without regular
college training so long as I pass the tests."
"But you have to be twenty-one to graduate," Gideon
countered. "I know that for a fact."
"Harvard has a four-year program. If I
enroll in that, I'll get more thorough training than
I would in their three-year program, and I'll be just
the right age at graduation."
Grudging admiration showed on Gideon's face for
an instant. "All right-let's grant that you can earn
your degree. What can you look forward to then?
Damned little except grueling work. Most doctors
have to turn to something else to earn a living."
Will was growing exasperated with Gideon's negative
thinking. "I know that."
caret "As for earning the respect of society in
general-you might as well hope to have
Lillian Russell fly through that window in the next
thirty seconds. A few, a very few doctors
are lucky enough-or well-connected enough-to have a
practice that gives them both a good income and some
social standing. Such practices don't aid and
comfort the suffering masses, however. Far from it. In a
profitable practice, the doctor only treats a
few wealthy households- servants included.
All his work is performed in the mansions of his
clients. Open an office for anything besides scheduling
your time or handling your accounts and you're telling the world
you're second rate. To use an office to treat
ordinary folk-or to work in a hospital or free
clinic-either one's an outright admission of
failure."
"Papa, let me ask you something. Whatever happened
to the idea of people in this family helping
others-regardless of the economic consequences?"
"That idea is very much alive."
"How can that be? You obviously don't want me
to go to medical school-was
"On the contrary, sir!" Gideon retorted. "I
said no such thing!"
Their voices had risen, and now a fist hammered the
wall of one of the adjoining bedrooms.
"Quiet down or we'll call the manager!"
Ignoring the complaint, Will scowled at his father.
"By God, sir, you've got me confused. Just what
the hell is it you want of me?"
ill
Gideon drew a long breath. He avoided
Julia's eyes; her face showed her disapproval
of the way he'd allowed the discussion to become a shouting
match. He resumed his pacing, but more slowly, and
said:
"I apologize for raising my voice. I had no
intention of starting a quarrel. I simply don't
want you to decide to go into medicine, then belatedly
recognize its negative aspects and quit."
"I recognize every one of them right now," Will

clared. Gideon didn't believe him. Still, he was
greatly encouraged by the conviction in his son's voice.
When he spoke, his warm tone showed it:
"Just one final word, then. Your stepmother and I really
don't want to discourage you. The fact is, if you
do go ahead, it will make us extremely proud.
Despite all the drawbacks, a career as a
doctor would be in the best tradition of this family."
Will's jaw had fallen. "If you'll
forgive my saying so, Papa, you have a damned
strange way of encouraging
someone."
Smiling again, Julia said, "Your father felt it was his
duty to make certain you understood what you were
undertaking."
"I do," Will told her. "I know it won't be
easy to make a handsome living as a doctor. But I
think I can do it. In any case, I'll bear all
the risks involved in the decision."
In fact, some of his father's remarks had come as a
happy revelation. Gideon had mentioned the very kind
of doctor he wanted to be; one who served a
select group of affluent patients, and grew rich
and renowned in the process.
I'll keep the promise. You'll see, Carter.
Gideon strode forward and clasped his son's arm.
"I know you can handle the course work at Harvard, no
matter how diffi-oh good God."
He drew his hand away from Will's sleeve. His
fingers were sticky with a dark brown substance.
"Axle grease," Will said with a rueful smile.
"That's about all that's left of the Brewster."
"It makes no difference. None!"
Father and sop embraced. Julia could see
her husband's face over Will's shoulder. Gideon
looked happy for the first time in months.
A Successful Man
AT FIRST WILL WAS ecstatic over his father's
endorsement of the decision to go to medical school. Then
memories of some of Gideon's statements about the
security of a medical career began to erode that
enthusiasm. Forty-eight hours after the discussion, he
was again in a doubtful frame of mind.
Despite a steady rain, he set out to walk and
think. From Madison Square he headed up
Broadway-the Rialto, New Yorkers called
it. Here you found all the best theaters, some with their
marquees already electrified.
One day Eleanor's name might appear on the
gaudy posters pasted up in front of a New
York playhouse. She might even have her name
listed above the title of the show-a sign of true
eminence. His sister, at least, was sure of the rewards
that her profession offered.
Of course she'd never be respectable. The best people
considered actors and actresses no better than
those who earned a living in trade. If a
Society hostess invited the cast of a hit play
to perform for her guests, the cast members were
never allowed to dine or mingle with the regular guests.
still
want more than that,
he thought as tie passed the Standard Theatre at
Thirty-third Street still
don't want just the sufferance of the best p. 1 want
acceptance.
A roast chestnut vendor was closing up his little cart
at the corner of Thirty-fourth. The vendor gave
Will a puzzled stare as he hurried by, a faraway
look on his face. To the vendor it seemed as if
Will was trying to gaze all the * way to the rocky
ledges of Central Park, where wild goats
wandered.
Will was actually trying to plan his future. Certain
things
about it were already evident. For one, he knew that if
he were to find a place in society, he'd have to do it
on his own. Even if he wanted to live off the
Kent fortune-which he didn't-the money would never
provide an entree to the best circles; it was too
new.
The Kent name wouldn't help, either. Might be a
hindrance, in fact. Besides the notorious Ward
McAllister encounter, there was something else
cloudy, even sinister, about Gideon's past, something
to do with the death of a man named Thomas Courtleigh.
No one ever said Gideon was responsible for
Court- leigh's death. But Will's father had been in
Courtleigh's office when- Courtleigh was killed
in mysterious circumstances. Will had also gotten
strong hints at home that Courtleigh was the person
responsible for his stepmother's stabbing at the same time.
He remembered that part vividly. For days, he and
Carter had kept a vigil at Julia's
bedside, expecting her to die. Gideon had gone
to Chicago, beside himself with anger and grief. And while
he was in Chicago, Thomas Courtleigh had been
shot to death-
Whatever else was unclear about the whole affair, one
thing was certain. It had left the Kent name
permanently tainted.
The rain pelted Will's face. He blinked and
looked around. He'd walked all the way to the
fifties on Fifth Avenue. Fifty-second
Street was just ahead. On his left rose the huge,
fortress-like triple brqwnstone built by William
Henry Vanderbilt. Both Vanderbilt and his father, the
old Commodore, had been immensely wealthy.
Neither had been accepted into Society.
Yet one of William Henry's sons,
William K. Vanderbilt, was now one of
Society's leaders. His wife was the woman who
had humbled Mrs. Astor.
He crossed Fifty-second to the northwest
corner, and the house Mrs. William K.
Vanderbilt had commissioned Richard Morris Hunt
to design. Depending on your views about mixing the
architecture of a French chateau and a Renaissance
palace and erecting the result on Fifth Avenue
at a cost of three million, the mansion was a
masterpiece or a monstrosity.
For Will the house had special significance. With
luck and diligence, you
could
climb higher than your parents had been able
to climb. You could escape the limitations they had
placed on themselves-and you-by reason of
their birth, occupation, and behavior. To most
Americana, that sort of highly visible
accomplishment was epitomized by admission
to Society.
Will genuinely wanted to help others. That was why
medicine held such a strong appeal for him. But he
also wanted to fulfill his promise-and, not
incidentally, disprove his dead mother's accusations. This
morning, in the rain, he was overwhelmed by a conviction
comt there was only one way for him to realize both
ambitions, and that was to live on a footing equal with the
country's elite.
It was a thoroughly American goal, he reminded
himself. The half-French, half-English bastard
who'd founded the Kent family had shipped to the
colonies for precisely the same reasons-to
escape the limitations of his past and better himself.
William K. Vanderbilt's mansion perfectly
summed up Will's new, sharply focused ambition.
It was the kind of house he wanted to own someday. It
was inhabited by the kind of people with whom he wanted
to associate. He leaned against the stone stoop of the
mansion, studying the roofline with an envious
expression. Suddenly the front door flew open.
A man in the maroon livery of the Vanderbilts
appeared, gazing down through the rain to where Will stood on
the sidewalk.
"No loitering on these premises. Move along!"
By God he
would
find a way to make his chosen career bring him all
this. Abruptly, then, he knew he must
take an important precaution before the family
returned to Boston comand certainly before he tackled
the medical school entrance examinations. He had
to speak with a doctor of the kind Gideon had
described. A wealthy, successful city
practitioner. Before he invested four years in a hard
program of study, it would be wise to verify that there
were doctors who lived well from their profession.
"I said move along!" the footman called. "If
you don't, we'll flash a message to the precinct
house."
Will grinned and held up his hands in a peacemaking
gesture:
"All right, I'm going." He started to walk
backwards. "But I'll be coming to visit one of these
days. I'll be invited."
The footman stood gaping from his shelter under the
massive stonework blazoned with acorns and oak
leaves, the emblems of the family. Will did a kind of
impromptu jig on the sidewalk, paying no
attention when a hack rolled through a puddle and
sprayed him with muddy water.
"Invited
here?"
the footman said to himself, closing the
massive door. "He's utterly mad. What is
happening to New York?"
ii
The staff of the
Union
included a reporter who specialized in
scientific subjects. Will went to see him at
Gideon's suggestion, though he didn't tell his
father the precise reason for the visit. He merely
said he wanted to do some investigation of the medical
field. Gideon seemed to approve.
The reporter was cordial when Will dropped in, and
agreed to help him contact one of the town's better
doctors:
"I suppose you want to speak with the most skillful
man you can find?"
"Skillful? Not necessarily. I want to meet
a successful one."
"There's a difference?"
"To me there is."
The reporter frowned, less friendly now. The next
day he sent a list of names to the hotel. One name was
underlined, with a marginal notation:
Said to have a net comworth in excess of one
million. This would make him most
"successful" of those listed.
Will fumed over the cynicism. But he soon pushed
aside his annoyance. All that mattered was locating
a prosperous doctor who would answer some candid
questions. That, the reporter had done:
Cyrus Coates Vlandingham, M.d.
Even the name had the ring of success.
Dr. Cyrus Coates Vlandingham conducted his
practice in a number of large homes in and
adjacent to Stuyvesant Square. Here dwelled
what was called the Faubourg Saint- Germain
Set-New York's oldest and most prestigious
families, aristocrats who refused to follow the
"new swells" who were moving uptown to Fifth
Avenue.
Vlandingham maintained a tiny office near
Madison Square, but this was solely for handling his
books. He had no consulting rooms. Will sent his
note to the bookkeeping office. After two days he
received a reply. Dr. Vlandingham agreed to meet
him, but it would have to be at Sherry's, where the doctor
always lunched when in the city. Vlandingham's note then
made gratuitous mention of summering in Newport,
a small resort town on an island in
Narragansett Bay. Forty or fifty
years earlier Newport had been a popular
warm-weather retreat for Southern rice and cotton
planters. Now it was beginning to attract some of the
better New York families.
Will put on his best outfit and took a hack
to Sherry's at the appointed time. A pompous head
waiter with gleaming patent leather pumps and waxed
mustache points bowed him to Dr. Vlandingham's
regular table in a quiet alcove.
The doctor was in his late fifties. A husky
man; broad- shouldered, with a midsection resembling
a prize pear. Large dark eyes and a deep,
hearty voice instantly inspired confidence. He
wore expensive clothes.
Will marveled at the nonchalance with which Vlandingham
ordered luncheon and wine for both of them-in French.
As the waiter glided away, Vlandingham said:
"I am of course familiar with your family, Mr.
Kent. And with your father's newspaper. A Socialist
rag, if you don't mind my saying so. The
Union's
soft position on the Haymarket bombers is
particularly dangerous to American institutions.
Men like those anarchists waste the time of our
judiciary. They're animals and they've
proved it. They deserve lynching, not due
process."
From the pocket of his waistcoat the doctor took a
small gold box. Out of the box came a gold
toothpick.
"But your note said you were contemplating a medical
career, not one in journalism."
That's right, sir."
"Happy to hear you've chosen something respectable."
An unctuous smile. Then Vlandiagham began
to work the gold toothpick between two lower front
teeth.
Will resented Vlandingham's remarks about the
Union,
although he'd heard similar criticism many times
before. He supposed it was a tribute to the power of his
father's newspaper that the doctor had agreed to this
meeting in spite of his disgust with the
Union's
editorial viewpoint.
Presently the doctor finished probing between his teeth
and laid the toothpick aside. An obsequious
sommelier served the wine. There was an elaborate
ritual involving the drawing of the cork, Vlandingham
sniffing it, the waiter pouring a little
into Vlandingham's glass, and the doctor sipping. After
ten seconds of frowning reflection, he gave a
nod of approval. At that point the waiter filled
both glasses. "I believe you'll enjoy the
wine," Vlandingham remarked as he took another
sip. "It's an unpretentious but frolicsome little
Vouvray." To Will it tasted like a cold, faintly
sweet white wine, nothing more. He knew the fault
was with himself, not the wine. He was increasingly in awe
of the doctor.
"By the way, Mr. Kent. Lest we conduct this
interview on the basis of mistaken assumptions,
I must inform you that my practice does not lend itself
to apprentices. I have never had one, in fact."
"I'm not looking for an apprenticeship, sir.
If I can pass the entrance tests next month, I
plan to study at Harvard."
"Oh, do you. Well, university training seems
to be the preferred method these days. I was educated
under the apprentice system, and I remain partial
to it." A purse of the lips, quick and
self-satisfied. "It
is
the method advocated in the Hippocratic oath."
They drank more wine.
"Have you decided to undertake any specialized
training at Harvard, Mr. Kent?"
Will smiled. "No, Doctor, I hadn't thought that
far. I'm just starting to cram for the entrance tests."
"A specialty is no laughing matter, sir! It
can be highly lucrative. I'd suggest you consider
one in particular. The treatment of female diseases."
He leaned back, twirling his wine glass. "It's
a specialty which neither taxes the practitioner's
intelligence nor un288
duly dominates his time. That's because all female
complaints, from
prolapsus uteri
to nervous headaches to various cancers, have but one
source-the uterus. And one cause-some deficiency
therein. Despite the claims of a few crackpots,
the old, familiar treatments are still the best. I
refer to application of
leeches-injections-cauterization. Do consider it,
sir. It can be worth a great deal of money to you.
Especially in a well-to-do neighborhood."
At that, Vlandingham allowed himself a smile. Will was
impressed.
Primed by the wine, the doctor grew less formal.
He draped an arm over the plush
banquette and said:
"Harvard's supposed to have a good medical school.
The trouble is, too many universities are
employing professors who teach radical rot.
Listerism-was
He gave the word a dirty sound. Will had done some
reading about Joseph Lister. The English surgeon
believed in using carbolic acid to prevent
transmission of infection. Lister had stated the
idea more than twenty years before, but it still was not
universally accepted. Even some of the Harvard
medical faculty violently opposed it.
Vlandingham wanted to be sure Will had no doubt about
his opinion:
"Listerism is nonsense. Only last week, I
treated a young female patient afflicted with a mild
case of puerperal fever. One hour later I
supervised the delivery of another patient's fine
infant son, and I saw no need to perform foolish,
ritualistic hand-washings in between. Of course it
might be a sensible precaution for doctors who must
work in the public almshouses, and in general
hospitals. There the air is usually foul, and
consequently a carrier of disease."
The disdainful expression on Vlandingham's
face said that of course he never found it necessary to enter
such low establishments. Still, a hand-washing might have
been in order, Will thought. The doctor's fingernails
looked none too clean.
After pouring more wine, Vlandingham raised his glass.
"Here's to your ambition, Mr. Kent. Now in what
specific way may I be of assistance?"
Will began his carefully planned appeal:
"I need advice, Dr. Vlandingham. Can I
look forward to a decent future if I study
medicine? I believe it's a doctor's duty
to help as many people as he can. It's that aspect that
started me thinking about medical school in, the first
place-was
"Laudable, very laudable." But Vlandingham had lost
interest. Even as he spoke, he was shifting his
attention to three fashionably dressed young women
at a nearby table. His eyes grew moist as he
watched them. Will went on:
"On the other hand, I don't want to become a
doctor and starve."
Vlandingham's chuckle had an arch sound; Will had
recaptured his interest:
"Do I appear to be starving, Mr. Kent?"
"No, but-maybe you're an exception."
"Quite right. I am an exception because I have chosen
to be. You can make the very same choice."
Will shook his head, dubious. "A lot of people, my
own father among them, tell me that being a doctor
means being a pauper too."
"People who say that are thinking solely of run-of-the-
mill physicians. Short-sighted mediocrities
who permit their altruism to override their common
sense. I was born amid the rocks of New
Hampshire. Early on, I decided I would never
tolerate the sort of poverty my father endured in a
lifetime of farming. When I finished my
appreticeship I married a young woman of poor
health but impeccable family connections. She's long
dead now, God rest her-was
Again his eyes slid across the rim of his glass to the
breasts of one of the young women. A sip; a
delicate belch. Then he dabbed his lips with the
back of a veined hand and continued: -
"The various entries my wife provided before her
untimely death enabled me to establish a practice which
now earns in excess of one hundred thousand dollars
per year. How much in excess we shall leave to your
imagination. But I assure you, Mr. Kent-it is
entirely possible to practice the healing
arts without wearing the hair shirt. Does that answer
your question?"
"Yes, Doctor. It does."
"Excellent! Believe me, doctors who go
hungry have
chosen
to go hungry. They regard their oath as more
important than the contents of an investment
portfolio-an error I do not make, I assure
you. Then, having engineered their own failure, they
point an accusatory finger at any physician
who is successful."
Vlandingham noted a flicker of uncertainty in
Will's eyes. He leaned forward:
"One must not, of course, leave the impression that
nothing matters except profit. The practice of
medicine is important in and of itself. But I make
no apology for plying my skills among those who can
best afford to pay. Each physician serves a
certain segment of humanity either by chance or by choice.
Some choices, however, are incomprehensible. My
older brother is also a doctor. Growing up in
New Hampshire together, we were quite close. He had
one queer streak in his makeup, however. He seemed
to consider our father's toil on the farm
acceptable. Even ennobling, somehow. Ridiculous,
eh? My brother and I started on the same road.
Our paths soon parted, however. Clement married the
daughter of the man under whom he served his
apprenticeship. An old country practitioner.
A misguided dodderer who believed his first obligation
was to his patients, not himself. My foolish brother
caught that disease and hied himself to the worst slum in this
city-was
"He practices in New York?"
Vlandingham nodded. "The need was keenest in the
slums, he said with that superior air I quickly
came to loathe. Perhaps he likes the slums because he
has no competition. Everyone wants to practice in
my part of town. Only a madman or a hack would
choose his. But he's stayed there to this day,
surviving God knows how. His wife died eighteen
months ago, worn out by helping him eke out a
pathetic living. We never see one another. I
can't stand his odor of failure. Or his stupidity."
Vlandingham finished his wine. "Why should a doctor
choose to serve any segment of humanity except the
best? The answer is, he shouldn't. Not if he
possesses an iota of intelligence or
self-esteem. No, Mr. Kent," he
concluded in a reflective way, "be neither ashamed
of your desire to make money in medicine, nor
doubtful of your ability to do so."
Will watched his host with admiring eyes. Overwhelmed
by Vlandingham's worldliness and hence persuaded by his
arguments, he silently agreed with everything the
doctor said. Cyrus Coates Vlandingham was
obviously a successful man, and one worth
emulating. When Will went into practice, his hands
might be cleaner, but his style of life would
be comparable . And by means of his skill, he'd rise
to the topmost level of society and leave the other
Kents and their questionable reputation far behind.
The waiter arrived with plates bearing silver
dishes. In each dish, raw oysters on the half
shell rested on a bed of rock salt. Vlandingham
made an appreciative murmur, then added a
final thought:
"The splendid thing about medicine is that it
can
serve the practitioner as well as the patient. One
must only remember to put first things first-was
His brown eyes slid past Will to one of the young women
at the nearby table. She had raised her arm. Now
she lowered it, concealing the lush curve of her
breast. Vlandingham sighed, then noticed Will watching.
He broke into a big 'smile. Winked and said:
"First things first-eh, Mr. Kent?"
Will smiled too. "Absolutely."
"I believe you'll make a very intelligent
doctor." So saying, Vlandingham attacked his first
oyster with a small silver fork. Part of the oyster
refused to come free of the shell. With no hesitation,
the doctor laid his fork aside and resorted to his
fingers. He popped the remaining bit of oyster
into his mouth, ate it with lip-smacking gusto, then
licked his fingers one by one.
CHAPTER XV
Journey's End
THE LATE SEPTEMBER DAY carried a bitter
foretaste of winter. The sky was gray, the wind
gusty, the intermittent rain unusually cold. The
rain grew heavier just as Will reached the foot of the
massive marble staircase. It had a set of steps
on each side, leading up to a landing and the main entrance
of the Harvard Medical School.
The school building stood on Boylston Street
at Exeter, in Boston. After having been located
near Massachusetts General Hospital for
nearly forty years, the school had moved
to this new, more modern structure in 1883.
Will shivered as he hurried up the steps. Rain
dripped from his hat, and despite kidskin gloves,
his hands were growing numb. He carried a small,
cheap satchel. The satchel contained his admission
papers, including one which verified that he'd passed the
examinations in English, Latin, physics,
chemistry, and one elective-he'd picked
botany-and had therefore been admitted to the medical
school.
The steps were slippery. Will kept his eye on them as
he rushed to the top. Consequently he failed to see
another young man coming up the stairs on the opposite
side. On the landing, the two of them collided.
Will's left shoe slid out from under him. If he
hadn't grabbed the balustrade with his left hand,
he'd have taken a bad fall. As it was, his
flailing loosened his grip on the satchel. It shot
away, flung into a high arc that ended a few
seconds later on the pavement of busy Boylston
Street.
He clutched the stone railing and watched a team
pulling a brewery wagon clip-clop over the
satchel, knocking it back and forth under their hooves.
When the wagon passed, he saw that the
satchel's clasp had broken open. He started
to run down the steps. Suddenly the wind scooped the
papers from inside the satchel and scattered them in
all directions.
"Oh my God," he said in disgust, stopping.
From the landing, the other young man said, "I'm really
sorry, old fellow. My fault, I'm
afraid."
Will turned and forced himself to say, "Just an accident.
No one's fault."
The other young man looked relieved. He was a year
or two older than W. And fat-Lord above, he was
fat. If Vlandingham was a pear, this chap was a
giant melon, with a smaller melon perched on
top. Curly red-gold hair, soaked now, lay
close to his head. His face and ungloved hands were
white and soft as bread dough. His plain muffler and
dark, tent-like overcoat looked homemade.
The rain slacked off abruptly. Will was nervous about
walking through the doors of Harvard Medical School
for the first time. The building had a forbidding quality.
So he
was almost grateful for a distraction, although he'd have
preferred some other kind. There was no point in rushing
to collect his papers. They were ruined;
soaked by muddy water and torn by the traffic. Even
as he looked down, a sway-backed hack horse
paused and made a steaming deposit on one of them.
Will's mouth dropped open. Students were coming up both
sides of the staircase. Some-upperclassmen,
to judge from their studied air of boredom-laughed at
his bad luck. Others, inexperience clearly
written on their faces, did not. But he quickly
saw the humor in the situation and broke out laughing.
The fat boy joined in.
"New student, are you?" he said to W. In marked
contrast to his appearance, his voice was forceful, even
a trifle bullying. He pronounced
are
as if it were spelled
ah.
"That's right. My name's Will Kent." "Drew
Hastings."
They shook hands in a solemn way. Hastings" hand
was much stronger than it looked. "From Boston?" Will
asked.
"Born in Bangor, Maine. I live in
Hartford, Connecticut now." It came out
Hahtford.
"Are you taking the four year program?"
A shake of the head. "Three. You?" "Four-if I
can survive that long." "Well, the addition of
cum laude
after my degree is a luxury the Hastings family
can't afford. That's the only substantial difference
between the programs, you know. Af'four years, you
graduate doctor of medicine
cum laude."
He sounded defensive. And what he'd said about the
programs was oversimplified. Will saw no point
in arguing, though.
Hastings wiped a stubby nose that had developed a
drip. "By George, I truly am sorry I
didn't see you." Will laughed again and pointed to the
paper on which the horse had relieved himself.
"That's a hell of a way to start, isn't it? There's
one consolation. Things surely can't get worse."
"Oh, I don't know," Hastings countered in a
teasing tone. "Because of the local laws, the school is
always short of cadavers. I hear underclassmen are
sometimes sent out to dig up one or two."
"Dig-?"
"Figuratively or otherwise. No questions
asked." Hastings glanced at the papers littering the
street. "I wouldn't even bother to pick
those up. Come on, let's get out of this wretched
weather."
Will didn't move. "What's the matter?" Hastings
asked, "Haven't changed your mind, have you?"
Will's chin came up a little. "Not on your life."
"Then let's go in."
"You go ahead. I'll get my satchel. The
papers are ruined but maybe the satchel isn't."
"Suit yourself," Hastings said with an amiable shrug.
He turned and marched through the doors. his
Students continued to stream up both stairways. They
paid no attention to Will as he returned to the street and
rescued the mud-spattered satchel. Doing that gave
him a few minutes to gather his nerve and reflect
on the remarkable events that had brought
him
here, to this place, at this moment.
He had learned a great deal on the long journey that
had taken him to Theodore Roosevelt's ranch in
the Dakota Bad Lands; to Lon Adam's side
at the campfire; to Vlandingham's table at
Sherry's Restaurant, and then to Harvard. At
last he could see the continuity of the journey. He
hadn't realized it at the time, but each step had led
inevitably to the next. And from here, he
knew exactly where he wanted to go:
To possession of a mansion like William K.
Vanderbilt's.
To prominence as a member of Society.
To a good marriage with someone who could help him
establish a practice among the best people, as
Vlanding- ham's wife had done.
And most important of all, to fulfillment of his
promise to his stepbrother.
Slowly, he started up the steps again. Halfway
to the landing, he quickened his pace. Started taking the
steps two at a time. One journey was over,
another beginning, Roosevelt was wrong, he thought as
he strode to the doors. There was no need to make a
choice. But if there ever were such a need, he was sure
about which way he'd gt greater-than .
He would go Vlandingham's way.
That same night, Gideon turned over in bed and
punched his pillow. Julia murmured in the dark:
"Can't you sleep, darling?"
"No."
"Are you upset about something?"
"On the contrary, I feel wonderful. I've been
thinking of Will, that's all. He said his first day at
Harvard was just fine."
"I'm glad. But I'm terribly sleepy."
"All right, I'll be quiet."
He kissed her cheek, then slipped his arm around her
and held her close. A sudden painful pressure
at the midpoint of his chest reminded him of time
hurrying on. But now it no longer mattered quite so
much. Idealism had finally won out over less
laudable characteristics. Gideon's son-his best
hope for leadership of the family-was on the right path
at last
Book Three
The Upward Path
In Galveston
THAT AUTUMN, AS WILL was starting the long climb
to the goal he'd set for himself, Carter was wandering with
no goal, and a doubt in his mind as to whether he would
ever find any work that suited him. He'd left
Texarkana in the spring, drifting south. He'd
tried cattle ranching and a number of other jobs.
All had proved unsatisfactory. He spent
no more than a week at any of them, always moving
on. As a golden October began, he reached the
Gulf Coast of Texas with just a few dollars in
his pocket.
From Galveston Bay he took a ferry
out to the thriving port city at the east end of
Galveston Island. A man in Houston had told
him there was always cargo to be handled at the
harborside, and strong backs needed to handle it.
Perhaps he was drawn to the long, flat island with its
subtropical vegetation because it was a shipping center.
It smelled of the sea. It reminded him of home.
The bad memories of his last months in Boston were
fading; some of them, anyway. He missed the bustle
of the docks, and the carefree life of people who made
then" living from fishing and maritime commerce. He felt
at ease as he wandered by the piers and saw the baled
cotton, the barrels of flour, the drums of rope,
and the crates of cigars waiting to be shipped.
He spent the afternoon of his first day in Galveston
strolling residential side streets near the center
of town. He passed low adobe walls with
luxuriant gardens on the other side. The
heavily-shaded houses, mostly with a Spanish
flavor, looked substantial and not inexpensive.
Palmetto leaves rattled their spear-like foliage
in the warm sea wind. He could imagine how sweet
and soft the air must smell in
the springtime, when the magnolias and azaleas were
blooming.
As the sun began to drop over the coast Jean
Lafitte had sailed some seventy years earlier,
he ambled back to the main section, admiring the
city's Custom House, its solid- looking
theater, its Cotton Exchange. Across from the last,
he saw a clean-looking saloon whose gaudy sign
announced it as the
Sam Houston Rest.
He fished in his pocket, counted his money, realized
he was hungry, and with his bedroll over his shoulder and his
second-hand Montana peak hat shading his face,
crossed the dusty street and pushed through the saloon
doors.
It was his first mistake.

The place was popular, and noisy. Seamen and
stevedores lined the bar. Carter had finished a tough
piece of steak and was mopping up the gravy with a slab
of bread when a round-faced stranger in a derby
approached his table. The man had bland brown eyes,
a stubby nose, and a short beard fringing his chin. He
was about thirty-five; conventionally dressed. A
merchant, Carter guessed.
"You look like a stranger in Galveston," the man
said with soft Southern speech and a friendly
smile.
Wary, Carter returned his bread to his plate.
"You're right."
"Mighty nice town. Mighty nice weather most
of the year. About one more month and we'll see the end of
hurricane season. Then we'll rest a lot
easier."
The man took off his derby and offered an
apologetic smile. "Don't mean to intrude.
It's just that the barkeep pointed you out as a newcomer
and my brother-in-law, he's lookin' to hire a
young man like you."
The man's apology reassured Carter. He
relaxed and prepared to finish his bread and gravy. But
first he said, "To do what?"
"Porter in a boarding house. Out on the edge of
town."
A porter? Carter rebelled at the idea. There
should be better work available. Of course no work was
very attractive to him. But he was nearly broke.
He supposed it wouldn't hurt to explore this
opportunity; maybe even take
the job for a few days. That would give him time to look
for something better.
His distrust of the stranger was quickly
disappearing. The man was holding his derby in his hands,
and with those round cheeks and that fringe of beard, he
looked like a slightly overweight saint.
"I might be interested in talking to your
brother-in-law," Carter said. To make sure the
man knew who was in charge, he added, "As soon as
I finish my meal and my beer. Meantime, why
don't you sit down?"
"Thanks kindly."
The man bobbed his head, took a chair and held out
his hand. "Name's Olaf. James Olaf. I'm a
Kentucky Scotsman on my mother's side, and
immigrant Swede on my father's. Care for a
cigar?"
Carter pushed his plate away and hesitated only
a moment. A cigar would taste fine with the last of his
beer. He accepted, bent to the match Olaf
extended, then leaned back in his chair and introduced
himself.
The meal had been his first solid one in a couple of
days. He'd eaten so fast, he felt
uncomfortable; a little dizzy. The cigar seemed
to enhance the feeling. But he was so used to being tired and
light-headed from lack of food and exposure to the
elements, he didn't think much about it.
Sunshine slanted through a dusty window a few feet
away. A ship's horn sounded in the harbor.
Gulls cried in the fading autumn day. A sad
season. A lonesome season. But they were all lonesome
when you were wandering far from home.
"Shall we go?" Olaf asked presently, a touch of
impatience in his voice.
A little glassy-eyed, Carter leaned back.
"I'll be ready soon."
"Yes, of course, didn't mean to rush you,"
Olaf murmured. Carter tilted his stein and drained
it, thus missing the quick flash of hostility in his
benefactor's deceptive eyes.
in
He should have been warned by the men loitering on the steps
of the boarding house that sat on the
Gulf
side of the
island, just outside of town. It was a large
place-three stories combuilt on rotting pilings
sunk in the sand. There was a palmetto thicket to the
west, but no vegetation around the house itself except
for a couple of patches of sea oats bending in the
sunset breeze. Several miles out on the
whitecapped Gulf, a side-wheeler
spewed black smoke from its funnels as it plowed
in the direction of New Orleans.
Carter's attention was focused on the two men,
emaciated and dirty, who were lounging on the steps.
One had a ring in his ear-an unpleasant reminder of
Ortega. The other was whittling. Carter couldn't
bring himself to look at the knife. He knew both
men looked shady, yet at the same time he
didn't care. He was still pleasantly tipsy from the
beer-unusual for just one stein to do that to him-and so he
wasn't as cautious as he should have been.
"Come on in," Olaf said, a comradely arm across
Carter's shoulder; yet there was pressure in
Olaf's hand, as if he were hurrying Carter past the
loungers. One said something Carter couldn't hear. The
other snickered.
Inside, there was little light, and a heavy smell of
cigar smoke and beer. In a minuscule room to the
right of the frowsy entrance hall, Carter saw two more
roughnecks leaning on a bar made of a plank and
two ship's kegs. In a chair in a corner sat
a yellow-haired girl in a chemise. Skinny,
yet touchingly pretty. Twenty or so, Carter
figured, smiling at her. She smiled in return,
smoothing the front of her chemise so that her
small breasts stood out.
"We like to make our boarders comfortable," Olaf said
with an understanding chuckle. "Seamen expect certain
amenities any place they stay-was He had led
Carter to the back of the hall, and now pushed open a
door to a kitchen. A heavy black woman was
frying potatoes at an iron stove.
"Horace here?"
"Gone to Houston overnight, Mist' Olaf.
Business. Your sister went too."
Olaf looked upset. "Horace didn't tell
me he'd be away."
"Came up sudden like."
"Yes, but I brought this young man here to talk about the
porter's job."
The black woman studied Carter through the smoke
rising from her skillet. Quickly she lifted the pan
from the stove top and cooled it, hissing, in a
bucket of water. "Mist* Horace say he be
back on the first morning ferry. We ain't
full tonight. The young gen'man could have a bed, I
"spose."
"Capital idea," Olaf said, beaming. "We'll
even give him a drink on the house. Thank you,
Maum Charlene," he added with great
politeness.
In the makeshift barroom, only the girl
remained. Olaf introduced her as a distant cousin
of Horace's, from up San Antonio way. Her
name was Lu Ann. "You're welcome to chat with her,
Mr. Kent, but I'm afraid the largesse of the
house doesn't include her favors. Any
arrangement you make with her is strictly a cash
transaction."
Carter nodded blearily, still feeling the effect of the
beer. "Fair enough," he mumbled. Olaf poured
him a drink of surprisingly good bourbon, and
left.
He sat down and began to chat with Lu Ann. She
offered him another cigar, and after a few puffs he
grew foggier still-drunkenly dizzy-and before long found
himself toasting the little yellow-haired whore:
"To you, Miss Lu Ann. The most beautiful
girl in Texas. The world, maybe."
She laughed, showing bad teeth. "My, my, Mr.
Kent Ypu have a charming way to talkin", indeed you
do."
"You inspire it, ma'am," he said with a grin, knowing
that he shouldn't let down so completely, yet too
tired and drunk to care. "I do believe
I've fallen in love with you." In his state, it was
almost true.
She reached out, dropped her hand between his legs and
began to stroke slowly:
"I declare, Mr. Kent-you just take a girl's
breath away. I "spose we could do somethin" about
the way you feel, though I hate to bring up such a
thing as the price of our enjoyin' ourselves in my
room."
He told her he still had two dollars. It was
enough.
He finished the cigar, which he had decided smelled
curiously sweet-or was that Miss Lu Ann's
scent? He followed her up to her quarters-the door
had a tin numeral on it-where she disposed of her
chemise, and he was soon floundering on top of her.
Of the rest he remembered very little.
In the middle of the night he rolled on top of Lu
Ann for a second romp, gushing out a lot of
silly words about her beauty, and when it was finished,
he slept long and hard. He roused in response
to someone shaking him.
"Lu Ann?" he mumbled, his eyes not yet open.
"Wake up," said a familiar voice. "Wake
up and pay your bill."
Carter sat up and reached for his drawers, befuddled
by the sight of James Olaf with a marlin spike
stuck in his belt, a piece of paper in his hand, and a
decidedly ugly expression on his face.
iv
"Pay-?" Carter repeated.
Olaf thrust the paper at him. "Four hundred and
six dollars."
He didn't think he'd heard correctly. "For
what?"
"Read, for Christ's sake!" Olaf shook the
paper.
Sure enough, there it was-itemized.
Lodging. Liquor. Extra.
The extra amounted to a hundred and fifty dollars.
Dumbfounded, Carter pointed to the last item.
"What's this?"
Olaf sniggered. "You mean you forgot little Miss
Lu Ann already?"
For the first time, he realized she was gone. "She told
me-she told me it cost two dollars!"
Another laugh; harsh this time. "What the hell does
she know? She's only been here a week. The
customers pay me."
Carter raked fingers through his hair as he
peered at the bill, noting that it was soiled and
wrinkled, as if it had been used many times. There was
no name at the top, merely a notation.
Charges, Room 6.
The tin numeral on the open door was 6, he saw.
"Where's the girl-?" he began.
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
"But I thought-was
"That she liked you? She does what she's told,
friend."
"Let me speak to the man who runs this place.
Your brother-in-law."
"Horace?" He smirked. "No such fellow. I
run this place."
Carter began to realize how stupidly he'd
behaved. Hunger, tiredness, and the need for a little
companionship had
I
lulled him out of his usual wariness. In his hand he
held
the result.
He thought of the girl, and of his foolish babbling. How
she must be laughing. She'd put one over on him.
Put one over on the glib Mr. Carter Kent,
who always fancied himself
in charge of things.
Somehow, being gulled by the little yellow-haired whore was
worse than being cheated by this-this-
He couldn't finish. He didn't know the word he
wanted. What was this place? The answer came
suddenly from the past; from "his memories of the
docks of Boston:
"This is a damn crimping operation. You're all in
cahoots."
"Smart boy for a Yankee," Olaf said with a
chilly smile. "Guess you're quick enough to figure
what comes next, then. A choice. You can go to jail
for refusal to pay my fair and lawful charges, or
you can sign on as an ordinary seaman on the
Gulf Empress,
leaving day after tomorrow."
"For where?"
"Liverpool, Marseilles-you'll only be gone
half a year or thereabouts. Don't think you can go to the
law about this. They're friends of mine."
Carter shivered under the coverlet he was still clutching
against his middle. He thought he heard someone tread
on a board in the hall. Had the crimp brought
help, just in case?
He eyed the room. No windows, but he
seemed to recall one in the corridor.
Desperate, he knew he had to choose an option
he detested.
"All right," he said, feigning defeat. "Guess
I don't want to go to jail."
"You Yankees have some brains after all," Olaf
chortled, weaving the paper. "Pull your britches
on. Maum Charlene will feed you a plate of
grits, and then I'll introduce you to the master of the
Empress"
Carter nodded, rubbed his stubbled jaw, lurched from
bed, and got dressed. Just as he was buttoning up his
denim pants, Olaf turned and stepped through the
door to -- say something to whoever was waiting
outside. Seeing his chance, Carter lunged and hit
him in the back.
Behind Bars
JAMES OLAF WAS HURLED across the hall so
violently, his chin tore a hole in the flimsy
wall. He hung there a second or so, his right hand
clawing for the spike in his belt. "Help, help up
here!" he bellowed.
A man leaped at Carter from the left; one of the
loungers he'd seen on the front steps the night
before. Carter ducked as the man hacked the
air with his whittling knife. Suddenly he smelled
fish. His stomach ached so badly, he wanted to double
over.
The knife shaved past Carter's left arm. He
drove two hard but clumsy punches into the man's
midsection. The man reeled ba'ckward, off
balance. Not far behind him, there was a landing where the
stairs went down to the left. At the far side of the
landing was the window Carter remembered. Beyond it, calm
water glittered in the morning sun.
Terror drying his mouth, he charged the staggering
man"- and hit him with his shoulder, driving him toward
the glass. The man realized he was falling, and fought
for balance. That gave Carter a chance to rush in beneath the
man's knife hand, seize his old blue seaman's
shirt and fling him sideways down the stairs.
Halfway to the bottom, he crashed into the black
woman, Maum Charlene, who was coming up with a
shotgun in her big hands.
Arms and legs flew, the gun discharged, and shot
punched scores of small holes in the ceiling
directly over
the stairs. Carter had other things on his
mind-chiefly
"Olaf, who was running toward him full
tilt, swinging the
marlin spike in a murderous arc.
Carter backed toward the window but miscalculated the
distance. He struck the glass too quickly and
forcefully. It
gave way. He flung his arm over his face and
tumbled through with a strangled oath. Because of his fall, the
spike missed his face by three inches, burying its
tip in the window frame instead.
Amid a shower of glass, he rolled down the
sloping roof below the window. The roof saved him from a
serious injury; when he tumbled off the eave, he
fell only six feet to the sand. He fought to get his
wind back as he scrambled to his feet. He ran
toward Galveston in fear of his life.
u
When he reached the center of Galveston with no sign
of pursuit, he calmed down and tried to reassure
himself that the incident was over. He'd hear no more from
Olaf-the man was obviously a crook, and couldn't
afford to draw attention to his crimping operation.
He was famished. But he had no money for a meal; his
trousers had been searched while he slept in Lu
Ann's bed. His Montana peak hat and his
bedroll had been left behind, so he had
nothing to sell, either. He'd have to steal the price of the
ferry to the mainland, or sneak aboard. But that could
wait until he filled his growling belly. That
decision was his second mistake. Carter was foraging
for food in the garbage cans of a large hotel when
two uniformed men suddenly appeared at the mouth of the
alley, billy clubs in hand.
"There he is!" the taller policeman shouted,
charging. Carter turned to run, bumped against one of the
garbage barrels and overturned it. He slipped and
fell in a slimy heap of cold meat fat, fruit
rinds, coffee grounds-all of it stinking like hell.
"Fits the description," panted the other officer as
the two raced up to him, clubs ready. This time
Carter was in no mood to fight. He lay there in the
garbage, staring up at their coarse faces. The
bigger officer leaned down and grinned:
"Say somethin', boy." "How-how'd you find me?"
"Why, Jim Olaf came to see the
captain-Jim's got a lot of friends in town,
y'understand. He described you and the
rest was easy. We Just started lookminin for a
dark-haired,
well set-up Yankee tramp. Your accent just
filled in the last bit of identification.
You're a Yankee, all right."
"An' he's right where a Yankee belongs," said the
other, grinning even wider than his companion. "In
the slops."
He drew his booted foot back and kicked
Carter's genitals. Carter screamed and clutched
himself. After the fourth kick, he faulted.
m
The magistrate was an avuncular man with white
side whiskers. He identified himself as another friend
of Jim Olaf so. The crimp must have paid off half
the damn town!
The charge was defrauding an innkeeper. Carter
tried to speak in his own defense but was gaveled
to silence. The magistrate sentenced him to thirty
days in jail.
On the eleventh day of his jail term the fringe of a
tropical storm brushed Galveston with heavy
rains and howling winds, and Carter was glad to be
indoors. The food wasn't bad in jail, either.
Each meal included greasy grits, but at least the
plate and tin cup were shoved into his cell three
times daily.
Even so, he nearly went crazy in the confines of the
six by ten foot cell with its plank
sleeping platform, its bucket of tepid,
bug-infested wash water, and its second, uncovered
pail for his own wastes. The jailor was supposed
to empty the waste pail once a day but he often
forgot. Complaints were useless.
A small, high window in the cell overlooked a
side street bar that Carter often watched for hours
by standing on the plank platform. Late one afternoon, he
saw Olaf drive by in an expensive buggy,
two finely dressed girls riding with him under
parasols, chatting and laughing. One was the little
yellow-haired trollop. Carter clutched the bars
and stared after her with a stricken look.
The month in the Galveston jail was an experience
that scarred Carter, just as other brushes with violent
death and deceitful people had scarred him. The cell was
the most potent proof he'd yet encountered that if you
didn't run others, they'd run you.
He thought about the yellow-haired girl, and of how
* T
foolishly he'd trusted her. Under the influence of
beer and what surely must have been cigars
impregnated with some kind of drug, he'd even
gotten sentimental over her. And while the girl was
no one he really cared about, her deception
humiliated him.
He thought a lot about the Greek woman, too. In
a way, he had also trusted Helen Stavros.
He'd trusted her beauty, her warm eyes, her
smile-and they had deceived him. She had meant for them
to do that. Helen Stavros had made him suspicious
of all women, disand now the yellow-haired girl had
confirmed and solidified that suspicion.
Women had their place, he supposed. A man
needed them for physical satisfaction. But as for
loving them- trusting them-he had been suspicious of
that before he came to Galveston, and now he knew he
was right.
As for trusting men-strangers such as Olaf who
smiled and pretended to be decent, generous,
helpful-well, the cell demonstrated where
that
got you. He concluded that the only people in the entire
world it would be safe for him to trust were his mother, Will, and
Gideon-none of whom he'd ever see again,
probably.
Therefore he was alone in a world of Olafs and Lu
Anns-a world of potential enemies. He'd long
suspected it. Now he knew it. So if he
didn't behave accordingly, he was a damn
fool-
Which was exactly what he'd been thus far in
Galveston. Like the fearful lesson of the Red
Cod, that was another he wouldn't soon forget.
* iv
On the day he was released, a policeman
escorted him to the ferry and paid his passage across to the
mainland. It was a gray November morning,
unseasonably cold for Texas. A light
drizzle was falling. The policeman turned up the
collar of his old overcoat and said:
"On your way, now. Don't let us see you in
Galveston again, boy."
"You won't."
"Where you headin'? North?"
Carter hadn't the slightest idea. He gazed out
past the docked ferry and the rain-stippled Gulf to the
coast; a vast,
slate-colored flatland embracing Galveston
Bay. Earth, water, and dark gray sky seemed
to fuse into one immense and hostile waste in which he
had no home, countless en, emies, little future,
and less hope.
His spirits sank. What good were the lessons he'd
learned? What good was cleverness,
ambition-anything? He was alone and all that had
happened to him in Galveston could well happen to
him
again, no matter how carefully he guarded against it.
Then the unquenchable Kent optimism came to his
aid. He brought his chin up. Forced a smile that
surprised the shivering policeman.
"Don't know where I'm going," he answered. "But
you'll hear from me one of these days, you can bet.
Galveston's going to feel bad about treating me the
way it did."
He said it with such conviction, the officer couldn't bring
himself to laugh. Cocking his head, he asked:
"That a threat or just a promise?"
Carter held up both hands. "Oh, a promise.
Threats can get you killed."
Smiling that dazzling smile, Carter stepped onto
the ferry and tried to ignore the rain, the freezing
wind, the great empty vista of water, and forlorn
sky in which he, of all human beings, had no
place.
But surely, in a land so vast, there
should
be a place for* him. He'd keep traveling in
search of it, trusting no one.
And he wouldn't stop unless they buried him.
CHAPTER III
Jo.
WILL'S COLLISION WITH A fellow student on the
steps of the medical school proved to be the start of a
friendship.
Will soon discovered that Drew Hastings had a
first-rate mind, an interest in medicine that was almost a
passion,
and a desire to succeed that matched or exceeded Will's
own. Drew's ambition was due in large part to the
dedication with which his mother and father had approached the task
of educating him. His parents were storekeepers; people of
modest means, to whom the annual tuition of two
hundred dollars plus incidental fees was an
enormous sum. They had scrimped for years
to accumulate the money.
Drew was the sole recipient. He had a younger
sister, Will learned, and he was devoted to her; but his
devotion didn't extend to a belief that she should receive
higher education. The family could afford just one standard
bearer. Drew, older, and male, was the clear
choice. He made no secret of liking it that
way.
Each young man brought certain qualities
to the friendship. Drew brought the steadiness and authority
that went with being two years older. He liked having
a friend to whom he could expound about medicine. He'd
read extensively before coming to Boston, and he knew
some startling things. On one occasion he astonished Will
by telling him that Hippocrates, the famous Greek
physician of the fifth century b.c., probably
had little to do with the body of medical writing known as the
Hippocratic Collection. Some scholars said he
had no connection with the famous oath bearing his name.
Many skilled doctors had taught and written at
the medical school on the island of Cos, Drew
said. Hippocrates was among the most famous. He
had also been born on the island. So it was
undoubtedly inevitable that his name would be ascribed
to aphorisms and bits of advice actually authored
by others. Drew's favorite was,
"Not only must the physician be ready to do his
duty, the patient, the attendants, and external
circumstances must conduce the
cure"
The first time Drew quoted the saying to Will, he went
on, "But tell that to someone living in a city slum.
Those people don't have time to think about good health, let
alone do something about it. All their energy
goes into surviving. As to their circumstances-what could
be more conducive to sickness than a tenement? The poor
need doctors more than the rich do. Hippocrates
knew that."
Will didn't agree with Drew's conclusions, but he
was fascinated by the breadth of his friend's knowledge. Hence one
of his contributions to the friendship was the devotion
of a pupil eager to learn. On the other hand, at
certain times during the first term, he turned out to be
the teacher.
The practice of medicine interested Drew, but not the
preparation that was fundamental to it. He hated the
scientific studies required of first-year
students-general chemistry, physiology, materia
medica. Only anatomy held any appeal.
Because of his attitude, he was soon flirting with
dismissal. Even when studying physiology under an
acknowledged master such as Henry Bowditch, he
refused to attend most of the eight-man laboratory
sessions. Instead, he relied on Will's notes, and
Will's good memory. On the night before a test, Will
would drill him for hours on the periodic table or
Latin terms they were expected to know. Drew would
absorb just enough information to squeak by.
There were two hundred and seventy-five
students in the medical school, ninety-six of them
in the first class. They lived in a closed universe
consisting of the school building, its various annexes
and laboratories, the City Hospital and
Massachusetts General, where demonstrations took
place and charity patients were observed, and the rooms
in which they did their studying. Since Charles
Eliot's inauguration as President of Harvard,
the medical curriculum had undergone extensive
revision and improvement. Courses were more complex and
more difficult than they'd been just a few years
earlier. Will and Drew had to keep up with daily and
weekly work, but they also faced comprehensive
examinations in the spring; examinations covering all the
material studied during the year. Only by passing
those examinations did a student earn the right to advance
to the next class.
During his first term at the school, Will worked
twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day-Sundays
included. Sometimes the work load became so heavy,
he existed for days in a state of near exhaustion.
Once in a while he grew deeply discouraged.
But when he did, he would recall standing in the rain
outside the Vanderbilt mansion, or lunching with
Vlandingham, or promising his stepbrother
he'd amount to something. Any of those memories, but
especially the last one, was enough to overcome his
discouragement and keep him going without sleep and without
complaint.
Occasionally there was a short respite from the routine.
One came in mid-November. Drew announced that
his father would be arriving on Saturday, to check on his
son's progress. He'd be staying overnight. Will
was invited to join them for supper.
To Will's surprise-and Drew's-another member of the
family turned up, too. Drew's younger sister.
The three members of the Hastings family invited Will
to eat at a Boston fish house not noted for low
prices. Will had already heard that Mr. Hastings had
been forced to travel from Hartford in a borrowed farm
wagon; he couldn't afford train fare. So Will
insisted that he pay for supper, and made Drew's
agreement a condition of his acceptance of the invitation.
Joab Hastings was a stout, soft-spoken man with
rough skin and a red face. He was almost
uncomfortably in awe of the two students, because they were
venturing into intellectual realms wholly foreign
to him. But his pride in his son was obvious.
Less impressed was Drew's fifteen-year-old
sister, Joanna, whom everyone called
Jo. Her father said she'd nagged him in such a cheerful
but determined way, he'd been forced to bring her
along. His smile said it wasn't an imposition,
though. "She clerks at the family store," he
explained to W. "She's a hard worker. She
deserved a little holiday."
Perhaps Joab Hastings was appeasing his guilt, Will
concluded a few minutes later, when all of them were
enjoying the first course-roasted oysters from a huge
silver platter. Making conversation, he said:
"Did you enjoy the ride up here, Miss
Hastings?"
"I enjoyed the scenery. But I couldn't help thinking
how it all might have been different"
"What do you mean?"
"If I were a boy, I could go to medical school.
Since I'm a girl, I have to settle for a
trip."
Drew cracked a shell, then used his oyster knife
to cut out the small, tender nugget inside. He
forked the oyster into a dish of hot melted butter.
"You see, Will, five or six
years ago, my little sister fell in love with the late
Miss Nightingale. And with her profession."
"Calling," Jo said as Drew ate the
buttered oyster. "I've told you a million
times, Drew-Miss Nightingale always referred
to nursing as a calling. She said the word has more
spirituality than profession does. Don't you
agree, Mr. Kent?"
She fixed her blue-green eyes on him with a
directness for which he wasn't prepared.
"Oh, certainly, Miss Hastings," he said with a
straight face, reaching for another oyster. He found
the girl's adolescent behavior by turns funny
and annoying.
She gave a vigorous nod. "I knew you'd
feel that way."
Drew laughed. She shot a wrathful glare in his
direction. Will lifted his napkin to his mouth to hide
a smile.
He studied Jo covertly while they finished the
oysters and awaited the chowder. Although she didn't
share Drew's stoutness, she could easily be
recognized as his sister. Will found her
attractive, though not in a conventional way.
She was slim, and flat-chested. She had long, shining
red-gold hair that gave off a pleasing smell of
homemade soap. Her face was a
well-proportioned oval, marred just a little
by a nose many would have called too large. But the
nose was counterbalanced by a nicely shaped mouth.
There was a light scattering of freckles on her
cheeks. Unlike so many girls, she didn't
bother to powder them into invisibility. They gave her
face a touch of the tomboy that Will found charming.
She was obviously bright, too. And quite conscious of the
limits imposed on her by her sex. That was surely
why most everything she said had an edge to it. Julia
would have appreciated and encouraged her attitude,
he supposed.
Gently, Joab Hastings put his hand over hers.
He said to Will, "Joanna would like to study at one of the
Nightingale schools they're starting here in the
States. I'm sure she'd make a fine nurse.
But there isn't enough profit in selling corn meal and
pins to pay for two educations."
"So the world decrees it's the girl who stays
home," Jo said.
"The world and our circumstances," Hastings agreed with a
sad smile.
Jo wasn't willing to let the subject drop:
"One day brothers and sisters will have an equal chance.
Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Kent? I
don't want Drew
not
to study medicine. I just want the same
opportunity. What do you think?"
"I think I have no business meddling into a
family's-was
"Oh, pooh!" she cut in. "Answer the question."
Her father frowned. "You're being impertinent,
Joanna."
"I'll answer," Will said lightly. "I think your
brother will need to support himself all through his life,
while you'll undoubtedly have a husband to look after
you. So in theory, Drew needs more education than you.
That may not be right, or fair. But for the time being it's
the way the world operates."
"I don't care a fig for the way the world
operates!" she exclaimed. "Or for marriage,
either. I have no intention of submitting myself to the whims
of a man. Or to the idiotic marital laws that
prevail in this country."
"Joanna," her father said, a little more sharply.
She ignored him: "I have no intention of doing any
of that merely to pay the bills!"
Will said to Drew, "Your sister should meet my
stepmother. They'd certainly see eye to eye."
To Jo: "My stepmother's a suffragist."
"Young lady, I want you to settle down and mind
your tongue," Joab Hastings said, sounding severe
for the first time. Jo glanced at her father, started
to retort, then saw the set of his jaw. She looked
at her lap.
During the rest of the meal, Will found himself avoiding the
girl's eyes. They had taken on a strange
intensity, and he seemed to be its object. For no
reason that he could explain, the attention bothered him.
His cheeks and neck were almost as pink as the lobsters
they ate for the main course.
Jo made no further pronouncements, however. After
dinner the two students escorted father and daughter
back to the modest hotel where they'd engaged two
rooms. Will and Drew said goodnight-Jo shook
Will's hand for over ten seconds-then started walking
down the dark, quiet street toward the river.
"I hope Jo's frankness didn't offend you,"
Drew said. "We're used to it around home. And
to be fair, she really cares a lot about the
family. Of course that doesn't mean she
approves of everything that goes on. Such as Ma
spending heaer entire life doing whatever Pa
asks. Trouble is, Jo's
protests hide all the kindness and love that
are part of her, too. Strangers see the prickly
exterior and think there's nothing else."
My impression exactly,
Will thought, though he wouldn't have said it.
"Pa and I hope that prickly attitude will
disappear as she gets older," Drew continued.
"Jo's-uh-somewhat late to develop. She'd deny
it with her last breath, and kill me for saying so. But
deep down, I think she craves a puffed-up
figure."
caret "You're probably right. Most girls these
days want to look like Lillian Russell."
"I certainly hope she gets her wish. Maybe
she'll be less grumpy."
Will laughed. "Well, I wasn't offended by anything
she said. She's a spirited young lady."
"She's smitten with you, too."
"What?"
"Didn't you see her start making sheep's eyes
halfway through supper? That was when she realized she
liked you."
Will stopped under a street lamp, buttoning the
collar of
his overcoat against the night wind. With an awkward
laugh, he fibbed, "No, I didn't
notice any special looks." "Then we'd best
rush you to City Hospital. You've gone
blind."
They resumed walking. "I've seen a similar
expression on my sister's face once or twice
before. She fell in love with her schoolmaster when she
was nine or ten. At thirteen it was the man who
directs our church choir. She always seems
to pick the brainy ones. She certainly got fooled
this time," he finished with a chuckle.
Will ignored the joke. "I can't believe she'd
give two hoots about me."
Drew's expression changed to one of puzzlement.
Will's words struck him as strangely abrupt and
serious for a conversation essentially light in tone. He
tried to preserve that lightness:
"What's the matter? Don't you think you're good enough
for my sister?"
Sometimes I don't think I'm good enough for anyone or
anything.
Again he kept the thought to himself.
Drew continued in a jocular way, "Truth is,
brother
Kent, I 3on*t either. But we needn't
worry about it. Adolescent girls have a
crush a day, practically. They're in love with being
in love. She'll grow out of it."
Will believed him.
Both of them were wrong.
ffl
Two days before Christmas, Drew arrived at the
Kent house with a cylindrical object wrapped in
brown paper. Grinning, he handed the package to W.
"It arrived this morning-along with a note asking me
to give it to you with all due speed. I'm to wish you a
Merry Christmas in the bargain."
Will turned the package over and over. "Who's it
from?"
"My little sister."
"Jo?"
"I have only one little sister, as I recollect.
Seems she's still smitten. Unbelievable.
Well, open it-open it!"
Will removed the paper and found an eighteen-inch-wide
roll of fabric, which he carefully spread out on a
table. He caught his breath.
On a dark blue background, in small, neat
letters of white thread, Jo had reproduced a
block of prose which began, still
will look upon him who shall have taught me this
Art even as one of my parents.
"My Lord," Will said. "The Hippocratic oath."
"Every last word. Needlepoint, I think they call
it. She made one for me, too. She must have done
them at night. She works all day in the store."
Will brushed his fingertips over the tiny letters. "It must
have taken her hours and hours. It's a beautiful
present. I'll write her right away and thank
her."
Drew sat in a chair that creaked under him.
"Don't be too free with your compliments. She
might turn up on your doorstep, pleading for a
proposal."
"I doubt that. She said she hates the idea of
marriage."
"And the idea of men dominating the world-and their wives.
But those are merely
ideas.
You, on the other hand, are a living, breathing man.
She can detest men in the abstract and dream about you and
never see a smidgin of
inconsistency." A shrug. "She's a young girl.
That says it all."
Will smiled. "I guess so." He was touched by the
gift.
He thought of Jo's blue-green eyes, and the
freckles she didn't bother to hide. He thought of
how she longed for a woman's maturity, and that was
funny, yet touching, too. She was a very engaging
girl-
But one he mustn't think about with any seriousness. There
was no room in his plans for a girl who lacked
social connections. That might be regrettable, but it
was also the way things had to be.
CHAPTER IV
The Students
EVERY FEW WEEKS throughout the winter and spring of
1887, Will received long letters from Drew's sister.
Usually the letters contained comments on happenings in
Hartford or events on the national scene; the comments
were always made from the viewpoint of an avowed
suffragist.
Usually Jo's ardor amused him. But there were
unconsciously sad passages, too, as when she
wrote about one wish that would remain forever
unfulfilled; a wish that she could travel
to London and study at St. Thomas's
Hospital. St. Thomas's was the first
Nightingale school endowed by subscription funds
raised by Miss Nightingale herself.
Jo took pains to emphasize that she didn't
want to become a nurse in order to flaunt herself as
an educated woman. She wanted to serve others, as
Will and Drew would after they graduated. Her
humanitarian impulses were as strong as her
brother's, Will soon realized.
No wonder she'd given him that particular
Christmas gift. Will had framed the needlepoint and
hung it on the wall of his room on Beacon
Street. It quickly became as
much a part of his life as the tea bottle or the
Kentucky rifle downstairs.
He had no time to write letters as lengthy as hers.
Now and then he sent her a short note, tut these
became even less frequent as he settled down
to study for the yearend examinations. He also tutored
Drew. When they passed, they got drunk in a
North End tavern to celebrate. Drew went
home to Hartford for the summer, and Will spent almost every
day in the deserted medical school library, reading.
Fall arrived, and the program this second year was more
to Drew's liking..even chemistry became tolerable
against a background of courses in the clinical
curriculum. Topographic and pathological
anatomy. Clinical medicine.
Clinical surgery.
Their surgical studies consisted of lectures,
observation in the operating theaters at
Massachusetts General, and demonstrations in the
basics of bandaging. The bandaging section met six
days a week at eight in the morning. It was there Will
finally realized how innately suited for the profession
his friend was.
Drew was the first pupil singled out by the faculty
demonstrator, Assistant Professor Warren,
to show that he'd mastered the lessons taught so far.
The patient was a young male charity case at City
Hospital. The day before, he'd had a small
mole removed from his left shoulder blade by a
student in the minor surgery class.
Drew took off the old, stained bandage and put on
a new one. He worked extremely slowly. But when
he was done, the bandage was perfect. Warren pointed
that out.
"Hastings clearly possesses one of the most basic
qualifications of the good practitioner," he said.
"Patience. You will all have to develop that patience,
whether it is innate in your character-or not. You see,
gentlemen, modern medicine is structured so as
to make the following an immutable law: if
you disare a practicing physician, you will of
necessity be a practicing surgeon. The term
surgeon is a very large umbrella. It covers
many disciplines, and you must be expert in every one.
Excellence, however, is far more than the sum of knowledge
and a certain dexterity. But permit me to quote the
head of our department, Dr. Cheever. To be an
excellent surgeon, it is not enough
merely to be a competent operator. One must be a
pains- taker." Mr. Hastinps is."
  And he had superb hands, Will discovered. Pudgy
with fat, almost feminine in their gentleness and grace,
they nevertheless possessed great strength. One night a
drunken fourth classman teased Drew, pushing him
and mincing back and forth in front of the door to his
room in the dormitory. The upper classman
kept calling Drew "ladyfingers" until Drew
had enough of the bullying and laid him out cold with three
fast punches.
  Will watched from the doorway; he and Drew had
been going over the day's notes. Roosevelt all
over again, Will thought. The comparison was accurate in
other respects, too. They'd had some discussions
about a doctor's responsibilities in which they'd
disagreed sharply. And sometimes Drew sounded
uncomfortably like a nagging conscience.
  Drew dumped water on the upper classman,
then helped him get up and limp away. Will's
compliment about the way Drew had thrown punches led
the older student into some half-joking remarks about his
hands, and his weight:
  "Know how I decided God must want me to be
a doctor?
  "First I realized I was fat as a tub. Next
I found out I could do damn little about it. Still can't.
Day after day, I eat nothing but melon and drink
nothing but hot tea, and I never lose a pound. So
these-was He held out his hands. "com^the seem to be my
only assets. It's always struck me as smart
to work with what you have. I mean- what are the
alternatives? There's really only one. You can
refuse to make anything of what little you've been
given, but if you do that, you're guaranteeing yourself a
state of misery all your life. I'd rather try to be
useful. Ergo-in God's grand if frequently
murky plan, Hastings was meant to be a doctor.
An obese one who will no doubt advise his
patients to reduce their girth or face dire
consequences."
  Will's amusement concealed a good deal of
envy. He'd never be as skillful as Drew and he
already knew it. But he could follow Drew's
example and be a concerned, caring physician, a
doctor who took to heart the words stitched into the dark
blue fabric Jo had sent him.
  That was a mark well worth aiming at, he
decided.
T
ii
The fall of "87 repeated the pattern of the
preceding autumn. Will became more deeply immersed
in his studies as the days went by, and less aware of
events that stirred the collective mind and heart of the
country.
Gideon, of course, remained fully aware of those
events. One such-and a major one-took place on
the eleventh of November. In Chicago, four of the
accused Haymarket conspirators-Albert
Parsons, August Spies, Adolpfa Fischer,
and George Engel-were hanged.
A telegraphed account of the execution was delivered
to Gideon's office at Kent and Son late that
day. He put everything aside to read the dispatch from the
Union's
midwest correspondent. What he read
filled him with dismay:
"Oh my God, Miss Vail-listen to this. Just before
the trap dropped out from under him, Fischer cried,
"Hoch die Anarchic!"
Another of the four shouted in English, "Hurrah for
anarchy!" was He flung the dispatch on his desk.
"What a sad, sorry business. The Haymarket
set the cause of the working man back fifty years."
Helene Vail was seated at a desk which faced
Gideon's. From it, she could take his dictation or
easily hand him a paper just pulled from her
typewriting machine. The papers on her desk were
neatly arranged, while those on his remained a
jumble, despite her daily attention.
Miss Vail wasn't sympathetic to Gideon's
views on the Haymarket issue:
"Which one of the traitors did that?"
"Engel. I remind you, Miss Vail-they were not
proven guilty. That damn
Chicago Daily News
drove "em to the gallows with its hue and cry for
justice."
He lit a match and touched it to a fresh cigar.
Miss Vail continued to look at him with
disapproval.
"Justice," he repeated. "What a joke. There
was no conclusive evidence, and all the judicial
niceties of a kangaroo court in a mining
camp-Judge Lynch presiding. Yes, the views
of those men were abhorrent to me-and counter to the views
of a majority of people in this country. But by God, just because
someone's views are unpopular-or even downright
repulsive-doesn't mean they can be denied a
fair trial. If anything, we have an obligation
to be scrupulously fair with such people. Otherwise the
right to dissent could be destroyed."
"That's a subtlety I find hard to appreciate,
Mr. Kent." "You and a few million others.
John Adams didn't fail to appreciate it.
He served as the defense lawyer for the redcoats who
caused the Boston Massacre in 1770. It
nearly cost him his livelihood, but he understood that
someone
had to defend-was
The clanging of the telephone bell interrupted.
Miss Vail rose to answer. Gideon puffed his
cigar. He felt tired. Thanks to the
Union's
position on the trial of the Haymarket
defendants, he was constantly on the
defensive these days.
White-faced, Miss Vail turned from the
telephone.
"It's the telegraph office. There's a message
from New York."
"Who's it from?"
"Mr. Jesperson, the copy editor at the
Union."
Gideon scowled. "Why the hell didn't he put
it on the direct wire?"
"Please don't keep cursing, Mr. Kent. I
don't know why. Perhaps he's upset and confused.
He says that Mr. Payne went for a noon walk
along Park Row and on his way back, he was
stricken with a heart seizure. He's dead."'*
ill
Theo Payne's sudden passing brought sorrow and
consternation to the Kent household. Gideon was greatly
upset by the loss of a close friend and invaluable
associate.
Will traveled to New York with his father and stepmother
to attend the funeral services. He returned
to Boston alone; Gideon and Julia moved into the
suite at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, planning
to stay until Gideon could find a new
editor-no easy job. Miss Vail packed up
and joined them.
Saturday of the third week in November was a
bitter, blustery day. Will spent it in a hired
wagon heading for the New Hampshire border
directly north of Lowell.
He and Drew had left Boston two hours before
daylight. They didn't reach their rendezvous point
until five in the
r
afternoon. By then Will was nearly frozen despite his
overcoat, two sweaters, muffler, and gloves.
Drew pulled the wagon into the shelter of some trees
and scanned the autumn-withered landscape. A dirt
road led into a large, barren grove just beyond a stone
marker at the state line. The sky had the look of
dark gray paint.
"You still haven't told me who asked you to do this," Will
said.
Drew rubbed his mittened hands together. "My
answer's the same as it was an hour ago, and two
hours before that. It's better you don't know."
"You mean you can't tell your best friend where you got the
money or directions to this godforsaken spot?"
"You can be assured it wasn't from the
university corporation. They don't want to know where
the medical school obtains-uh, demonstration
material. We wouldn't be out here freezing our
glutei if the damned state legislators could
decide once and for all whether the release of
bodies was mandatory or discretionary."
Will knew that the current wording of the state law, last
revised in 1859, said unclaimed cadavers
"may be"
released to teaching institutions. It did not say
"shall be."
At the moment, the Board of Health was not being
cooperative. Hence expeditions such as this became
necessary.
Suddenly the cold air came alive with the creak of
wheels and the plodding of hooves. Drew maneuvered
their wagon out from behind the trees where they'd been
concealed. A second wagon had emerged from the
grove beyond the stone marker. Driven by a hunched-over
man, the wagon was approaching along the road.
Another man in a filthy coat and floppy hat
rode a spavined horse out in front of it.
Presently the horseman reined in. He showed
black, toothless gums in an insincere smile.
An old musket lay across his thighs. From
the seat of the wagon, the driver simpered at Drew
and W. He wasn't a normally proportioned man
at all, but a poor, pitiable creature who
looked barely competent to hold the reins. He had
the body of an adult and a gigantic head with a
strangely flattened and misshapen face. Slitted
eyes were barely visible beneath a drooping hat brim.
"Brung you two of "em," the man on
horseback said. *'But you ain't the one who
usually picks 'em up."
"He's sick," Drew said quickly.
"That a fact." A moment's thought. "Mebbe I
better tell you what I told him the first time he
showed up here. If anybody ever comes to me and says
I done this kind of business, I'll find you and
kill you." His grin was hideous. "I know which school
you're buyin" em' for, you'see."
Will shuddered. He didn't doubt for a minute that the
man would do exactly as he promised if he were
betrayed.
The two students could not help staring at the pitiable
thing on the wagon seat. Saliva trickled out one
side of its mouth. It was male, but just barely
recognizable as such, so distorted were the features.
"You understand me, boy?" the man on
horseback said suddenly.
Drew started. "Yes, of course. Completely."
"Good. Let's get this over with. Price is
fifty dollars apiece. You take "em as is,
wrapped up."
"But surely I get to inspect-was
"Ain't got time for no damn inspection," the man
broke in. His. horse whinnied and shied. He
looked over his shoulder. "They catch us at this,
we'll be prison-bound for sure. Now get your
fat ass over here and unload 'em, so I can
hightail."
"Come on, Will," Drew whispered, heaving his
awkward body into position so that he could step down
off the spokes of the front wheel. While Will was
climbing down, Drew paid the man in gold. The
poor creature in the wagon was delighted by the glint
of the gold pieces, and began to giggle and finger his
drooling lips.
The two students hurried to the back of the wagon.
They dragged the first canvas-wrapped body from under a
concealing layer of straw. Will distinctly felt a
lifeless arm and a head as he and Drew carried the
corpse to their wagon. Then they loaded the second
one, and covered both with burlap and scrap
lumber they'd brought along.
The mounted man used his hat to slap the cheek of the
witless man-child. After several false starts, the
creature got the wagon turned and headed back
toward the "New Hampshire woods. The mounted
man rode alongside with never a backward glance.
Will climbed to the wagon seat. He wasn't looking
forward to the long ride back to Boston. They'd be
lucky to arrive by dawn the next day. But he
understood why Drew
had asked him to come along. A man like the one they'd
just met might have robbed a solitary student, and
abandoned the corpses somewhere-or, knowing he'd be
safe from prosecution, never brought them at all.
Drew hawed to the horse. "Someday doctors will
understand what goes wrong in the human chemistry
to cause a thing like that."
"Do you suppose it was his son?"
A shrug. "Son, brother, nephew-how could
anyone tell? There must be a way to prevent such
monstrosities. If I didn't think medicine
could eventually find it, I sure as hell wouldn't be
out here. Of course-was Drew sounded disagreeable,
perhaps because he was cold and tense, Will thought. "comI'm
sure I'm boring you by discussing what
medicine may one day do for others. You care most about
what it can do for you."
Will scowled. "Spare me the lecture, will you?"
"Why should I? Someone needs to wake you up! Someone
needs to convince you that the purpose of medicine is
to ferret out the causes of disease and heal the sick, not
line the pockets of the practitioner."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Drew-enough! I know the
rest by heart anyway. Practice in the city! Do
good among the downtrodden! No thank you. I say every
doctor should have the right to choose where he wants
to practice, and how. You take the charity
hospital, I'll take a drawing room. In ten
years we'll compare notes and see who's
happier."
"All right, your life is none of my business,"
Drew muttered. He didn't sound as if he
believed it.
Both of them were silent for a while. The wagon
lurched on along a road already rutted by the first hard
freezes of the season. At the outskirts of
Lowell they found a tavern. Will guarded the wagon
while Drew went inside to buy two mugs of hot
rum. When he came back, he uttered a quick,
raspy apology which concluded with the words:
"I sometimes forget you're my friend and think of you only
as a damn good student-was
"So that's the new tack," Will broke in,
sarcastic. "When bullying fails, try
flattery?"
"No flattery. You didn't hear the rest. I
meant to say a damn good student who's going in the
wrong direction."
With effort, Will held his temper. "Not the wrong
direc-
tion, Drew. Just a direction that isn't the same
as yours." Drew managed a laugh. "Amounts to the
same thing,
doesn't it? Anyway, I'm sorry. I won't
lecture again." "Good!"
Will lifted the battered pewter mug; savored the
smell of the rum. He'd won a respite but he
didn't really believe Drew's promise.
He'd heard it too many times before.
iv
Lecture on principles of asepsis and
antisepsis. Dec. 4, 1887. Dr. D.
Cheever, Prof. Surg.
(1) Listerism presaged as early as 1843 in
Dr. O. W.holmes" paper
postulating contagion of puerperal fever and
transmission of same by physician's hands.
(2ggSemmelweis mistakenly given exclusive
credit forthis idea (cheever claim!)--
The lecture notes blurred in front of Will's
eyes. He laid the notes on his desk, stood,
and turned away from the wall fixture with the shaded
incandescent bulb. About three dozen of the fixtures
were now installed throughout the house on Beacon
Street. Will didn't like incandescent light. He
found it harsh and unnatural.
He walked to the window, gazed down at the Common
and the sleet slashing through the December darkness. For
over two hours he'd vainly been trying
to concentrate on his notes. It was well past
midnight and he had a great deal of studying yet
to do. Tomorrow he had examinations covering the anatomy
course and the material from the surgery lectures.
But he was too upset to study. The morning mail
had brought a letter from Carter, addressed to him. It was
a short letter, mailed in Denver where his stepbrother was
tending bar in a saloon:
Not exactly the fulfillment of my great ambitions,
little brother! Over and over, I learn one lesson.
You had better run others or they'll run
you. Unfortunately, as my present low position
testifies, I have yet to find a way to move from the
latter state to the former. But by Heaven I will
-
count on it.
That was the only positive note in an otherwise
cynical and despondent missive. Ever since
reading it for the first time, Will had debated about showing it
to his stepmother. Now he decided against it. He
usually shared Carter's letters, profanity and all, but
this one was too dark and defeated in tone. It would
probably disturb Julia as much as it disturbed
him.
Distantly, a downstairs clock rang the hour of
one. Will rubbed his cheeks. Tomorrow's beard had already
sprouted. He cast a disgruntled eye on the
lecture notes and tried to forget Carter.
"All right, get to it," he muttered, "or you
won't ever be called doctor."
That, unfortunately, made him think of Drew.
Even when Will earned a Harvard diploma, Drew
probably wouldn't grant him the right to call himself
doctor. Not unless he practiced medicine
exactly the way Drew thought it should be practiced.
Damn his high-flown pronouncements I
Will thought, savagely kicking his chair.
But he was wasting energy. He had examinations to pass
tomorrow.
The two tests were harder than any he'd taken
during his first year. This was in keeping with President
Eliot's program to make each year's
curriculum more challenging than the one before, the .
over-all purpose being a general improvement in the
reputation of the Harvard medical degree. For this
reform, as well as others, Eliot had the backing
of a substantial number of progressive
faculty members.- But he'd also encountered
opposition from a group of medical school
professors who were more conservative. That opposition
was ferocious and unremitting.
Sometimes Will wondered how Eliot accomplished
anything at all. The reactionary forces in the
medical school were powerful and well entrenched. Even
men of acknowledged intelligence resisted change.
Henry Bigelow, the former head
of the surgical department and now emeritus
professor, came to mind. Though
Bigelow had a reputation as a fine teacher and an
innovative practitioner, he had nevertheless
steadfastly refused to accept Listerism for
more than two decades; had even refused to grant
the possibility of its value-and this in a decade in
which doctors who didn't embrace all Lister's
ideas were adopting some of them on a selective
basis. Carbolic as the preferred antiseptic,
for instance; surgical drainage with Chassiagnac's
tube; use of silk or catgut ligatures that were
short cut, carbolated, and buried.
Bigelow had closed his mind against every facet of
Lister's technique. Old hands at the school
claimed he hadn't always been so reactionary. They
said he'd been enthusiastic about ether anesthesia when
the Boston dentist, Morton, had first
demonstrated it. But that was in 1846. Forty-two
years ago-
For his part, Will was thankful that Charles Eliot was
trying to make the Harvard degree more prestigious.
That should help further his career. He also liked new
ideas, and the professors who taught them. He
hoped that after forty-two years had passed, he'd still
favor innovations, and not be as fossilized as
Bigelow.
At the moment, however, his primary feeling was
relief. He'd passed the examinations. He could
relax and enjoy the holiday season.
On Friday night at the end of examination week,
some fellow students invited him to go out and
celebrate. They were some of the more boisterous second-
and third-class men. Drew wasn't among them.
Will needed a change in his routine. He accepted the
invitation, thinking the others meant to go to a theater, or
to a beer hall for supper. Only after a hired
hack picked him up on Beacon Street did he
learn the actual destination:
"Nicest little whorehouse in Cambridge. High
class. Most of the girls read novels and play the
piano-and there's one
Deutscher
blonde with a contralto as big as her tits. She can
treat you to some Wagner, if that's your persuasion."
The speaker was a frivolous young New Yorker named
Joe Marchant. "You'll have a fine time," he
promised. "You need to let down once in a while,
Kent. You spend too much time philosophizing with
Deacon Drew."
Will laughed. "Is that what you call him-Deacon?"
"Not to his face," said another of die students
crowded into the hack.
There was a tremor in Will's groin when he thought of
their destination. In one way, he was more than
ready to visit a bordello. But he was
apprehensive, too. He must have showed it.
Marchant said:
"The place we're going is perfectly safe. The
crowd's respectable. Well, most of the time.
Occasionally they let in regular Harvard
undergraduates. Then everything deteriorates."
Laughter.
"The girls are clean, too. One of us drives
over every week to conduct an inspection. Madam
Melba, the lady who runs the place, gives
payment in trade. There are benefits to medicine you
never imagined."
"Amen to that," Will agreed with a smile, hoping
to forestall any questions that might reveal the prime
cause of his nervousness. He had never been to bed with a
woman.
He'd kept his inexperience a secret even from
Drew. It made him feel inferior, especially
among the older students, who bragged a lot. Even
if half of then- claimed conquests were fictitious,
they still had impressive records. Though Will was
nervous, he was glad Marchant and the others had
invited him along.
The hack rattled on toward the Charles
and the bridge at Cambridge Street. It was
another foul night, and growing worse. In addition
to a drizzle, fog had rolled in from the ocean. It
blurred the gas lamps and occasional electric
lights in passing houses. Will's mood became a
blend of excitement and dread. He was afraid
he'd inadvertently say or do something that would make
his innocence apparent to the girls at the brothel.
His concerns were only for the events of the next few
hours. There was no way for him to realize then that the
trip to Cambridge, and all that would happen before the
night was over, would have consequences affecting his life
for years to come.
Trouble at
Madam
Melba's
"HOW OLD ARE YOU, DEAR?"
The simplest, most familiar tasks had become
hard all at once. Taking his left leg out of his
trousers, for instance. He got impossibly
tangled and almost fell over.
At the last minute, he braced his hand against the
gaudily papered wall of the windowless cubicle.
He answered the red-haired prostitute's question without
looking at her:
"Twenty-one."
"Come now, I don't believe that for a minute. You
don't need to hide your real age. It has nothing
to do with being able to give a lady a jolly time.
Well, almost nothing- here, may I help?"
Damnably, his left leg was still caught. The
woman glided up behind him. In the parlor she'd
introduced herself as Aggie.
She was thirty or so. She had a long fall of red
hair that reached to the midpoint of her back. Her
nose was large and freckled under a thick layer of
powder. Her lips were thin. The bodice of her
nainsook camisole, all trimmed with lace and
threaded with baby blue ribbon, accented the smallness
of her breasts; little bigger than ripe peaches. Yet
her experienced eyes and her scent-warm skin mingled
with perfume-gave her an air of sexuality that was
dizzying.
"I do take back that remark about age," she said as
she reached from behind and grasped him through his linen
drawers. He reacted with a quiver. She laughed:
"You see? The younger a fellow is, the larger and
livelier. Now tell me your true age."
"Eighteen, Miss-was
"Aggie." Her fingers moved on him;
caressing; teasing.
T
"Just Aggie. By the way-when it comes to getting your
trousers off, it helps to take your shoes off first."
He'd completely forgotten. Scarlet-faced, he
lurched to the narrow bed. He sat on the edge and
struggled to-remove his shoes. One thumped to the
floor, then the other. Aggie bore all his
grimacing and heavy breathing with professional good
humor. Before he knew it, they were both naked and she
was drawing him down beside her on the bed. With a very
slight note of urgency, she said:
"We mustn't be too slow, love. You only paid
five dollars. Madam Melba doesn't like her
employees to dawdle."
There'd be no dawdling, she saw to that. She began
to caress him and slide her mouth across his bare
shoulder, his neck, his face. He was astonished that
such a thin mouth could feel so warm and wet and
passionate.
He slid into her with amazing ease. The amber bowls
on the room's two small gas fixtures
suffused their bodies with a rich, deep light that
seemed to brighten and fade- brighten and fade-matching the
accelerating tempo of their lovemaking.
All too quickly, unstoppable forces were let
loose.
"Oh my God," he gasped, shutting his eyes.
A moment later, she said, "That was very nice, dear."
The warm web of her hair touched his shoulder and
spread over the small, heavily starched pillow.
"Your first time, wasn't it?"
She laid her palm against his perspiring cheek. He
felt sublime, sinful, drained, grown up. Her
smile had a touch of sadness:
"Wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, it was very nice indeed. Madam Melba
doesn't require me to say that, you know. Here-was
She drew his head down on her bony shoulder.
"We still have a few minutes. Rest."
Even though his eyes were closed, Will quickly came
back to a sense of where he was. Madam
Melba's was located on a sparsely settled
dirt street between the river and the university. Only
a couple of nearby cottages were visible in the
fog. Weed-infested vacant lots adjoined the
bordello on either side, and water filled deep
ruts at the foot of the ramshackle steps out in
front. The house itself was
clapboard, with heavy curtains at every window to hide
the business conducted inside.
Once through the front door, the depressing effect
of the fog and the dark was banished, replaced by sounds and
sights that soothed and pleased the senses. Polite
laughter blended with dazzling piano arpeggios.
All the gas fixtures made a soft glow through their
glass bowls. The mingled scents of powder,
perfume, and cigarette smoke gave the air a
languorous quality.
Madam Melba was a proper, spinsterish woman in
a high-necked gown. She had greeted the arriving
students gravely and even pecked Joe
Marchant's cheek as if she were his maiden aunt.
From the foyer they'd moved to the parlor, where the smoke
and the perfume were much heavier. Girls lounged in their
undergarments, nonchalant and overpoweringly sensual.
Will vividly remembered the first look that had passed
between him and Aggie. He also remembered something that
marred the otherwise pleasant picture. A huge,
flat- faced man was posted beside a table just this side
of the hallway leading to the rooms. The man took
Will's money and gave him a surly look. In the
hack, Marchant had issued a warning about the man:
"She has a big Hungarian working for
her. Don't say anything smart to him. He hates
the college crowd, and they say he's killed three
or four men right here in Boston."
Tonight the flat-faced man had a great many targets for
his hostility. Harvard students made up most of
Madam Melba's trade. Whether or not the
fellow was indeed Hungarian didn't much matter.
By looks and by occupation, he qualified for the name, which
was widely if inaccurately used, especially
by newspapers. Criminals whose origins couldn't be
identified easily were always Hungarians. If not
that, Slavs.
Watching Aggie walk ahead of him down the hall,
Will realized he'd picked the only woman in the
place with hair the color of Dolores
Wertman's-
Dolores. Her face floated in his mind as he
drowsed on Aggie's shoulder. He could almost
imagine it was Dolores who had responded so
ardently to his lovemaking.
The thought of Dolores triggered an explosion of
shame. Aggie felt the sudden tension in his body.
She shifted her
were
head far enough to get a view of his face.
She touched his cheek again.
"What a guilty look you have! Didn't you
enjoy-?"
"Very much," he broke in. He didn't want her
feeling bad.
"But you're red as an apple. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
The lie was obvious. Trying to put him at ease,
she snuggled closer. "Please tell me what's
wrong."
He managed to gather his nerve and say with a shy
smile, "It was just-so easy to love you."
"Did you think it would be hard, or complicated?" *
"I didn't know."
"Love should be easy. Pleasant. With no
remorse afterward."
His color deepened. "That isn't what I was brought
up to believe."
"Ah. That's it. Half the boys who come here have the
same problem. Well-was Another reassuring pat.
"You don't have to rush to the altar just because we made
love. It may work like that elsewhere, but not in here."
He was embarrassed. that she'd guessed his secret
thoughts. He had indeed been thinking that a respectable
girl, compromised this way, would have sobbed and
demanded that he marry her in return for what she had
given him in a moment of weakness. And his own conscience
would have insisted that he do what the girl, and society,
said was only ri-
A crash brought his eyes open. From down the hall
he heard an angry shout. Aggie sat up and
pressed her palm against his chest:
"Lie still. I'll see what's wrong."
Naked, her thinness pitifully evident, she ran
to the door and peered out. Both of them heard loud
voices-a man's and a woman's, the latter shrill
and vindictive. Instantly, he had a sense of
danger.
Aggie shut the door, leaned against it and scratched
herself. "Nothing serious. Just a small dispute down
the hall."
But it didn't sound small to him. The woman
screamed an obscenity. The floor vibrated as
someone or something fell. Boots pounded. Someone was
in trouble. Maybe a fellow student. He
remembered the Hungarian. If one student got in
trouble, all of them might-
He pushed up from the bed. "Let me take a
look." Aggie protested but he ignored her. He
pulled on his
drawers, then his pants. With a nervous glance at his
face,
she moved away from the door.
Heart hammering, Will lifted the latch and stepped
into
the dim hall.

Two doors down, a wiry, curly-haired young
man with a towel around his middle was confronting a naked
blonde with shoulders and thighs as big as an
ironworker's. She* towered over her customer, but
he wasn't intimidated:
"I
saw
you reach for my wallet."
"Damn liar!" the blonde retorted. Marchant
poked his head out of another door. Noticing Will, the
blonde said to
him, "You should have heard what he asked me to do for
him. Or
with
him, I'm not sure which. I said no, so now he's
accusing me-was
"Of being a thief!" the curly-haired young man
broke in.
Madam Melba have into view at theddend of the hall,
followed by the lumbering thug with the flattened face.
He unbuttoned his shabby jacket to show a billy
club in his belt.
Madam Melba stepped between the quarreling pair,
shoving each of them roughly.
"I'll have no disorderly behavior in this
establishment, Mr. Fennel. My unofficial
truce with the college is a very delicate one. Now
explain yourself."
"I don't deny I was asking for-something special,"
the student said. "I'd have paid. What I wanted
doesn't change what she did. She tried to steal
my money."
Will leaned against the wall, watching the flat-faced
man, who was glowering at the angry customer.
Fennel, Will thought. A familiar name. But he
couldn't place it.
Madam Melba dismissed the accusation with one word.
"Nonsense." She put her arm around the blonde's
pudgy waist. "Alice is the newest of our
girls, but I screen every applicant most
carefully. I run an honest house, and you and all
the other young gentlemen from Harvard know I do, Mr.
Fennel."
"Maybe I know it, but she doesn't," Fennel
shot back,
were
,
The flat-faced man was fingering the billy club. The
corridor was growing crowded as whores-and their
customers popped out of the cubicles. The situation
might have eased if Fennel hadn't made one last
statement:
"I'm going to have the authorities look into this
place."
Madam Melba's gaze grew chill. "Be
careful about uttering threats like that, young man. We
can't afford to treat them lightly."
"You damn well better not! I'm getting out of here
and going to the police."
He spun and started back into his cubicle.
Madam Melba pondered only a moment. She
waved to summon her helper:
"You'd better do a little something to dissuade him,
Rudy."
A smile spread over the thug's face. He
yanked the billy from his belt and sauntered toward the
door of the cubicle, pleased to be the center of
attention.
Will was alarmed to see that none of the students moved
to help Fennel. In a place like this, trouble for one
of them meant trouble for all. Maybe a few
conciliatory words could avert it. Impulsively,
he stepped forward.
The thug stopped and glared. Will slid past him,
blocking the doorway. Inside the cubicle,
Fennel was scrambling into his clothes.
It took all the courage Will possessed to look
past the flat-faced man and say to Madam
Melba:
"Give him a chance to calm down. Maybe we can
get him out of here and avoid a muss."
Madam Melba was clearly anxious for a peaceful
settlement. She rushed to Will's side:
"You mean no reports to the police?"
"I don't know Mr. Fennel personally, so I
can't promise. But I'll certainly talk to him.
If there's fighting, someone else in the
neighborhood will call the police, and then we're
all in dutch. I don't think anyone here wants
to be involved in a scandal-was
Other students in the hall murmured anxious
agreement. Headlines flashed into Will's mind.
LAW INVADES SPORTING HOUSE.
PUBLISHER'S SON ARRESTED. What did they do
to you at the medical school for such an offense?
Dismiss you, most likely.
"Please, Madam Melba, give me 41 chance
to talk to him."
The flat-faced man didn't like the interference. He
grabbed Will's shoulder:
  "I'll do the talking that needs to be done here."
  Will put a palm against the man's left arm,
to hold him back. "Let her answer me before you-was
  "Don't shove me, you college fucker," the
man shouted. Before Madam Melba could step in,
he slammed the billy against the side of Will's head.
  CHAPTER VI
Marcus
  WILL CRASHED BACKWARDS into the wall.
Flimsy paneling broke. He reached high over his
head, snatching at a gas fixture to keep from
falling. The blowsy blonde lunged at him, hands
forming claws. "Little bastard! Who asked you
to interfere?" she shrieked.
  The flat-faced man flung her aside and
rammed the end of the billy into Will's left hip. A
little higher and it might have done serious damage. But
it glanced off bone and gave him time to grab
the thug's wrist.
  An unexpected twist of the wrist loosened the
big man's grip. The stick fell. Will caught
it. The thug fisted his hand and launched a punch that could
have broken Will's neck if it had landed. Will ducked.
The man's hand smashed a hole in the wall and
disappeared up to the elbow.
  Will hit the back of the man's neck with the billy.
The thug yelled, his arm tearing strips of wood from the
wall as he staggered away. Will helped him along
by ramming the billy into his groin. The man crashed
against the opposite wall, screaming like a gored
animal.
  Madam Melba had abandoned all pretense of
gentility. "Carrie, fetch my horse pistol!
I'll show these rich brats they can't tear up my
house."
f
The naked blonde kicked Will's shin and clawed his
face.
One nail nicked his left eye, momentarily
blinding him. She tore the stick out of his hand,
turned, and sought another target. Joe Marchant was
hurrying to help Will at last. The blonde hit
Marchant's head three times. The last
blow broke the billy. The young medical student
went down in a slow corkscrew, blood pouring from
a gash in his scalp.
The blonde turned back to Will, charging like a jiggling
white elephant. He didn't want to hurt a
woman. On the other hand, he had no intention of
letting her maim him. He put up both hands and
shoved, managing to hurl her off balance. Cursing,
she fell against Madam Melba, knocked her down
and landed, buttocks first, on the madam's scrawny
bosom.
Madam Melba flailed and shrieked. She might
have been a longshoreman, so obscenely did she
curse the students and so loudly did she scream for the
horse pistol one of her girls was attempting
to pass to her.
Alice was still floundering on top of her employer.
"Get your fat hams out of my face!" Madam
Melba howled, pinching the blonde's backside.
The blonde shot up like a cannonball. Will,
meantime, took the only escape route left open
to him-the door through which Fennel had retreated.
Fennel had his shoes and trousers on. The moment Will
burst in, Fennel yelled and pointed: "Watch out
behind you!"
Will spun. The flat-faced man was lurching across the
hall with one hand outstretched and the other still rubbing his
groin. Desperate, Will hunted for a weapon. There
was none.
A small, cheap armoire stood beside the door. He
leaped to the end of the armoire, put his shoulder against it
and pushed. The armoire moved easily; evidently
there wasn't much inside.
He shoved the armoire diagonally into the doorway
an instant before the thug appeared. The man's
outstretched arm was pinned between the doorframe and the
piece of furniture Will was pushing with all his
strength. Bone in the man's arm cracked. He
screamed.
Wild-eyed, he struggled to extricate his arm and
kick the armoire aside. In the corridor,
Harvard men were running to and fro while whores in
various stages of undress
punched and kicked and threw chamberpots at them.
Panting, Will searched the cubicle. He and Fennel
were trapped-
No!
Next to the headboard hung a velvet drapery.
Old; shabby-and rippling slowly.
Will leaped past Fennel, tore the drapery
down and whooped. Unlike Aggie's cubicle, this
one had a window. It was raised a couple of inches.
Outside there was nothing but mist and the dark.
"Out that way!" Will ordered. Fennel snatched up his
shirt and coat, then tried to raise the window.
"Stuck!"
"Put your coat over you and go head first."
In the corridor there was more punching and screaming and
crashing, the pandemonium heightened by Madam
Melba's torrent of oaths, and then by the boom of
her pistol. Fennel swallowed, covered his head and
dove at the glass, shattering it, and tearing his
trousers as he plunged through. Will heard him as he
hit the muddy ground.
Will scrambled through the sawtoothed opening and leaped,
landing in watery ooze and sinking ankle deep. The
footing was treacherous. He lost his balance and
sprawled face first. But his only injury was a
scratch on his left forearm.
Covered with mud and spitting, he scrambled to his
feet. A spectral hand, equally filthy, shot
toward him out of the fog. The other student was barely
visible as he shook Will's hand and whispered:
"Marcus Fennel."
"Will Kent."
"Thanks for what you did."
"Never mind that now. Got your wallet?"
"In my pocket. You at the college?"
"Medical school. Let's get going!"
Madam Melba appeared at the broken window.
"I'll teach you to disrupt and vandalize a decent,
orderly business establishment!" Beyond the other
student's shoulder, Will saw her pistol glinting.
He dove against Fennel and knocked him into another
puddle. There was a roar, a streak of fire in the
dark. Before Madam Melba could fire again, they
leaped up and ran. Neither paid any attention to the
direction the other one took.
Will ran a block in the thick fog, too shaken
to be amused by some of the brawl's comical aspects.
All at once he slowed down. He looked to the
left, to the right, and behind.
He was running alone.
He stopped; listened. In the murk, shouts
reverberated, and loud crashings. At that precise
moment a door in his memory sprang open.
"God above. Marcus
Fennel."
He'd come to the aid of a member of one of the very richest
families in America; a family even
wealthier than Will's, and so long entrenched in New
York Society that by comparison, the Kents were
upstart immigrants.
He started walking, moving rapidly but without a
sense of fear. The thick fog would protect him from
further danger. Rain began to fall again, dampening
the mud that was drying on his arms and bare back. He
was uncomfortable but he didn't mind.
"Fennel," he said again. As he recalled, the first
Fennel had been a rag dealer prowling the streets
of Manhattan with a pushcart, sometime during the early
years of the eighteenth century. Today the family had
real estate holdings nearly as vast as those of the
Vanderbilts. In the mid- nineteenth century, the
Fennels had begun to accumulate a second
fortune by constructing and leasing factory buildings on
land they owned all along the East Coast. Their
money was old money; polished into respectability
by the passage of many generations.
For a moment Will fervently wished he hadn't become
confused and lost Fennel in the fog. He'd have liked
to get to know the young man he'd helped. It could have
been a useful contact for the future.
But of course no member of the Fennel family would
deign to speak to a Kent unless it became
necessary during some commercial transaction. He'd never
see Marcus Fennel again.
As it turned out, he saw him the following
Wednesday night.
Marcus Fennel called at the house on Beacon
Street. He wore a suit of expensive
English tweed, complemented by a walking stick and
pale gray gloves. He strolled around the Kent
parlor with an air of authority quite at odds with the
panic he'd displayed at the brothel.
"Didn't have a proper chance to thank you, Kent.
Took a wrong turn and lost you somewhere. Trust you
got back here in one piece?"
Fennel was at least two years older than W.
He had an amiable, boyish smile and gave the
impression that he didn't take anything seriously,
though Will knew better. He took the contents of his
wallet very seriously. A family trait, no
doubt.
In response to the question, Will smiled and nodded. "I
was damn near frozen. Luckily my parents had
gone to bed by the time I got here. I didn't have
to explain why I was half naked and covered with
mud."
"How's that other fellow? The one who got
coshed?"
Embarrassed, Will said, "I don't know what you
mean by coshed."
"Oh, of course. Little term I picked up in
Britain last summer. Coshed means hit on the
noggin."
"Then you're talking about Marchant."
"I "spose. I don't know the chap's name. I
was looking out the door just as he fell."
"He's all right. Some of the others from the medical
school sewed up the gash in his scalp after they all
got away. I'm told Madam Melba handed out
some bribe money to the proper authorities and is
doing business as usual."
Marcus sniffed. "Last time I patronize the
old slut. That Hungarian would have nailed my
balls to the ceiling if I'd been forced to deal with him
all by myself. I wasn't carrying enough cash to buy him
off, and that's the only way I know to handle such
scum. You came to my rescue-was
Will waved off the compliment. "I'm just thankful we
got out safely. Glad you got your wallet
back, too."
Marcus took a chair and crossed his legs,
relaxed and elegant. He lit a
cigarette. "Oh, the girl didn't try to steal
anything of mine. She just wouldn't perform the-ah-
special service I requested. I got damned
mad about it."
Will felt victimized. But it was clear his visitor
wasn't interested in his reaction; he didn't even
glance in Will's direction. And Will decided his
annoyance was worth it when Marcus said:
"The purpose of my call is to show you I'm
genuinely grateful for what you did. If you've some
free time over Christmas, I'd like you to join a
house party we're having at our place down in
We/chester County."
Will was so overwhelmed, he couldn't speak for a moment.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "That's outside
New York City."
"Yes, I know where it is. That's very kind of you,
Pen- nel."
"Call me Marcus. I think fate, or
possibly our interest in women, ordained that we'd
be friends. You'll like Fennel House over the
holidays. Lots of bright young people around. Lots of
charming females." He scrutinized Will with mock
seriousness. "You might even take a fancy to my
sister Laura. She's a year younger than
I, but a pretty piece of fluff, if I do
say so. The Harvard boys I bring home don't
seem to interest her in the slightest. Perhaps a learned
physician will break the pattern."
Excited by the thought of what the invitation could mean
to his career, Will nevertheless felt it prudent not
to appear too eager:
"See here, Pennel-was
"It's Marcus, didn't I say?"
"Very well-Marcus. You needn't invite me just
to give me some kind of-reward, as you put it. I was
glad to help you."
Even though I was scared as hell doing it.
"Of course I need to give you a reward! Buying,
selling combalancing one favor against another-that's
what the world is all about. That and nothing else."
His smile was cordial, yet a little smug. He
rose and held out his hand.
"My driver's waiting. I have other calls
to make, but this was the most important. We'll
expect you at Pennel House the day after
Christmas."
When Gideon heard the news, he never thought
to probe Will's statement that he'd met Marcus
Fennel through mutual friends at Harvard.
He was too busy being exercised:
"Bunch of hypocritical robbers, the Fennels.
Thurman Fennel, the boy's father, is a
mossback of the worst kind."
"You've met him?"
"Yes, unfortunately. I had a run-in with him
at the last Republican nominating convention.
He'd like to see us roll blissfully backward
into the eighteenth century-or perhaps the Middle
Ages. Then no one would presume to question his right
to make money from human misery. Mr. Fennel
specializes in that. He puts up the most
efficient factory buildings in New England.
Companies stand in line to lease them. I shudder to think
of the number of young girls and children who die because he
designs those buildings to be free of distractions
for the workers. I'm referring to distractions such as
windows that admit sunlight and fresh air. I'm
surprised you want to get involved with people like that."
Irked, Will shot back, "Papa, it's a social
occasion. I'm not endorsing the way the Fennels
live."
Gideon cast a dour eye over his son. "Don't
be too sure."
IV
Drew was even more caustic about the invitation:
"By God, you are determined to be a Fifth Avenue
doctor, aren't you? But ascending the social
heights via the window of a whorehouse-that must be some
kind of first." Will refused to be baited. His life
was his to live as he chose, and he had no intention of
missing a chance to visit the Fennels of We/chester
County.
The Fennels
WILL FIRST SAW Fennel House through the slowly
falling snow of a December afternoon. Even counting
William K. Vanderbilt's palace on Fifth
Avenue, he'd never seen a more magnificent
residence. Centerpiece of a two-hundred-acre
estate forty minutes north of the city by train,
Fennel House was not only stunning in its own right,
but symbolic of, and appropriate to, the position
of its owners. Their world contained everything that was worth
having-or so Will had convinced himself while
anticipating this visit.
The mansion had been designed in popular and
eclectic style. It was a three-story,
fifty-four-room castle with no two exterior
elements matching. Shape pulled against shape,
color against color, texture against
texture. The ground floor was pale limestone
trimmed with dark brick; the second story was
shingled, the third half-timbered, gabled, and roofed with
slates of several colors.
Balconies, porches, and dormers interrupted the
facade at a dozen places. Two huge
chimneys dominated one end of the house. At the
other, an immense round tower jutted into the gloomy
sky. The mansion's windows resembled painter's
palettes; light of every conceivable color was cast
on the snow by intricate patterns of stained glass.
Curiously, the jumble of elements and techniques was
so overstated that it achieved a certain reverse
elegance, its ostentation declaring to the world that a Midas
lived here comfor who but a Midas could afford such
extravagant confusion?
The Fennel carriage, sent to meet Will at the
railroad station, pulled up at the main entrance to the
house. The postilion jumped down, eyebrows and
hat brim snow

encrusted. He began unloading Will's three
pieces of luggage. Marcus burst out the front
door, a toddy mug in hand.
"Welcome, my friend! We've been
expecting you for an hour."
"The snow's getting heavy on the roads." He
shook Marcus" hand and moved gratefully from the
cold air to the warmth of the immense baronial foyer.
Fennel House was as elaborate inside as out.
Everywhere he looked, he saw ornamentation,
decorative scrollwork,
r
heavy furniture, all in the Queen Anne
style. Gas and lamplight on polished paneling
and a parquet floor created a warm atmosphere
helping to offset the forbidding vastness of the foyer. Will
quickly decided that despite the jumble of styles,
motifs, and materials, the house had a definite
appeal. It was just the sort of place in which he could be
happy.
Servants took Will's coat, hat, stick, and
gloves and whisked them out of sight. With a grin,
Marcus said to him:
"I've built you up to Laura something fierce.
Handsome, all-knowing physician to whom no crevice
of a woman's body is a mystery-or sacred."
Will turned red. "Good God. Your sister will run the
other way."
"On the contrary. All we get here are
chaps with pedigrees, never one with brains. Till
you, I mean. She's mad to meet you."
"I'm anxious to meet her too. Is she here?"
"No, not just now. She and the others went skating on the
pond. But I'm glad the place isn't swarming with
our friends. It gives me a chance to introduce you
to Father."
He grasped Will's arm and steered him toward
massive, intricately carved doors of dark
wood. A footman rushed forward, seized a heavy
bronze ring and opened the right- hand door. Will said:
"I'm worried about the way you described me to your
sister. She's in for a mighty disappointment."
"Nonsense!" Marcus waved with his mug. Some of the
toddy splattered the footman's coat. The man
blinked but said nothing. Apparently Marcus didn't
even notice. "She'll be charmed. I keep
telling you that you're like no guest we've ever had at
Fennel House."
That was probably true, Will thought, but not in the sense
that Marcus meant it. He had done some investigation
of the Fennels. In terms of social position, they
were far above the Kents. For one thing, Thurman
Fennel no longer dirtied his hands with direct
involvement in his
business
empire. He merely issued orders to underlings.
"Father has a guest, but he said it's all right
to break in. Follow me."
ii
Marcus led his visitor into a huge but
surprisingly cheerful room which resembled pictures
of English castles that Will had seen. The room-the
living hall, Marcus called it-was crowded with
furniture, potted plants, and bric-abrac.
A large open stairway dominated the inner wall.
The outer one was pierced by narrow windows of leaded
stained glass. In the wall directly ahead was a
large, lofty recess.
Within the inglenook, two perspiring men sat on
thickly padded bench seats which faced one another in
front of an immense hearth. Fragrant logs
blazed in the grate and set reflections to shimmering
on polished floor tiles. Marcus and Will stopped
at a respectful distance. The larger of the two men was
saying in a slurred voice:
"comof course I intend to donate heavily to the war
chest, Andrew. That damned Democrat is
dangerous. He must be turned out before he engineers the
ruin of the system under which we've both
prospered."
"I canna help but agree, Thurman. But he's
the incumbent. We must start now if we mean
to defeat him. That's why we're seeking your
guarantee of support this far ahead of the election.
We-was
The speaker stopped suddenly, warned by the nervous
eyes of the heavier man. Marcus moved forward.
Both men rose and stepped out of the inglenook.
Will knew that he and Marcus had interrupted a
conversation about President Cleveland. The
Republicans had been infuriated by the
President's annual address to Congress on
December 6. The President had devoted the
entire message to a carefully structured plea for
reduced tariffs-a proposal which was anathema to the
protectionists in the Republican party. Gideon
had predicted that the tariff
would be the major issue of next year's
campaign. The conversation just overheard tended
to confirm that.
"Father," Marcus said, "I'd like you and your guest
to meet my friend Will Kent."
He addressed the larger of the two men. Thurman
Perinel stood well over six feet.
He was paunchy and had lost most of his hair.
Only a few dark, oiled wisps were left, combed
across his hairless skull.
His visitor, fifty or a bit older, was
noticeably shorter and leaner. White whiskers
lent him a benign air, though his eyes were foxy,
even hard. When Marcus spoke Will's last name, the
visitor raked Will with an appraising glance.
Meantime, Marcus' father said:
"How do you do, Kent? I'm Thurman Fennel.
We're happy to have you here."
He extended his hand and smiled, but there was no
cordiality in his heavy-lidded eyes, just as there had
been none in his welcome. Marcus didn't
resemble his father, Will noticed. Perhaps he favored his
mother.
"I appreciate the invitation, sir," Will said,
determined to be polite. It was uncomfortably hot
near the fire. Pine boughs hung up to decorate
the living hall gave off an odor that was cloyingly
sweet. There was another sweet smell in the air,
but Will couldn't immediately identify it.
"This is Mr. Carnegie," Pennel said.
"Andrew-Mr. Kent."
The sinewy little man shook hands. His grip
was strong. "Related to the Boston Kents, by any
chance?"
"Gideon Kent is my father."
"I see." Carnegie's lips twitched; it could
never have been called a smile. "Well, lad,
we'll na hold that against you."
Will kept his temper as best he could. He knew
Carnegie's name and background, of course. Almost
everyone in the nation did. An immigrant from
Scotland, Carnegie had begun his working career as a
bobbin boy. Today he controlled a steadily expanding
complex of steel factories. Will had heard his father
say Carnegie was pulling the American steel
industry into a dominant position in the world market
almost single-handedly. "British steelmakers would like
to see him dead," was Gideon's summation.
To judge from Carnegie's hale and leathery look,
he would probably be around for many years.
Carnegie's smile remained as cold as the air
Will had quitted a few moments ago. "I'll na
lie to you, young man. I cannot abide your father's
views. They say he was once a Republican-was
The little man clearly found that hard to believe.
Marcus looked unhappy about the trend of the
conversation.
Thurman Fennel said, "He showed his true
colors when he deserted Elaine in the last national
election. Your father and I had a discussion about Mr.
Elaine at the nominating convention. No, I guess
discussion doesn't quite cover it-was
Fennel smiled just as his guest had done-to make it
seem as if he were uttering a little joke when he was
actually indulging his malice:
"He started to knock me down. The same way he
knocked down Ward McAllister-was
By God, I refuse to stand for this, Will thought. But
politeness won out. Fennel was his host, and
Gideon was the first to admit his opinions weren't
popular among Republicans.
Still pretending to smile, Fennel added,
"Hot-tempered, these ex-Rebs, eh?"
Will's face was white. He kept his voice
level:
"That's true, sir. They can be very hot-tempered when
they believe something strongly. My father believed
Mr. Blaine was a crook."
Fennel scowled. But Carnegie's expression
changed from distaste to grudging admiration. Fennel
noticed his guest's approval-and then his son's
distressed look. He wasn't so tactless
as to pursue the little quarrel further. He again
resorted to that false joviality:
"In any case, Kent, you're the one invited for a
visit, not your father-was
He stepped to Will's side and clapped him on the
shoulder. Will smelled the sweet odor again, and
recognized it. Gin. No wonder Fennel was so
garrulous, so imprudent in what he said.
talked that way when I drank, I wouldn't drink.
He continued to resent the criticism of his father.
Then, on a more practical tack, he remembered
some of the reasons he'd wanted to come to Fennel
House. He decided he'd better do something
to blunt that criticism:
"Perhaps I ought to explain something, Mr. Fennel.
My
father's a publisher but I'm studying to be a
doctor. Two different careers. Two different
people. My father understands that. Politics has ruined many
a friendship. I don't intend for it to ruin any of
mine."
"D'ya mean to say you stay neutral, lad?"
Carnegie's disapproval of neutrality was quite
evident.
Will stared him down and said, "No, sir. I
have my own views. But I don't debate them.
Especially when I'm a guest in someone's house."
Marcus smiled. Thurman Fennel was immediately more
cordial:
"I expect you'll go far in your profession,
Kent. A doctor doesn't develop a loyal
clientele by stepping on the toes of patients with
whom he disagrees. You seem to have learned that
lesson early."
Will squared his shoulders and met Fennel's lidded
gaze. The man was opinionated and more than a little
drunk; Will disliked him intensely. But he smiled,
stifled a twinge of conscience and said: . "I've
tried to learn it, Mr. Fennel."
Before he could say more, someone came rushing down the
open staircase:
"We're back, Marcus. Is this your friend? You must
present me at once!"
The men forgotten, Will turned toward the stairs. With
considerable relief, Marcus said:
"Will, here's Laura."

Will immediately lost interest in meeting the other members
of the house party who followed Marcus' sister into the
living room. The group consisted of four young
gentle' men from Dartmouth and Yale, and three other
young ladies, vapid and noisy, who attended
private schools. All Will could see was their
hostess.
Laura Fennel was a beautiful girl, a year
older than Will, pale-skinned and immaculately
groomed. She had slightly slanted gray eyes,
and straw-colored hair that fell in tight natural
curls. Curly hair was a characteristic both she and
her brother had evidently inherited from their mother; it
certainly didn't come from the paternal side.
She was dressed fashionably, in a severely
tailored suit. The mauve skirt and jacket
contrasted with a snug white shirtwaist beneath. An
ascot was neatly pinned at the center of her full
bosom.
Her face was sweet, though it was an animated
sweetness, quite unlike the insipid look of many
beautiful girls. There was an innocence about her,
too, an aura that told him she was a person
incapable of a wicked thought or deed, at least not an
intentional one.
He tried to be pleasant and witty as he replied
to a few inconsequential questions about his family and his
trip from Boston. He felt he was making
a fool of himself. Not that it seemed to matter. She was
soon gone again, sweeping out of the living hall
accompanied by her friends. He was so flustered, all
he could remember of theif entire conversation was one
fact. She would see him at supper in half an
hour.
Marcus showed him up to his bedroom in the tower wing.
"You and Laura seemed to hit it off instantly,"
Marcus said when they were halfway up the stairs.
"She's a lovely young woman."
"And you look like a gentleman who's been thoroughly
smitten."
"The instant I saw her," Will said with a nod, his
light tone concealing the strength of his feeling.
Still, his conscience nagged at him:
Would you have been smitten if her name were something other
than Fennel? Would you have been so quick to turn your
back on your father and try to ingratiate yourself with
hers?
"Here we are," Marcus said, turning in at a
bedroom door and temporarily relieving Will of the
burden of listening to that accusing voice.
The Lioness
WILL'S LUGGAGE HAD BEEN unpacked, the
contents neatly put away in a bureau and
an armoire. He set about changing his shirt.
Marcus lingered.
Something was on his mind. Presently he brought it
into
the open:
"You got a dreadful welcome from my father. You must
forgive him, W. He isn't too competent playing
the role of gracious host. And when he's had too
much to drink, he's far from tactful."
"Oh, that's all right-was Will began.
"It certainly isn't." Marcus blew his nose
caret then lit a cigarette. "He insulted you.
He'll never apologize, so I must."
Will shrugged to suggest the apology was accepted, though
not considered important or necessary. Marcus slouched
in a chair and hooked a leg over the arm. He
peered at the end of his cigarette.
"Might as well tell you something else. You'll
notice it soon enough anyway. Mother and Father aren't
exactly what you'd call loving spouses. Perhaps
they were once. But these days things are strained. Father's
got a shopgirl in town. He keeps her in one of
those new French flats near Forty-fifth and
Lexington. I don't believe Mother knows about it.
But she certainly suspects. If she ever
gets definite proof, I suppose she'll throw
him out. The friction does nothing to improve the
atmosphere in this house."
Will was startled but tried to conceal it. Marcus
expected him to take the revelations in stride. A
man was always free to enjoy a woman's favors so
long as that woman had loose morals, and could by no
stretch of the imagination be considered a potential
wife-although as
the prostitute Aggie had sensed, Will had trouble being
that cavalier about any girl.
He reached for a hair brush. In a calm voice
he said, "You surprise me, Marcus. You and your
sister act as if there isn't a bit of trouble in this
house."
Now Marcus shrugged. "We both try to stay out of
range of the squabbling. I tend to take my father's
side-I don't give a damn what he does.
Laura sides with Mother."
Was that a nasty note in his voice? As though he were
the weaker of the two, and resented it? Will couldn't be
sure, and Marcus concealed any ill feeling with
another nonchalant lift of his shoulders.
"In any case, I don't want Father's
behavior to spoil your visit."
Will thought of Laura's shapely figure and
angelic face and said:
"Never."
ii
Mr. Carnegie wasn't present for supper;
Thurman Pen- nel said Carnegie had departed
while the guests were refreshing themselves in then- rooms.
The main meal of the day had been eaten at noon, but
supper was still a feast. It consisted of cuts of
turkey and some other, more gamy fowl set out with a
multitude of side dishes and a large selection of
white wines and champagnes. The meal was served in a
dining room so large and heavily hung with
tapestries, Will again thought of some great baronial
hall in England.
Before the meal began, Marcus presented him to Mrs.
Fennel. She was a small, curly-haired woman
who seemed unusually shy. She murmured a word of
welcome and then returned to her daughter's side,
as if she had nothing further to say, and-being married
to a man as important and dominating as Thurman
Fennel-would have no right to utter it if she did. Will
soon learned how mistaken he was in making that
judgment.
Marcus had warned him that relationships in the
family were strained. As the supper commenced, he saw
signs of that; some were embarrassingly obvious.
Thurman Fennel lurched along the sideboard,
filling his
plate from the dishes set out in the light of silver
candle-sticks.
Fennel spooned up candied yams but missed his
plate, depositing a large, glistening mass of
food on the floor. Several of the young house guests
noticed and pretended they hadn't. Mrs.
Fennel's face grew stiff with disapproval.
Fennel started to stagger on toward his place at the
head of the long table. He saw his wife watching him.
With a scowl, he squatted and picked up the sweet
potato with the serving spoon which he then handed to a serving
girl who hurried forward. Only then did he
move on, his neck red.
Will was watching Mrs. Fennel. No smile broke
her sedate face. But he thought he detected a
gleam of triumph in her eyes-particularly when she
exchanged looks with Laura.
To reach his assigned place between two of the house
guests, Will had to circle Thurman Fennel's
chair at the head of the table. As he did, he again
smelled gin.
Fennel didn't try to sober up during supper.
Instead, he drank a great deal of champagne. The
moment his champagne glass was empty a servant
refilled it and he started gulping again. Except for a
certain slurring of his speech which had been evident
earlier, he didn't act drunk. At least not
until he called for everyone's attention and told
an off-color story that had no place in the
conversation of mixed company.
The story angered Mrs. Fennel. "My dear-if
you please," was all she said when he finished, and that was
said very softly. But Fennel had been tongue-lashed,
and he and everyone else knew it.
Fennel started to retort, looked at his wife and
then at Laura and said nothing. He snapped his
fingers. The servant with the champagne bottle rushed
forward. Fennel pointed at his empty glass.
While he drank, he again scrutinized his wife and
daughter. Will was shocked to see the expression in the
man's dull brown eyes.
Am I crazy, or does he hate both of them?
The young men and women at the table were minimally polite
to W. But it was clear that they felt awkward-in a
couple of cases, irked-to have an outsider in their
midst. He was just as uncomfortable, unable
to make much sense of their conversation about someone's
yachting party last summer, or someone else's
recent victory in a lawn tennis
match. Laura always knew what was being discussed;
her conversation was cheerful and animated.
Few remarks were addressed directly to W. To those
that were, he replied with a murmur, or a smile
and a nod.
He kept quiet for fear of making a fool of
himself-then
began to fear that his silence was creating precisely that
impression.
After the meal, he was thunderstruck when Laura walked
straight to his side. She'd barely spoken a word
to him at the table. As Marcus led the group toward the
music room, she took his arm:
"I suppose you found all that social chatter
frightfully boring, Mr. Kent. Your studies keep
you occupied with matters ever so much more serious and
important."
Was she mocking him? He saw no sign. He
wanted to jump up and click his heels; he hadn't
come off as a clod after all. His shyness had been
misinterpreted as intellectual boredom.
He didn't intend to alter the impression:
"I hate to admit it to a charming hostess, but you're
right. When you deal with life and death, it isn't easy
to work yourself into a passion over lawn tennis."
"Doctors in training must see sights that are
positively shocking."
A thoughtful pause; he wanted to drain every drop of
advantage from the situation. "On occasion. The real
world isn't as sheltered and comfortable as Fennel
House." With difficulty, he framed a compliment.
"By the way-I've never seen anything quite so pretty
as that outfit you're wearing."
Marcus had kept the other guests moving. Will and
Laura were momentarily isolated in a passageway
designed to resemble an arched tunnel in a castle.
Not too authentic a tunnel, though. Gas
fixtures jutted from the walls; some illuminated
large, conventional landscapes in heavy gilt
frames.
"Ah, do you like it?" Laura spun into a pirouette
in the center of the passage. Will caught a flash of the
toe of her shoe. Her skirt had no bustle, and
fitted so snugly that he saw, or thought he saw,
the suggestion of the cleft between her buttocks.
Unbearably erotic, somehow-
She turned full circle, her cheeks
flushed from wine. "Papa doesn't like me to wear it.
It's the very latest
thing, but he thinks anything from France is immoral.
Imagine a judgment like that from someone like him I
Mama's a modernist, though. She wants me
to look up-to- date."
Laura took his arm again. He felt the pressure
of her breast against his sleeve. The contact was
evidently unintentional. She drew away, turning
still redder. A swift glance down the passage
seemed to suggest she'd let her emotions carry her
away.
But no one had seen them. Marcus and the other young people were
trooping into the music room. Mrs. Fennel and her
husband had disappeared as soon as the group left the
dining room.
"Mama probably struck you as a proper and
dutiful Wife, didn't she, Mr. Kent?"
He wondered what kind of answer she wanted. Not
knowing, he hedged:
"Very soft-spoken, certainly. I hardly heard her
say a word except when your father told that story."
"Wasn't that dreadful? The poor man simply
can't control his tongue when he drinks. Sometimes
he's just impossible."
"Your mother acted with great restraint-was
"Don't mistake that for a lack of backbone,
Mr. Kent. Whatever you see in this house that
pleases you-whatever you eat that you enjoy-be assured
it's all Mama's doing. She even picks out
Papa's clothes. The only area in which she defers
to him is in the choice of some of the paintings."
She nodded at one of the two canvases. "Papa still
considers Thomas Cole and the rest of the Hudson
River painters to be very advanced. He's fifty
years behind the times, but Mama humors him. I'm
afraid you won't find a Matthew Kent at
Pennel House. Not while Papa's alive,
anyway."
"Oh, you know my uncle's work?"
"I'm more familiar with-what do I dare call it?
His social life-?"
Will grinned. "Try escapades."
She smiled too. "That does fit, doesn't it?
Your uncle's name pops up in the Saunterer's
column every now and then."
"The Saunterer," Will repeated. "You must read
Town Topics."
"Everyone in our set reads
Town Topics.
Don't you?" He shook his head. "My father won't
allow it in the caret house. He says the
Colonel is a blackmailer and a disgrace
to journalism."
Will was referring to Colonel William d'Alton
Mann, a
raffish adventurer who'd acquired the foundering
weekly
tabloid called
Town Topics
in 1885. Mann had instantly
converted it to the most scandal-packed paper in the na-
tion.
He piously claimed that his journalistic mission was
to improve the behavior of society by exposing
immorality
when and where he found it. Gideon had a different
opinion. He said the ten- or twelve-page
Saunterings column, which contained the week's juicy
gossip and was written by Mann himself, was no
instrument of moral reform but a I blatant
money-making device. Mann's biggest income
came from items left out of his paper.
The Colonel kept a table at Delmonico's
Restaurant for the convenience of wealthy men
to whom he'd sent an advance galley proof of some
scandalous item concerning them, their wives, children, or
mistresses. Usually the victim was willing, not
to say eager, to pay to have the item omitted from the
next edition. Once a week the Colonel received
the supplicants-and the bribes-at his table,
where he also managed to work in his favorite meal:
six
mutton chops, two heads of lettuce with a creamy
dressing, a dozen biscuits, a huge portion of
chocolate cake, two full bottles of
champagne, and a cigar.
"Deserves to be shot," was Gideon's opinion
of the editor and publisher of
Town Topics
comwh from time to time chronicled some of Matt Kent's
rowdy exploits at Europe's fashionable
resorts.
"comyes," Laura concluded, "I'd say the Kent
name is a familiar one in this household."
He laughed. "Though not for the right reasons." He
indicated the paintings. "If your mother's responsible
for everything except the art in this house, she's to be
complimented."
"Thank you. In our set, a wife's
expected to take charge. The husband only appears
to run things. The power really belongs to what the
newspapers call the lioness."
"The what?"
"Lioness," she repeated with a dazzling smile. "I
don't
know who first applied the term to women like Mama, but
I think it's rather appropriate. The male goes out
to hunt for food while the female defends the
home, tends the young, and disposes of whatever bounty the
male dutifully brings back. The lioness runs
everything. The limits of propriety are never
exceeded because she sets those limits. You heard
Mama speak to Papa when it became necessary -"
And saw him back down the moment she ordered it,
he thought.
The rules in the Fennel household were clearly
different from those under which Gideon and Julia
operated, They treated their marriage as a
partnership, not as a struggle for dominance between-God
help him-carnivorous animals. Lioness struck
Will as a ridiculous conceit. And yet Laura
seemed taken with it. So taken, it made him
uneasy.
A new thought troubled him. By describing the
Fennels' relationship, was Laura also setting out the
terms for any friendship she might develop with him?
His silence brought a frown to her face:
"Do you disapprove of Mama speaking to Papa as she
did? Do you disapprove of a wife guiding her
husband's life in his best interests?"
Three of the young people appeared at the door of the music
room, searching for them. One pointed:
"Oh, there they are."
Will said, "I don't think it's my position
to approve or disapprove, Miss Fennel."
Pink-faced over the stares they were receiving, she
nevertheless stood her ground, whispering:
"I do wish you'd call me Laura."
"Very well-Laura. I repeat, approval or
disapproval isn't mine to give. I don't move
in the same circles as you do."
The others started calling for them to hurry so the
Caroling could start. Inside the music room, near
a great candle- decorated tree, Marcus was seated
at a rosewood piano and was playing the opening
notes of "Good King Wenceslas."
Laura turned so that the young people couldn't see her touch
his arm for a second:
"You mustn't downgrade yourself. Politics
aside, your family is eminently respectable-was
"Respectable is not the same thing as belonging to your

were
set, as you call it," he replied with a wry
smile. "Why, I've never even been invited
to Mrs. Astor's January ball."
"But it could be arranged," she said softly.
Suddenly something in him rebelled; he saw danger
in the gray eyes and smiling demeanor of this
sweet-faced girLike A lioness
devoured. A
lioness
killed.
He had no intention of being destroyed as Thurman
Fennel had been. Laura's father had obviously
been stripped of his authority and self- respect and
driven to the arms of some shopgirl by the woman to whom
he was married.
Stiffly, he said, "I doubt it very much. The Kents
don't receive invitations at that level. My father
once struck Ward McAllister."
"Yes, I know that. But-by '*
"I'd better say the rest, Miss Fennel.**
"I thought it was Laura."
"We both know I'm a guest at Fennel House
only because Marcus and I got acquainted through
mutual friends in Cambridge." It was the lie
they'd agreed upon. "I'm studying to be a doctor.
That automatically puts my position in the world much
lower than yours-as if it wasn't lower to begin with. The
Kent money is new money. My father's a
radical by trade and by temperament-was
"And you, Will? Are you a radical by trade and
temperament?"
"That makes no difference." His
"It most certainly does. If the answer's no,
people in our set will accept you-even given your
notorious profession. Actually, your profession
might even help. It's diverting to meet someone who
uses his mind for more than the contemplation of a polo
mallet or his own pedigree. People in my set
respect intelligence so long as it isn't-what shall
I say? Radical. Dangerous. You give every
indication that yours is not. There should be no limit to how
high you can rise-
if
you have the right guidance." She averted her eyes. "A
wife with whom you share common goals-was
Marcus stopped playing and walked to the
door. "Laura, will you kindly come along and bring
your friend? Or have you eloped?" he added with a smirk.
One of the girls giggled:
"They're whispering back there as if they're planning
on it."
"Is that envy I detect, Charlotte dear?"
Laura called out,
her sweet tone not quite hiding her malice. Perhaps
lioness wasn't such a farfetched term after all. Like
her mother, Laura was proper; but she was also
emotional, and quick to anger when she was threatened.
"We're coming," she added, moving away from him.
Over her shoulder she said, "I suppose we have
held things up. But they can just wait for us. Are you
bored with caroling now that Christmas is over?" She
gave him no chance to answer. "I am, dreadfully.
I'll see that Marcus cuts the singing short."
She glided on toward the music room. A smile
stole onto Will's face as he followed. She was a
curious and complex girl. A girl of the very sort
he'd dreamed about. A girl who could help him
keep his promise about the future.
"I know you'll be staying with us for several days," she
went on, never glancing back to see whether he was
there; she expected him to be. "Marcus and
I have planned a great many activities for the group.
You and I may not find another convenient
opportunity to continue this discussion. We must do so
when we see each other at some later time."
She added the last sentence as an afterthought, just before she
made her entrance into the music room. She still
didn't look back, but her meaning was
unmistakable. She liked him. And if she continued
to like him, she could and would take him where he could never go
by himself.
A man didn't succeed in her world without
the righi guidance.
Nor without a wife with whom he
shared common goals.
Let the lioness rule unopposed, and everything was
possible-
And they would continue the discussion of the possibilities
when we see each other at some later time.
Not if.
When.
He couldn't understand his good fortune. She could have a
hundred eligible bachelors waiting on her. Why
choose him? Was it for the reason she'd stated? Because
he wasn't the sort of person she usually met in
her crowd?
Whatever the explanation, he mustn't question his luck.
She was beautiful-and she could help him realize all
of his ambitions-
"Will?"
He glanced up. She was standing in the doorway of the
music room. She'd spoken his name with an undertone
of annoyance.
"Are you or are you not planning to join us?" she
asked.
He smiled. "Certainly."
Her own smile, hard as glass, rebuffed him because
he'd made her angry. She spun away:
"Then do hurry along, unless you don't enjoy our
company."
She disappeared into the music room. Worried, he
called, "I'm coming," and rushed after her.
CHAPTER IX
A Doctor's Duty
THE HOLIDAY AT Fennel House sped by.
It did so despite the activities Will was forced
to join in merely to be near Laura.
The mornings weren't bad. Usually the group spent
them ice-skating on the pond on the estate. But the
afternoons and evenings were appalling. Following the main
meal at midday, the group played inane
parlor games such as wiggles and hunt-the-slipper.
In the evenings, the young people sat with feigned
expressions of interest while one of their number
recited "Thanatopsis" or some other poem Will
found equally sleep-inducing.
When Will's turn came, he said with a straight face
that all he could recite from memory were passages from
the fifth edition of Dr. Austin Flint's
Principles and Practice of Medicine.
If that didn't sound suitable, he might manage
some of Professor Shattuck's observations on
auscultation and percussion.
No one was amused, least of all Laura. Her
smile grew stiff as she stung him with a reproving
glance.
He didn't repeat the mistake. He also felt
he'd learned a valuable lesson. The Fennels'
set didn't appreciate humor,
unless it was the bawdy variety heard when the
gentlemen left the ladies and retired to another
room with their cigars. Certainly Laura and her
friends didn't like any kind of joke which implied
disapproval of established customs or accepted
ideas.
Because Charles Darwin defied accepted
thinking, he was the favorite conversational whipping boy
of the young people. Arguing about Darwin's theory of evolution
was popular at Harvard, too; Gideon called
such argumentation the greatest intellectual craze of the
century.
The young people were quite opinionated on the subject, but Will
wasn't particularly surprised to find that none of
them had read Darwin, and only he and Laura had
read the sensationally popular, fictionalized version of the
"ape or angel" debate, Stevenson's
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde.
It had been published the preceding year, and
Gideon had negotiated to bring out an inexpensive
reprint edition. Despite the demands of his course
work, Will had read it twice.
One evening at Fennel House, there was a welcome
respite from things literary. Laura persuaded
Marcus to play the piano in the ballroom, so the
young people could dance.
After a few minutes of intricate Virginia
reels and Germans, Laura declared her boredom
and the group paired off for more intimate waltzes and
galops. Will was Laura's only partner. The others
seemed to understand that already.
High above the ballroom floor, Marcus hunched
over the piano in the musician's gallery,
smirking and puffing a cigarette as he played. He
knew what his sister was up to, and was quite willing
to cooperate.
Thus, for a few delicious moments, Will was able
to hold the soft blonde girl in his arms. As they
whirled and turned, he could feel the heavy steel
stays of her corset against his palm. Occasionally the
lace niching of her high, boned collar tickled his
chin-an erotic sensation, somehow.
He reveled in the nearness of her face. Her gray
eyes were enhanced by the clarity and perfection of her
pale skin. Being fashionable-and free of freckles
that would need concealment-she didn't use cosmetics,
save for a bit of rice powder and a touch of rouge so
expertly applied, it
might have been mistaken for the natural glow of her
cheeks.
Altogether, she was the most desirable creature he'd ever
met-and she knew he felt that way. He was
overjoyed to j realize there was a mutual
attraction. She kept Marcus playing waltzes
until he absolutely refused to run through
another. When the last dance ended, she gave
Will's hand a I quick squeeze-the only real
intimacy between them thus far. She might be willful,
but he knew beyond any doubt that she was morally upright.
She was the kind of girl i who would give herself
only to the man she married.
Will had promised to be back in Boston
to celebrate the , New Year with Drew and some
other classmates. His de- I parture was set for
early afternoon on the thirtieth. That morning, while
servants packed his luggage, he planned to go on
a sleigh ride with the others. He really didn't
want to, but Laura was looking forward to it, so he
didn't object. After breakfast, he dressed for the
outdoors and strolled to the foyer. He found Marcus
and a young man named Taylor, a senior at Yale,
discussing trends in men's clothes. "They say the
howling swells over in Mayfair and Bel-
gravia are definitely going back to trouser
creases front and back," Taylor remarked.
"It's the British Army influence." Marcus
sighed. "What's next? Creases on the side?
Cuffs?"
Taylor took him seriously. "Very possibly,
old man. The Prince of Wales wore his
trousers pressed four ways when he
visited America in-oh, hello, Kent. All
ready, I see."
Will nodded. He searched for Laura in the group just
entering the foyer. She was at the back, brushing something
from her sable muff. She didn't look at him.
By now Will could recognize a deliberate delay.
He was growing accustomed to Laura's need
to dominate any situation. As long as that need
didn't conflict with anything he considered
important, he'd indulge her. Eagerly, in
fact.
Finally she smiled at him. A manservant wearing
a dark vest over his white shirt entered the foyer.
He was carrying a large feather duster. Laura
spoke sharply: "Jackson, where are you going?"
The man stopped. "The library, ma'am. Mrs.
Fennel wants all the books dusted. She gave
me full instructions
before going out this morning."
"Be careful of the ladder when you do the top shelves.

  J
T
When it was delivered two weeks ago, I noticed
it was none too sturdy. It came from a
Scottish castle, you know. It can't be replaced."
"I shall exercise care, ma'am."
The man continued to the library, leaving the doors open
behind him. Will frowned. He had trouble understanding a
system of values which placed more importance on
furniture than on the safety of a human being.
There was a simple and cynical explanation, of
course. Jackson wasn't a human being, merely
a servant.
Laura joined Will as the group moved toward the
front door. "And how are you today, Mr. Kent?"
she said with mock formality, gazing up at him from beneath
a little fur hat. He seemed to be drawn into those
gray eyes as he answered:
"Very happy to see you. And sorry I have to leave this
afternoon."
"Well, we shall just have to make the most of the morning."
She slipped her arm through his. He felt the contour
of her breast again. The others, especially the girls,
noticed her minor infraction of the rules of
propriety but said nothing.
The young people trooped outside. The day was dark. The
white lawns stretched away to woods that looked
black under the heavy overcast. More snow was starting
to fall. A pair of sleighs came
gliding up the drive from the stables, the horses
snorting and stepping smartly. The scene had a
storybook quality; the look of one of the immensely
popular Currier and Ives lithographs.
The girl accompanying Taylor made counting
motions, then giggled:
"Ten people for eight places. We'll be packed
tight as sardines."
"Will and I are the only ones who'll be sardines,"
Laura told her.
"What do you mean?"
"The first sleigh holds five passengers. Ill
ride in the second one. I'll sit on Will's
lap and risk being pilloried in
Town Topics.
That way there'll be ample room for all."
The thought of that kind of intimate contact with Laura
rekindled erotic feelings in W. He had only a
moment to anticipate the sleigh ride, though. From
inside the house
there suddenly came an anguished cry and a loud,
prolonged crash.
ii
The sleighs pulled up, bells on the horses
jingling. Behind the hiss of runners and the clop
of hooves, he heard a second outcry.
"Someone's hurt."
He started away. She caught his arm:
"The servants will see to it."
"Maybe it's something the servants can't handle. I
should think you could wait five minutes without spoiling
your ride."
His sharpness brought a resentful glare. He turned
away from it and strode into the foyer, melting snow
glistening in his dark hair.
Servants were hurrying to the site of the accident. As
Will followed them, he heard the front door open
behind him. Then Laura exclaimed:
"Oh, it's the library! I warned that oaf 4o be
careful."
The servant named Jackson lay in an awkward
position
backslash on the library floor. Books and the
broken pieces of the
ladder were strewn on the carpet all around him.
Midway
" between his left knee and ankle, something white and
sharp
stuck out through a bloody rip in his trousers.
"Stand back and let me examine him," Will
said as he hurried forward.
The servants quickly gave him room. He knelt,
studying but not touching the leg from which the bone protruded.
Jackson was a man of about fifty. He gazed at
Will with apprehensive eyes and tried to change
position. The effort made him groan and squeeze
his eyes shut. Tears trickled down his cheeks.
"Get me a scissors, please," Will said.
A servant ran past Marcus and disappeared into the
foyer. All the guests were trooping back into the
library now. One of the girls complained about the
delay. Jackson again tried to move; he clenched
his teeth and uttered another groan.
"Try to relax and lie quietly," Will said. "I
know it hurts."
"Hurts-isn't the word for it," Jackson gasped.
"I'll snip that pants leg off for a better
look."
The scissors arrived. He cut slowly and
carefully, fearful of a mistake. Two fragments
of bone, not just one, jutted through the bloody tear in the
skin. "An open tibial fracture -" he began
as Laura walked up next to him:
"I'm sure Charlie Brassman can handle it.
I've sent for him."
"Who's Charlie Brassman?"
"One of our grooms."
Disgusted, Will stood up. "This man needs help from
someone who treats people, not horses."
"I tell you Charlie Brassman's perfectly
competent!"
"I still prefer to take care of this myself."
"Very well," she said, her voice pitched low. "But
if you do, you'll make me extremely unhappy."
"Good God, Laura, that's an unreasonable-was
"Please don't curse. There is no need for
theatrics. Charlie Brassman-was
"Someone send for me?"
Heads turned. A small, shabbily dressed man
bustled into the library. He touched a knuckle
to his forehead, and Will noticed that he had hands like
wrinkled hide.
"Miss Laura-Mister Marcus," Brassman
said, nodding a greeting. Theajie looked down.
"What's this, what's this? Ain't you a sight,
Jackie! What the devil did you do to yourself?"
He dropped to his knees beside the injured man.
Jackson eyed him with fright and distrust. Laura
tugged Will's arm:
"Everything's under control. Do come along."
He didn't want to anger Laura. Didn't
want to risk an abrupt end to a friendship so well
begun; a friendship with so many auspicious
possibilities for the future-
His hesitation annoyed her. Smiling, she slipped
her arm in his and lashed him with her soft voice:
"I insist."
Will turned away from Jackson's imploring gaze.
His shoulders slumped. "All right," he said.
ffi
Taylor, the Yale man, pursed his lips.
"I'm thankful the ride won't be delayed any
further." He led the others back to the foyer. Will was
moving toward the library door, Laura clinging
to him, when the groom clucked his tongue J and said:
"We'll have to set this, Jackie."
In a terrified voice, Jackson breathed, "Be
careful, won't bar you? It hurts like sin. Go
easy."
"Sure, sure. Leave me take a closer
look."
Will and Laura had just reached the foyer when Jackson
screamed.
The scream rang through Will's mind, raising echoes
of the cries of Chris Tompkins the night
he died. Echoes of the little gray, Boston,
bellowing and slamming his head on the ground in theeaglare
of the lightning-
A few words about your duties.
Laura gasped as he took hold of her hand and
lifted it away from his arm.
Then he pivoted and walked back toward Charlie
Brass- man. He knew his decision would
probably cost him dearly, but he couldn't help
it. He couldn't silence his conscience any longer.
Brassman had both hands fastened on Jackson's
bleeding
v
. caret leg. Livid, Will said, "You're not
treating a horse. Let go of , him."
Scowling, the groom obeyed. Jackson gasped with
relief.
"I thought you were competent," Will said to Brassman.
"Don't you know better than to maul him when you
haven't given him anything for the pain?"
The groom was indignant. "You're an expert, are
you?"
"I'm a medical student."
"Oh, yes, the Harvard boy. Someone did tell
me you was visiting here. Well,
doctor,
I'm mighty sorry to inform you i that we ain't got
any spirits of ether sittin" around the caret house."
"I assume you have brandy. Get some."
The groom hesitated, his surly eyes
communicating his instantaneous dislike of the younger man.
The delay infuriated W. He took a step
toward the groom:

  J
"Gst"
Brassman muttered something and stormed out. Trying
to ignore the stony look on Laura's face, Will
looked at the others. Only Marcus, who was leaning
against the library door at the back of the crowd,
looked sympathetic.
Behind him, Will heard Jackson's rough breathing as
he said:
"The rest of you go enjoy the ride while I look
after Mr. Jackson. I'll send Brassman for
anything I need."
Laura fixed him with those imperious gray eyes.
A smile slowly curved her mouth. An
executioner's smile, he thought with sinking spirits. When
she spoke, her voice was as cold as the
winter day:
"Yes, let's go enjoy ourselves while Mr. Kent
does his humanitarian duty. Come along, now.
Come along-was
She spread her arms and herded the others into the foyer
without a single backward glance.
Will ran a hand through his hair, listening to the merry
voices as the young people boarded the sleighs. The
drivers whipped up the horses. The voices and the
tinkling sleigh bells began to fade.
He looked down at Jackson, who said,
"Sorry-if I- ruined the outing for you, sir.
Didn't-mean to fall. Damned ladder just-broke
apart under me."
Will waved. "Never mind."
His thoughts were less forgiving:
The outing isn't all you ruined, my friend.
CHAPTER X
Laura's
Victory
WHEN BRASSMAN RETURNED with a decanter of
brandy, he met Will in the foyer. Will had been in the
kitchen, scrubbing his hands with strong yellow soap.
His coat was gone, his sleeves rolled up.
He gestured for the groom to precede him,
then used the heel of his boot to close the library
doors. Brassman poured some brandy down
Jackson's throat. Will touched nothing in the room
or on the patient until he started to work.
  It took him forty minutes to reduce the
fracture, close the wound and suture it with seven
stitches, each put in place with straight needles
Brassman found in the sewing room. Will kept the
groom busy; he proved to be a competent if
disgruntled helper.
  All seven needles were first boiled in the kitchen,
then soaked in brandy and brought to the library on a
clean towel. At the prick of the first needle,
Jackson's eyes rolled up in his head. He'd
borne a good deal of pain, but he couldn't deal with the
thought, sight, or feel of a steel sewing needle
piercing his skin. He fainted.
  One by one, Will aligned and inserted the seven
needles through the edges of the wound, exactly if he were
sewing up a holiday goose filled with stuffing.
To each needle he attached a strand of boiled
cotton thread; the heaviest Brassman had been
able to find.
  When all the needles were in place, he went
back to the first, pulled it through and tied the
thread. Then he finished the second stitch in
similar fashion, and so on until the wound was
closed. Brassman soaked up the excess blood
with wads of cotton.
  During the entire procedure, Will fought off a
pervading certainty that he wasn't doing things according to the
instructions he'd received in class. The lack of
confidence persisted until the last suture was tied
off arid he stepped back, gloomily wondering how
he'd behave when confronted with his first major
surgical procedure. Perhaps he'd never even start
it for fear of botching it.
  He passed a hand across Jackson's brow. The
man's skin was clammy but cool. He was breathing
satisfactorily. Will walked to a chair, sat
down, and put his palms against his eyes, letting his
tension drain away.
  He had to wait another thirty minutes for
Brassman to bring in the old-fashioned fracture
box he had sawed and hammered together out of scrap
lumber, following a crude sketch Will had
provided.
  "A good job," Will said as he examined the hinged
sides of the box. "Doubly good considering the short
time you
had to make it. Where's the young lady who volunteered
to take care of Mr. Jackson?"
"Said she'd be right along."
"Did you explain that the care entails extra work for
seven, possibly eight weeks? It'll take at
least that long for the fracture to mend. And Dr.
Barton's bran treatment has to be carried out
faithfully, every day."
"I explained," Brassman told him, smirking.
"She don't mind the work. She's sweet on
Jackie."
Soon the subject of the discussion, a homely maid
named Nell, appeared. She was carrying linen Will had
requested because there was no gauze in the house. As Will
dressed Jackson's leg, Nell watched
carefully, making notes on a slate with a piece
of chalk.
"A new dressing once a day," Will said to her.
"Wet it here-here-and here with a five percent carbolic
acid solution. Have an apothecary prepare the
solution so it isn't ten or fifteen percent. When
you apply it, do so sparingly. Lister himself isn't
using the stuff as freely as he once did. He
used to cover an entire operative field with
carbolic mist sprayed continuously from a
steam atomizer. Now there's speculation that too much
carbolic may injure tissues. So be careful."
The maid nodded, although Will suspected she had
grasped little of what he'd just said.
"Now we'll position Jackson's leg in the
fracture box. Watch how I do it. The foot
must be tied to the end board exactly the way I'm
going to show you."
Nell asked no questions, so when he was finished, he
checked the slate to make sure she'd written down
the essential information. She had. She promised
to pack the box with fresh bran once a day.
"Good." Will wiped his hands on a towel. "The bran
will absorb any discharge from the wound and help keep the
dressing dry. Dr. Barton's treatment is an
old one, but it's very good and still very popular-oh, by the
way. Replace the linen as soon as you can find
gauze."
"Yes, sir."
Will rolled down his sleeves and took out his pocket
watch. More time had passed than he'd realized.
Soon he'd have to be on his way to the railway
station.
Jackson was awake again. He'd listened to most of
Will's instructions. Though obviously in
pain and still intoxicated,
he managed to mumble a garbled thank-you to the man who
had helped him.
Will appreciated the thanks. He took
satisfaction from having done his job with reasonable
competence. Yet the satisfaction couldn't offset a
larger disappointment he was experiencing now that his mind
was no longer focused on his patient.
As he put on his coat, he was conscious of the
stillness of the house. Laura and her friends were still out in
the sleighs, having a fine time. As he walked out
of the library, he realized the carriage would
probably leave for the depot before Laura
returned. He wouldn't see her-not today or ever again,
thanks to what he'd done. That was bitter medicine.
"Will?"
Astonished by the voice, he looked toward the doors
to the living hall.
"Laura!"
ii
She hurried toward him. The silken dust ruffle
inside the hem of her skirt showed briefly, a
pale froth. Her stride, and her determined
expression, kept Will from smiling to show his delight.
She'd taken off her fur hat and muff but
still wore her fur-trimmed jacket, which was much too
heavy for indoors. Perhaps that accounted for her flushed
look. That, or anger.
"I thought you were with the others-was he began.
"At the last moment I decided not to go. I thought it
was more important to stay and speak with you. Please come
outside so we won't be overheard."
"But it's snowing hard out-"
"Please come outside."
This time he didn't argue. He was overjoyed at
seeing her again, and anxious to know what had put such
intensity in her voice.

I
He followed her out the front door, down the
steps, and around toward the east side of the mansion.
She seemed unconcerned about the snow, although it stuck
in her hair, . melted, and ruined her coiffure.
She stopped under a large window consisting of pieces
of red, orange, and yellow stained glass arranged
to represent a sunset. Gaslight inside cast a
bloody glow on the white ground, and on Will and
Laura as they faced one another.
"You quite spoiled my morning, Will Kent."
Anger flared again. "I'm very sorry. A
man needed help."
"I decided to let you indulge your humanitarian
instincts this once."
"Christ, that's charitable of you!"
The force of that made her blink and step back. All
at once, gazing at her through the curtain of the snow,
he was again struck by her incredible beauty. His rage
moderated. He even tried to excuse her behavior
by telling himself that no one was perfect: everyone's
character-his own i ncluded-had objectionable
aspects.
Laura, too, seemed in a gentler, more
conciliatory mood all at once. Her gray
eyes softened as she and Will stood gazing at one
another in the falling snow. She moved closer again:
"I don't want to quarrel with you, W. It's
forward of me to say this-altogether improper, but I-was She
looked away. "I've been taken with you since the
moment Marcus first mentioned your name and what you did.
You're ever so much more interesting and-well-substantial
than the drones he usually brings home."
Will's face lost its strained look. "I don't
want to quarrel either." A sheepish smile. "And
I owe you an apology for swearing again."
"No you don't. In the library, I said
what I did because I thought the others were listening. I
disapproved of your profanity for the sake of
appearances, that's all. You've no idea how
important appearances can be in our circle.
I'll have to impress that on you if we continue seeing
one another."
Not when. . Was her turn of phrase intentional or
accidental? He'd better find out:.
"I thought that my decision to help Jackson made
it certain that we wouldn't see each other."
"Not quite. I like you, W. I decided one
indiscretion was forgivable-if we could strike a
bargain. I admire your idealism, but it must be
channeled, my dear. Kept within practical
limits."
He thought of their earlier conversation. Of the image of the
lioness who allowed her mate to appear dominant but
who in fact controlled everything he did.
She laid a hand on his arm. "My proposition's
a very straightforward one. If we permit our friendship
to ripen- and I hope we can-this morning must be the first
and last time you ever leave my side to do your horse
doctoring."
"Horse
-" Stunned, he couldn't go on. It took
him a moment to recover and say, "You still don't
understand. That man Jackson-was
"Is the kind of patient who is not worthy of your
attention. You squander your talent and your energy when you
deal with people of his station. It's beneath you! What's
worse, if you continue with that kind of work, you'll
soon give everyone the idea that you want to do nothing
else. That you're capable of nothing else."
backslash How icily calculating that sounded. She
was concerned with subtleties of which he wasn't even
aware. How was that possible when she was so young?
The face of her mother flashed into his mind. A
modest, retiring woman. Deceptively so.
"My dear
-
you please"
She ruled her husband, and she'd evidently taught
her daughter all her skills. Until this moment,
he hadn't quite believed the word lioness was
appropriate, but at last he did.
Laura was saying, "If you'll just realize that the
impression you create is every bit as important as
your actual ability, you can be a very successful
doctor. Prosperous. Prominent, too."
He smiled, surprised. "I can't
imagine that you'd be interested in the medical
profession."
She touched her upper lip to flick away a flake
of melting snow. "I am because you are. When Marcus
first described you, Papa made disparaging remarks
about
doctors. He said they were undistinguished and
poverty- stricken. That isn't true, is it?"
"Not for all of them. Some do exceptionally well-if
they have a touch of luck, and a few friends in the right
places."
"Do you mean sponsors? Patron families who
help them establish a practice?"
"Yes."
Her gray eyes seemed to bore through him.
"Sponsors such as the Fennels, for example?"
He nodded, trying to soften the strange, almost
uncomfortable intensity of the moment by smiling again. He
had a curious feeling that she knew much more about his
chosen profession than she admitted. Had she been
asking questions? If so, why?
He could only find one explanation; but it was one which
pleased him. She felt a physical attraction as
strong as his. He saw it in" the scarlet lights
glowing in her eyes. She wanted him the
way he wanted her-
Of course that could only come with marriage. But she
seemed to be hinting that it surely would come if he
obeyed the rules.
Her rules.
But would that be so hard to accept if she took him where
he wanted to go? He decided the answer was no.
Again she startled him by doing the unexpected. After a
swift glance over her shoulder, she put her hands
on his upper arms and held him, tightly:
"I'm afraid I'm quite taken with you, Mr. Kent.
I don't know exactly how it happened, or whether
it's wise. But they say the heart is seldom
wise. Still-there
are
terms. If you can't agree to them, I'll feel
terribly brokenhearted, but I imagine I'll
survive. So tell me, my dear. Do you want
to see me again?"
He was almost giddy with happiness. And yet, in a
remote corner of his mind, some small voice
protested that her performance was too perfect to be
sincere. She couldn't possibly care for him as she
said she did-
Or was that only his sense of inferiority
trying to rob him of happiness by telling him he
wasn't worthy of it?
She stood on tiptoe. No one would see; the
storm was intensifying, and they had become the only
living things in a vast white wilderness. The swirling
snow blurred the
limestone wall of the house just a few feet away,
and bleached the red light falling through the window.
"Do you want to see me again?" she repeated, her
mouth only an inch or two from his.
He thought of the Vanderbilt mansion.
Of Vlandingham ordering luncheon in French.
He thought of Carter.
Then he heard Roosevelt speaking from the
sundrenched platform in Dickinson. He fought
to banish the memory. Emotion and ambition struggled
with conscience and slowly, slowly overcame it-
"Very much," he said.
"Then you must promise me that you've done your horse
doctoring for the last time."
He hesitated only a moment:
"For the last time. I promise."
She flung her arm around his neck. She raised her
face and body and kissed him, opening her mouth for a
moment to let him savor the delicious
promise of her tongue.
Then she withdrew, patting her hair and whispering,
"I shouldn't have done that. I've never done it with any
other boy. I couldn't help myself. Don't think
less of me."
Tumid with excitement, he tried to speak calmly:
"No, I don't, I couldn't. Ever."
backslash - Laura squeezed his hand. She
looked much older than her nineteen years as she
smiled and said, "We'd better go back inside before
we freeze."
Without waiting for agreement, she swept past him,
her shoes crunching in the deepening snow and her skirt
leaving a trail. She kept her hand in his, leading
him.
Since he was a step behind, it was impossible for him
to* see her face. Impossible for him to see her
shut her eyes, as
it
immensely relieved about something; impossible for him
to see the joy and satisfaction that flooded into those
same eyes a moment later; impossible for him
to see the smile that curled her mouth. It was a
satisfied smile, as if a plan had been carried
to a successful completion, and a victory
won.
Castle Garden
EVERY OTHER WEEKEND during the early months of
1888, Will took the train to New York City
to visit Laura.
The Fennels' city residence was an opulent
mansion located on the east side of Fifth
Avenue above Fifty-second Street. They had
formerly owned another place downtown, near
Madison Square, but had sold it when the area
began to decline. Will found it a good omen that their
present home was within hailing distance of the William
K.vanderbilt chateau that held such significance for
him.
Laura always had the weekends completely planned
by the time he arrived. They watched Gilbert and
Sullivan operettas from the Fennel box at the
Standard Theatre; went sailing on Long Island
Sound with friends of her and Marcus as soon as the weather
grew warm enough; attended a number of
subscription balls for which Will was forced to buy
complete formal dress.
He didn't care much for the people he met at these
weekend outings. Young or old, they seemed a
self- centered, snobbish lot. But he
learned to hide his feelings, reminding himself
frequently that a doctor didn't have to like his
patients in order to profit from their illnesses.
Whenever he spoke to Thurman Fennel, he never
discussed politics, or mentioned his father. It was
soon evident that his restraint improved his standing with
Mr. Fennel. He assumed Mrs. Fennel already
approved of him; otherwise he wouldn't have been
permitted to court her daughter.
His uneasiness about lacking social graces began
to disappear. Laura was free with advice on everything
from proper manners to the proper attire for each hour
of the day. Anxious to learn, he took the advice with
good grace.
Soon he found that he could wear his evening clothes with
no sense of awkwardness, and could carry on trivial
conversations with Laura's friends and not fret about whether
his next word would be the correct one. Memories of
his bar mother seldom bothered him.
Thurman Fennel had a stream of callers that
spring. He was deeply involved in an effort
to remove Grover Cleveland from the White House.
One of the visitors was a portly but
vigorous-looking Ohio congressman named
McKinley. On the afternoon Will and Marcus
were invited to meet him, he was still venting his fury over
the Presi- -- j dent's tariff message the
previous December: "A body blow to every single
native manufacturer! Let England take care
of herself-and in God's name let Americans look
after America!"
Laura's father was even less restrained when
criticizing Cleveland. "Marxist" was perhaps the
kindest term he used. If there had been any doubt
about the chief executive's radical leanings,
Fennel declared, his signature on the Interstate
Commerce Act the preceding year had removed it. Of
course Cleveland quibbled and said he was
"suspicious" of the new legislation.
"But the blackguard signed it!" Fennel roared.
"It's nothing less than a shameless attack on the
business - backslash munity!"
The purpose of the new law was to regulate the
railroad combinations, those lines which got together to fix
rates among themselves. The practice resulted in
rebates for volume customers of the cooperating
railroads, and exorbitant rates for smaller
shippers-especially the farmers of the midlands who
moved their crops to market by rail. Under the new
law, all discriminatory rates were
forbidden, and the railroads were required to file
tariff schedules with the newly created Interstate
Commerce Commission. Fennel deemed the whole thing
an assault on American liberty, and
predicted the decay of personal incentive and the
collapse of the country unless the Republicans
elected a man who was pro-business and
pro-tariff. Senator Benjamin Harrison,
grandson of the ninth president, was a name mentioned in
Will's hearing.
In the late spring, Will and Drew prepared for
yearend examinations. Drew was anxiously awaiting
answers to letters he'd sent a month earlier. He was
hoping to find a
volunteer medical post for the summer, one in which he
could gain some practical experience.
Two weeks before the examinations, Will again traveled
to New York. He hated to take time from his
studies but the Fennels-minus the head of the
household-were about to sail for three months of
sightseeing on the Continent.
The night before the departure, Will took Laura
to Tony Pastor's variety theater, then to supper
at Delmonico's. On the way home in a hired
carriage whose driver had been instructed
to go slowly, she permitted Will to touch her breast
while they kissed, and even put her own hand over his
to increase the pressure. When they broke the
embrace, she apologized for letting her emotions
overwhelm her sense of propriety.
He laughed and told her he didn't mind a bit.
Her ardor encouraged him to say what he'd been
thinking all evening:
"I don't know how I'll survive the summer
without you caret
"Nor I, my dear."
Another moment of hesitation. Then:
"I love you, Laura."
"Oh, my sweet boy-was
One arm curled around his neck. She pressed her
cheek against his, her eyes closing. Her voice was
husky with emotion:
"I feel the same way. I know it's wrong, but
when I'm with you, I want to do the most wonderful,
shameful things-was
Then, as boldly as Aggie at Madam
Melba's, she reached down and grasped him.
Her hand, working and working, almost drove him crazy.
She moaned softly. It would have been so easy
to hire a cheap hotel room for an hour-
But he couldn't ask that of her. A man who
respected a girl had a responsibility to help
her maintain her honor. Old-fashioned as that
might be, he still believed it. He moved just
slightly. She understood the signal and, with a
small, disappointed sigh, let go.
"Will, I'm so terribly sorry. I got carried
away all over again. It's never happened with anyone
but you."
"I'm glad." After a pause he blurted, "I
want to marry you, Laura."
He was terrified that she'd laugh. But all she did
was hug
him and whisper:
"When, my darling?"
"In two years. As soon as I've gotten my
degree."
"I don't know whether I can wait that long. But
I'll try. In case you don't know it, Will
Kent, I think you're a perfectly splendid
catch. We're going to turn you into one of the finest,
richest doctors in all of New York. In the
whole country! It's about time the Fennels had a
member of the family who can claim some
intellectual accomplishment."
Is that what I'm to be? A family trophy?
But what was wrong with that? he asked himself a moment
later. The kind of plan she described would give
him everything he wanted; absolutely everything.
He'd have no worries for the rest of his life-
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her again. The
carriage creaked slowly on toward upper Fifth
Avenue.

Will saw the Fennels off at the North German
Lloyd's pier, then returned to Boston, where his
father made some disparaging remarks about his fondness for his
newfound friends. Will wa" too much in love to let the
sarcasm bother him for long.
Besides, Gideon wasn't himself these days. In the
wake of Theo Payne's death, four successive
editors had been hired to take charge of the
Union.
Each had been found wanting. While the search
continued, circulation fell steadily. Gideon was
growing desperate.
**I have only one more possibility," he said
to Julia. "An editor on the night desk of the
World.
His name's Moultrie Calhoun. I've
heard he's unhappy, so I'm going to write him
a letter and ask him to have dinner. I don't like raiding
a competitor-not even one like Joe Pulitzer-but if
I must go raiding, I will. And I must say Joe's
reputation gets worse by the week. I hardly ever
agree with him anymore, and everyone on Park Row
says his nervous disorders are making him almost too
irascible to deal with. I'm not surprised Calhoun
wants to leave."
Will and Drew continued to cram for their examinations.
Two days before the first test, Drew jubilantly
reported
that he'd gotten a job as an assistant at the
medical inspection station at Castle Garden in
New York. Castle Garden was the entry point
for the hundreds of thousands of European immigrants
swarming to the United States. The press
regularly predicted that by the time the decade was
over, the total number of arrivals for the ten-year
period might reach five million-much to the disgust of
established families such as the Fennels.
Both young men passed their examinations, thus
advancing to the third class. Drew left Boston
and a few weeks later wrote from New York
to invite Will to come for a visit.
The idea was appealing. Will was bored reading medical
texts, and it would be some weeks before he began his
studies in Dr. Charles Green's special
summer course in obstetrics. Until very
recently, medical students hadn't been permitted
to witness childbirth; that was the province of the
midwife. Also, questions of the patient's modesty were
involved. The only obstetrical training most
doctors received came from lectures or study of
anatomical models. Since 1883, however,
Harvard had required that every third-year student
attend at least two cases of labor before receiving a
diploma. Dr. Green's short course was intended
as preparation.
In late July, Will boarded a train for New
York.
in
Castle Garden, a huge building with a conical
roof, was located at the upper west end of Battery
Park.
The structure dated from 1807. It had been
planned as a fort to defend lower Manhattan, but that
use had been found impractical-as had its
second function as a site for public
entertainment. Although Jenny Find had
packed Castle Garden during her
Barnum-sponsored concert tour in 1850, the
building's shed-like design was simply all wrong
for a music hall. Finally it had been leased to the
Commissioners of Emigration.
Will reached sprawling Battery Park on a hot,
humid morning. The hazy air all but hid the
Jersey shore, and blurred the hull and
superstructure of a rusty oceangoing vessel moving
slowly up the river. As Will watched, the
ship came to a dead stop. Tugs and a pilot boat
steamed away while the vessel's anchor chain paid out
noisily. At the ship's rail stood a couple of
hundred men and women. Some held up infants,
presumably hoping the babies would appreciate the
heat-sodden skyline, or the huge copper-clad
figure of Liberty out in the harbor.
Bartholdi's gigantic statue with its flaring
lamp upraised had finally been erected on its
pedestal late in 1886. Small excursion
boats took sightseers a mile and a half out
to Bedloe's Island for a closer inspection. Will thought
he should make that one of his stops before he returned
to Boston.
He was fascinated by a group of about twenty
men, most of them unsavory looking, who lounged
near the gates of Castle Garden. As the new
arrivals emerged from the building, bundles of
belongings slung over their shoulders and bewildered
expressions on their faces, the waiting men took
advantage of that bewilderment.
From the shadow of the park's bandstand, Will watched one of the
men step up to an elderly couple, smile and tip
his derby. The man spoke to the couple in a foreign
tongue. Russian, perhaps; he couldn't be sure.
The old man and woman broke out in smiles at the
sound of a familiar language. The man-a
hard-faced sort with a large diamond ring on the little
finger of his right hand-noticed Will watching and glared. Will
moved on. The man still less-than pped between the
elderly couple and began talking in a confidential
tone.
Another white-haired man came through the gates, a
homemade crutch under his left arm. A laughing
eight- year-old boy rode his right shoulder. Next
came the boy's parents-a big-shouldered man in
ragged clothes, and a buxom, extremely ugly
girl who was entranced by the sights around her. A man
broke away from the loungers and sauntered toward the
group:
"Good morning to you. Would you be interested in half-
price railroad tickets to your destination?"
The grandfather said something in a foreign language
to indicate that he didn't understand. He asked a
question. The American grinned:
"Sure, I can talk bohunk. I was raised on
it. My folks Spoke nothing else."
He proceeded to prove it, slipping his arms around the
young couple as
it
he'd known them for years. The parents,
the old man, and the child all looked at the stranger with
expressions of trust and gratitude.
At the gates, Will sent in his name; he'd have to wait
until Drew came for him. The guard, a florid
Irishman, told him no one was allowed to leave
without a permit- and no one was allowed to enter without being
vouched for by an employee:
"Otherwise we'd have the damned rascals inside the
building too." He indicated the lounging men who were
laughing and talking with one another. "As it is, they
pollute this place day and night. They pay off the
police so they won't be run in for their dirty
tricks. We try to warn the greenhorns. And
there's a currency exchange inside where
they can get an honest shake. But they've been
packed in steerage for weeks, and most of 'em are
tired and so nervous, they don't get around to doing
business till they meet their new-found friends out here.
Disgusting, that's what it is!"
Will pointed at the family he'd observed:
"I heard that man mention cut-rate railroad
tickets to those four."
"Oh, sure, hell sell them a half-price
ticket to Minnesota or Kansas or anyplace
else they want to go. Only they won't be able
to read it and see it's worthless. The sharps either speak
a foreign language or learn enough of a few to get
by. These are the very first Americans the greenhorns
meet outside of Castle Garden. What a fine
impression of our country it must give them!" The
guard glowered at the men.
"wmr
He turned at the sound of the familiar voice. There
came Drew, a spotted linen smock flying around
his legs. The heat plastered his red-gold curls
to his pale forehead. In a moment, he was shepherding
his friend through the gate.
"So you've seen our version of John, chapter
two."
"What?"
"The temple of the moneychangers that Jesus purged.
I wish someone would purge Battery Park."
"I was watching some of those men operate. They're very
skillful."
"Skillful crooks! They all have their
specialties. Some only watch for prosperous
immigrants. They buy them a meal, drug their
drinks-and the newcomers wake up in
some alley, prosperous no longer. Some of the men
concentrate on befriending young girls traveling
alone-you can imagine where
they
wind up. By the way-Jo sends you her regards."
The thought of Drew's sister brought a look of
embarrassment to Will's face. "I haven't had time
to answer her letters for months." A wry smile.
"Do you suppose that's why she stopped writing?" .
"That and the fact that she's seeing a boy."

"Oh? Who?"
"The minister's son. He bores her to tears, but
at least she has a suitor of whom Pa
approves. She's filled out a lot. I've never
seen anyone so grateful to be grown up."
"You said you hoped she'd be less grumpy when that
happened."
"My hope has been fulfilled. Now she's
only grumpy when she looks in the mailbox and
finds you haven't sent a letter. You're still her
favorite."
Will wished Jo Hastings would grow out of her
adolescent devotion to him; he hoped Drew
hadn't told her about Laura.
"Is Jo working at the store?" he asked.
"Six days a week." Drew led his friend into the
building and down a dark corridor ten degrees
hotter than the outdoors.
"Is she tippy?"
"I think she's miserable. She'll never get over
the fact that she can't realize her ambition because
we're poor and she's a girl. She sympathizes
with Pa's predicament, but that doesn't make her like
being the victim of it."
He and Will entered a small office. Drew took
Will's valise, then reached toward a wall peg.
He handed his friend a heavy linen smock of the kind he
was wearing:
"Put this on, if you don't mind. We have a
patient."
"We?"
"Yes, I need your help."
"What about the regular doctors?"
f
"Too busy. I don't know whether I wrote you
about the procedure here."
"No."
"Arriving ships anchor in the river-was
Will nodded. "I watched a big one putting her
anchor dosvn."
"They stay in the river while a Customs House
launch takes the immigrants off in groups.
We'll be receiving that ship's first load within the hour.
A vessel that came in earlier this morning brought us
two hundred and fifty, including our patient."
"Who is he?"
"She," Drew corrected. "A Polish girl.
She seems to be sans a husband, but she's very much
pregnant. At full term, in fact. Some of the
others on her boat spoke a little English. They
say this is her first child. She's been in labor about
twenty-six hours. Too long. Her pains have
stayed steady and strong, but the baby's progress
has stopped."
"The fetus in the wrong position?"
"Yes. Almost a direct posterior position, as
far as I can tell."
"Wasn't there a doctor aboard her ship?"
"No."
"Couldn't someone in the crew have helped her?"
"Medical care isn't included when you buy a
steerage ticket, W."
"All right, but how'd she become your
responsibility?"
"The captain ordered her off, and never mind her
condition. An orderly's watching her in case there's
an emergency, but I've delayed about as long as I
can. I'm going to have to deliver her myself."
Will frowned. "Why? You told me only routine
examinations were done at Castle Garden."
"That's right. Serious cases are transferred to the
hospital on Ward's Island. I don't
believe I have time to ship this girl there." He shoved
the smock at W.
"Drew, I've never seen a delivery! I
haven't even had a
course in-was
"Neither have I, for God's sake. But weVe both
read textbooks-and last summer in Hartford, I
paid an old midwife to let me watch
half a dozen accouchements. I had to pretend to be
her son. Some women are insane on the subject of
modesty. They'd rather perish than have a physician
see their private parts. Anyway, for three of the
deliveries, the old woman had to use the forceps.
Years ago she hired a blacksmith to make some
to her specifications. She was masterful with them. I
learned a lot watching her. Now come on-enough
conversation. If we don't give this girl proper
care, no one will."
The old sense of inadequacy gripped Will then:
"I'm not sure I'm capable of being any real
hel-was
"You can administer ether, can't you? I'll even tell
you how many spoonfuls to sprinkle into the inhaler."
The contempt reddened Will's cheeks. But he still
didn't move.
Drew cast an anxious eye on a small desk
clock. "Now what's wrong? Do you object because the
girl's poor and foreign? Do you only associate
with rich patients now that you've taken up with the
Fennels?"
"That's goddamn unfair, Drew!"
"Of course it is. But it got a reaction."
"For your information, I don't need to be
told how many spoonfuls of ether to sprinkle into the
inhaler. I memorized a few things besides the tenth
edition of Gray's!"
"That was my impression," Drew said with a mocking
lift of his eyebrows. "Will you or won't you
help?"
Will snatched the smock from Drew's hand, flung it
on a chair and started to strip off his coat.
Drew's quick smile couldn't quite hide his tension.
CHAPTER XII
Birth
IN A SMALL, badly lighted room bearing no
resemblance to a modern surgical theater, Drew
examined a rectangular table with a large brown stain
in the center. Two blocks of rough wood had been
nailed to the corners of the table nearest him. He
touched each block, then spun to the loutish young
orderly in the filthy white jacket:
"Couldn't you find wood without splinters, Clarence?"
The orderly acted as if the question insulted him.
"No, I couldn't."
Drew pointed to the blocks. 'Then cover these with
cloths soaked in the carbolic solution. Put a
sheet soaked in carbolic over the whole table, and
two dry ones on top. Where's the
girl?"
"On my gurney, down the hall."
"Ne'll bring her in after we fix the table. Get the
linens."
The orderly shuffled away. "Fast, for Christ's
sake!" Drew shouted. "I'd like to deliver the child
sometime before the leaves fall!"
The orderly moved a little faster. The door
slammed. Drew sighed. "Shouldn't have yelled at
him. I'll need his help, too. Damn heat's
getting me."
The heat, and the problem confronting them, Will thought as he
studied the room. For a moment the only sound was the
faint bubbling of a kettle of water boiling on a
ring above a gas burner. Drew noticed his friend's
frown and said:
"We're splendidly set up, aren't we? No
windows. No separate ventilated room for
administering the anesthetic. You'll have to do it right in
here." He cocked an eye at the gas fixture
hanging above the table, its jets trimmed low. "Be
careful with the ether. Blowing the fetus into the world isn't
the procedure I had in mind."
"Where's your equipment?"
"Behind you-what little we have."
Will moved to an old walnut cabinet. "You sound
nervous."
"Why, no," his friend replied as he pulled a
book, then a forceps, from storage cubbies. "I
always keep a text handy when I work. It
reassures the patient. If the doctor doesn't
know what the hell to do next, perhaps the author
does."
Less sarcastically, he continued, "I really am
glad you're here. I wouldn't trust Clarence to give
the anesthetic. I didn't tell you all the
complications. The fetus is extremely large.
And the mother's pelvis is all wrong for childbearing.
It's the truncated kind-more like a man's than a
woman's. Add my inexperience and you might
logically conclude that the whole business is very
chancy. Your conclusion would be right"
Drew poured some of the boiling water into a smaller
basin next to a comsecond one containing carbolic
solution. Will, meantime, began to lay out the
anesthesia equipment on a small table. He
noted the title of the book Drew planned to keep
handy.
A System of Midwifery.
It was a widely used text by Dr.
Leishman of the University of Glasgow.
Clarence returned with sheets and rags. Will and
Drew took over preparation of the table. After it was
draped, Drew tore strips of clean rag with which
to tie the patient's ankles to the blocks once her
heels were braced against them.
Next Drew washed his hands in the smaller basin of
boiled water, relatively cool now. Once
he'd rinsed off the soap he dipped his hands and lower
arms into the adjacent pan of carbolic solution.
The room was intensely hot. Will asked about dispensing
with the smocks. "I prefer them, but I suppose we
can." Will got rid of his, rolled up his sleeves
and drained the dirty water from the small basin. He
rinsed and refilled it, then washei his hands and
immersed them in the basin of antiseptic.
Drew, meantime, instructed Clarence to pick up the
separate halves of the forceps. Each half of forged
metal consisted of a long shank with a handgrip at one
end and, at the other, a blade somewhat resembling a
large serving spoon from which most of the bottom had been
cut out. Holding each shank at the mid-point,
Clarence dipped the handles into the kettle of boiling
water, then into the carbolic. Drew waited a few
seconds to permit the handles to cool and
took them in his own hands.
He studied the two halves of the forceps. They were
meant to be united by an attachment mechanism near
the mid-point of the shanks. When fitted together, the
halves formed a single instrument with the concave
surfaces of the blades facing inward for holding and
judiciously pulling the head of the fetus. The
design of the attachment mechanism allowed the two
halves to slide forward or back; necessary for adjusting
to irregularities in the shape of the fetus"
head. In a posterior-position fetus, such
irregularities were to be expected.
As Drew stared at the instrument, his expression
suggested that he might be remembering horror
stories he'd heard at Harvard; stories of
infants marked or mangled before birth by doctors
whose handling of the forceps was unskillful. Will started
to feel an ache in the pit of his stomach, and a sense
of concern and responsibility for the unknown mother that he
didn't altogether welcome.
Drew immersed the unsterilized sections of the forceps
in the boiling water, then the carbolic. At the same
time, Will was sorting and arranging the apparatus for
administering anesthesia: a battered metal Allis
inhaler; a Goodwillie mouth gag for
holding the jaws apart; a tenaculum to draw out the
tongue, and a large curved needle with attached silk
thread for transfixing it, if that became necessary; a
silver trachea tube; a basin for catching vomit.
Drew raised the forceps for a final inspection. The
carbolic solution dripped from the blades. A
professor on the Harvard faculty had once
referred to the forceps as the great prime mover of
obstetrics. No one knew who had invented the
instrument. Its origins were lost in the past. But
Avicenna, the great Persian physician who had
lived in the tenth and eleventh centuries, had been
familiar with the forceps. Watching the wet blades
shine in the gaslight, Will had a strong sense of the
worthy traditions of his profession.
In the hall, a woman moaned. "Find the
anesthetic?"
Drew asked as he laid the forceps on a square
of linen that
had come out of the carbolic basin a few minutes
earlier.
Will nodded, holding up two corked cans of ether.
It was
"Dr. Squibb's, generally considered the best
available.
The orderly opened the door. The moaning grew
louder. As Clarence tried to maneuver his cart into the
stifling room, Drew's eyes shifted past Will to the
mother. Instantly, his anxious look disappeared,
replaced by a confident smile. Will understood the
abrupt change when he saw the young woman. She was
awake, and terrified.
The girl was only eighteen or so. She had a
pretty, high- cheekboned face, bright with sweat.
Her hair was damp and stringy. Her abdomen pushed
up beneath a soiled sheet. She tried to respond
to Drew's smile with a shy and
hopeful one of her own, but the fright in her hazel
eyes was unmistakable.
How much greater that fear must be because she couldn't understand
what was said by those around her, Will thought. Her
expression had a sudden and unexpected effect on
him. It made Vlandingham's greed seem
contemptible.
They transferred the girl from the cart to the table. She
said something to Drew in a foreign language. Even
though her words made no sense to him, he responded
with a nod and solicitous sounds.
"Don't worry," he said, his round head bobbing.
He placed his left hand just above the
mountainous belly. "We'll take care of your
baby. He'll be perfectly fine. "We'll see
to it, Doctor Kent and I."
Somehow, she comprehended one word. "Doctor?
Doctor?"
"Yes, I'm Doctor Hastings." He touched his
chest, then pointed. "That's Doctor Kent.
We're both doctors. You're safe."
He was stretching the truth by using the term doctor
to refer to a couple of students; but it was what she
wanted to hear. She nodded, her eyes fixing on
Drew with unquestioning trust. She was in a foreign land,
in pain, but the t caret o young men were relievers of
pain--deliverers of children. That much was clear, and it
eased her anxiety.
Suddenly she clenched her teeth and her fists.
Another contraction wracked her body. Drew's
eyes flicked to Will, a signal.
Will opened his pocket watch; laid it on a stool.
His hand shook slightly as he picked up the
Allis inhaler, a metal tube more oval than
round. After a quick look at the gas flame hissing
overhead, he began to sprinkle ether on the long
gauze bandage threaded through the maze of wires within the
inhaler. He hoped to God he didn't
make a mistake.
No one spoke. Will pressed the inhaler's turned
metal edge against the girl's mouth. He continued
to sprinkle ether into the other end, glancing
frequently at his watch. Its tick seemed
thunderous.
Ten minutes passed.
Twelve.
The girl's face turned deep red, a sign of the
first stage of ether narcosis. Will warned Clarence
to be ready for the possible onset of violent
struggling.
The young woman started to mutter. Soon she was
babbling loudly, and tossing in a restive way; not quite
sleeping yet.
Her hands spasmed toward her belly; she still felt
the contractions. The pain should be lessening moment
by moment -
The babbling stopped. The girl passed safely into the
deep, completely relaxed second stage of
anesthesia. Will said:
"You're free to go ahead."

Drew turned the gas jets up full. Then he
lifted the sheet and bared the girl's lower
body. The orderly started to snigger. Drew's
murderous look silenced him.
Drew positioned the girl's feet and told
Clarence to tie them. The loutish young man moved with
surprising alacrity, tying both feet neatly.
Drew complimented higa. The orderly lost his
sullen look.
The gaslight hissed; the pocket watch ticked.
Will's clothing was soaked with sweat. He stood behind the
girl's head, lightly holding the inhaler in
place, his heart slamming fast and hard within his chest.
He leaned down to check the girl's pulse. Drew
looked at him.
"All right?"
"Yes, fine."
With great care, Drew inserted his hand to examine the
fetus trapped dis'n the birth canal. The problem
he faced was stark and simple. In the posterior
position, the back of the fetus was toward the mother's
back. This put the head in an attitude in which its
largest dimension pushed against the walls of a uterine
canal made too narrow by a pelvic bone
structure Drew had characterized as inadequate. Had
the girl been fortunate enough to be born with a normal
pelvis-the luck of the draw, some doctors
termed it-the fetus might have passed through the canal with
no difficulty.
But that wasn't the case, and so a rotation was necessary.
With the fetus in the correct position-its back
toward the mother's belly-the head would be in a slightly
different attitude, presenting a slightly narrower
dimension to the canal opening. The difference was only a
matter of one or two centimeters, but it was
critical if the fetus was to be driven downward and
outward to the air, and to life, by the mother's labor.
When Drew was sure the dilation of the os was complete,
he took a deep breath. Then he moved his right hand
forward again, slipping it up into the uterus, well out of
sight. The hand was positioned between the side of the
fetus's head and the uterine wall on the mother's left
side. It would stay there as a guide and buffer for the
potentially damaging blade of the forceps.
Drew's face shone under the gaslight. Will whispered
an order. Clarence took a rag and mopped
Drew's forehead and cheeks.
"Thank you, Clarence."
Upper teeth biting down on his lower lip, Drew
took the left forceps blade in his left hand. He
slowly inserted the blade next to his right hand. The
procedure seemed to take hours.
He pulled his right hand out. Jammed his sleeve against
his forehead to swab sweat away. He glanced at Will
again, his tension unmistakable. Once more Will checked
the girl't pulse.
"Everything satisfactory."
Drew reached for the right forceps blade. His palm must
have been excessively slick. The metal handle
slipped away from him.
Clarence caught the handle just before it hit the floor.
He didn't touch the blade. Drew nodded his
appreciation. Slowly and carefully, he inserted the
blade into the opposite side of the uterus.
Deeper-
Deeper
-
Drew swallowed hard; took another long breath.
Then Will heard the faint click as the crossed
blades locked.
With barely a pause, Drew began to rotate the
forceps clockwise, like a man turning a key in a
lock. Suddenly his face wrenched.
"Damn."
"Hard?" Will whispered.
"Won't budge."
With the fetus in a perfect posterior
position, the practitioner had a choice of
rotations-to the right or to the left. Either way, a
turn of a hundred eighty degrees was required.
Sometimes a fetus was canted slightly in one
direction or another, requiring a turn of only
a hundred thirty-five degrees or even less.
Drew hadn't been that fortunate. And the direction
he'd picked had been the wrong one.
Face twisted into a mask of concentration, he
applied pressure in the other direction. It
seemed to Will that his friend was barely breathing. He was
undoubtedly conscious of the blades clasping the
fetus's head, and of the potential for damage. One
mistake and an entire lifetime could be blighted,
even before the fetus was transformed into an infant by its
first struggling intake of outside air.
"Turning,"
Drew said abruptly. Under the flaring gas, he
looked like a hunched cherub there at the end of the table.
His whisper sounded remarkably like a prayer:
"Come on. Come on-a little more.
Come on
-"
Will's spine prickled. There was hope on Drew's
face now; the fetus was rotating
properly. Drew maintained the gentle but firm
pressure. And as Will continued to monitor the young
woman's pulse and respiration, he knew he was
witnessing a miracle. The kind of miracle of
love and concern that made one human being minister
to another not because there was money to be made, but because there
was pain, and danger, and desperate need.
"Done!"
Drew exclaimed, looking ready to faint. "Done,
by God!"
"And no advice needed from Dr. Leishman," Will
said by way of a compliment.
"Not so far, anyway. I swear, Will-this one's big
as a lumberjack."
Will grinned. "Let's see."
"Any minute now."
With the fetus reversed in the birth canal, Drew
removed the forceps and turned them over in preparation
for delivering the baby. When the instrument was once again
inserted, he formed a tight ring around the crossed
shanks with his left thumb and index finger. Clarence
reached over Drew's arm to place a sponge between the
handles, both of whiph Drew held in his right hand.
The sponge protected
against accidental pressure on the head of the
fetus as Drew grasped it with the blades and began
the extraction.
He did it perfectly, simulating the contractions
of the uterus in labor. He'd give a little tug,
then let up. Another tug; another pause.
Downward and then upward in the classic arc, he
brought a small head through the canal and into the open.
Amid the fuzz of black hair Will could clearly
see the soft indentation of the posterior fontanel.
He watched tiny red ears and the back of a neck come
into sight above the mother's pubis. Then small
shoulders, a backbone, and buttocks appeared.
Drew brought the newborn the rest of the way into the
world, as proud and delighted as if he were the father:
"Damn if he won't make a lumberjack.
Look at him! Ten pounds if he's an ounce."
After one whack of his wrinkled red bottom, the baby
howled. Will felt tears of joy in his eyes.
iv
Drew's hands moved confidently as he cut and tied
the cord. The newborn kicked and screamed while
Drew lowered him to clean towels Clarence was
holding. The orderly, too, had a soft, wondering
look on his coarse face. Drew siailed in a
weary but satisfied way. The baby boy
was strong of lung, and apparently perfect.
Within a couple of hours, the mother had her first bleary
look at her child. She was resting on a cot Drew
had set up in his own office. While Will handed the
young woman the warm, squirming bundle, Drew
cooled her forehead with a cloth dipped in alcohol.
Although the mother understood none of what Drew and Will said
as they murmured appreciations of her fine son,
something in Drew's expression continued to communicate
calmness, reassurance-a promise that the young woman
had survived her ordeal in steerage, and her more
recent one at Castle Gardens to a good purpose.
The purpose was wiggling and squalling in her arms.
"Very fine," Drew said, lifting the blanket so the
mother could clearly see the infant's sex. "A very
fine, strong boy." He kept smiling and nodding as
he said it. The exhausted
girl understood. She burst into tears. The sight
sent another shiver up Will's spine.
Then the young woman uttered a short sentence Will
didn't understand. Her tone of pride was
unmistakable, though. Drew seemed to grasp what
she meant. As he tucked the starched sheet beneath her
chin, he bobbed his head again:
"Yes, that's a very good thing. A good omen for
his life."
Softly, Will asked, "What did she say?"
"She said
born in America.
She's glad her son came into the world on this side
of the Atlantic." He unfolded fresh swaddling
clothes; the gurgling infant had wet the other ones.
As he began to wrap the baby, he added, "I'm
glad I was here to help her."
Will gazed down at the tired, pretty face of the young
woman, so peaceful and happy now that her ordeal was
over. He was deeply moved; as moved as he'd
been that first night he watched Lon Adam work.
"So am I," he said. Medicine wasn't a
chateau on Fifth Avenue, an investment
portfolio, an invitation to the Astor ball. This was
what medicine was all about.
Th.
  CHAPTER XIII
"The
Wretched Refuse of Your Teeming Shore*
.""
THE REST OF WILL'S week in New York
passed swiftly. He moved in with Drew at a
rundown rooming house near Battery
Park. Cost of an extra bed- thirty cents a
night. He didn't mind staying in such a sleazy
place; he and Drew were seldom there. They spent
most of their time at Castle Garden.
Large as Castle Garden was, the facility was still
taxed
to capacity. Two or three shiploads of new
Americans arrived almost every day. An atmosphere
of confusion prevailed.
Nor was Castle Garden free of official
corruption, Will discovered. Drew said he'd seen
cheating and price- gouging at the currency exchange
and general store inside the gates. One official
who was supposed to give newcomers advice about
honest boarding houses had recently been discharged for
sending people to a filthy tenement owned by his wife.
Two middle-aged doctors supervised the Castle
Garden inspection station. A few minor cases were
treated on the premises, rather than at Ward's
Island. Drew got most of these-not an easy
assignment, because many of the pa caret tients were hard
to handle. They feared the American doctors and were
suspicious, even hostile because they didn't know the
language and customs of then: new country.
Drew worked twelve to fourteen hours a
day. Will accompanied him everywhere, and quickly discovered
that his friend had a remarkable knack for putting the
immigrants at ease and winning their trust. His
air of competence and his innate kindness were instantly
communicated to patients, no matter what
language they spoke.
Will saw that when Drew bathed the feverish forehead of a
young Bohemian boy, or palpated the
flux-bloated belly of an oLike , surly
Russian, he soon calmed them, won them,
greater-than had them smiling and swallowing whatever
medicine he wanted them to take. He talked
blithely about the medicine in English, as if he was
confident they'd understand. Somehow, Will almost believed
they did.
It struck him that in at least one respect, Drew
was very much like Lon Adam. He did more than merely
treat symptoms. He was a healer of the spirit. Will
decided that the man whose style he wanted to emulate
in his own practice was not Vlandingham, but Drew.
It was a tall order. Although Drew wouldn't get his
diploma for another year, he was already a skilled
practitioner. Perhaps a better one than Will could ever
hope to be.
The week soon came to an end. Castle
Garden received no immigrants on Sunday, so the
two friends decided to treat themselves to a good meal at
August Luchow's restaurant up on Fourteenth
Street. But first they'd visit the city's newest
tourist attraction. They took a steam launch
out to Bedloe's Island for a close look at the
Bartholdi statue.
A midweek thunderstorm had cleared the air and brought
a spell of cool, almost autumnal weather.
Sunlight sparkled on the harbor and the rooftops of
lower Manhattan. From Bedloe's Island the view
of the city was impressive. And from the base of the
granite and concrete pedestal designed by Richard
Morris Hunt, the view straight up was
breathtaking.
The colossal statue with its covering of more than
three hundred copper sheets towered into the cloudless
sky. The great torch upraised in Liberty's right
hand was so far above them, Will could almost imagine that it was
visible on the other side of the ocean.
They walked all the way around the pedestal, then
entered a hallway which led to the stairs. On a
plaque in the hall they found "The New
Colossus," the sonnet by -Emma Lazarus which
the statue had inspired.
The friends stopped and silently read the poem. It had
a special, personal significance for W; his
family had been founded by a young European boy
yearning to breathe free,
as the poetess had put it.
Still saying nothing, the friends walked outside again. The
sea wind was raising white water on the
Atlantic. Will took off his straw hat and let the
wind cool his forehead. He squinted against the sun's
glare and softly repeated the line he'd found most
memorable:
was 'The wretched refuse of your teeming shore-"
I understand that now that I've seen Castle Garden.
America takes them all."
"We do, and we should be proud of it," Drew said.
"It's hardly a pleasure to examine some of them after
they've been cooped up between decks a week or so.
But once you look into their faces, you forget the
shabbiness and the stench. You understand what this country means
to them. We take it for granted, but to them it's a
haven like no other in the world."
They strolled toward the jetty where the excursion
launches docked. "I'm glad I got a summer
job here," Drew went on, hands in his pockets and
his, eyes fixed on the ocean. "It's
clarified my thinking about what I want to do after I
get my diploma."
He pointed a plump finger at Castle Garden and the
panorama of buildings beyond the Battery. "That
makes Harvard seem like the proverbial ivory
tower. That's the real world, W. There's so much
squalor and pain in that one city, no single life's
long enough to do all that needs to be done to relieve it."
Will thought he knew the direction Drew wanted the
conversation to take. The realization made him
defensive, even a bit testy:"
"If you're trying to say that only greenhorns and the
poor get sick, you know you're distorting the truth.
And I still believe every doctor ought to practice where
he wants to practice."
"I disagree. Doctors should practice where
they're needed."
"Meaning-?"
"Meaning that a doctor is seldom needed very
urgently in the parlors along Fifth Avenue.
There, the typical illness is some society
girl's headache, which is usually imaginary."
Will stepped in front of his friend, his dark eyes
fierce and bright in the sunlight:
"Drew, why the hell are you constantly
sitting in judgment of me?"
"Because we're friends."
"Does that confer some special right to criticize?"
"I thi less-than knowledge so."
"Well, whether it does or not, we won't be friends
for long if you keep it up."
Drew's cocksure smile turned a bit
uneasy then. "I've got to, W. You have the
makings of a fine doctor. But someone's got to set
you straight before you waste your talent."
Will couldn't help laughing. "My God, I've
never heard such gall. Is it a Yankee
characteristic?"
"Can't say. I know it's a Hastings characteristic."
Will's smile faded. "Whatever it is, I damned
well resent your constant hints that I'll turn out
to be nothing but a medical hack."
"Hints?" Drew's round head bobbed from side
to side. "No hints. I'm saying it straight out.
Except for rare moments comhelping me deliver that
baby was one-you don't seem to care about anything but the
financial and social rewards of being a doctor.
I admit you can probably set up
a very lucrative practice thanks to your liaison
with Laura Pen-was
"Leave my personal life out of this!"
Drew sighed. "Wish I could, but I can't."
"Who the hell appointed you as my conscience?"
He didn't take offense: "I'm
self-appointed. You have talent, and I refuse
to let you squander it. You're trying hard to do so."
"Goddamn it, you're wrong!" Will slapped his hat
against his leg. His loud voice attracted the
attention of several sightseers just getting off a
launch. Glaring at Will, a mother hurried two
small girls out of the range of further
disprofanity.
A part of Will's anger sprang from guilt. He
couldn't deny that he'd been preoccupied with money and
social position for the last year or so. But Castle
Garden-and Drew-had done a great deal to remind him
of medicine's true purpose.
"Wrong, am I?" Drew had a strange, almost
sly smile on his round face. "All right, prove
it."
"What's that?"
"I think I spoke clearly. I said prove that
I'm wrong. If you're hell-bent on practicing
uptown, instead of taking your skills to people genuinely
desperate for them-was
"And who might those people be?"
Drew turned and pointed to the doorway in the
pedestal. He referred to the Lazarus sonnet, and
those it described. The human garbage of
Europe. The refugees from the slums, the
ghettos, the failed farms and stagnating villages
of a dozen ancient countries. The seekers of the
second chance. The travelers who had risked all
they had- savings, security, sometimes even sanity
or life itself-to reach the American shore.
"Weekends, I've been poking around up in the
Sixth Ward," Drew continued, his tone more
temperate all at once. "The Sixth contains the
worst slum in the city. The Mulberry Street
Bend. I've decided to practice there. And to open
a free clinic."
"Well," said Will softly. "That's a major
decision."
"The doctors at Castle Garden are already teasing
me about it. They say I must have come of missionary
parents since I plan to practice in Hell."
"Sounds like you do. Why not go into the Roman
priest396
hood and take the vows of poverty and cha/y while
you're at it?"
He was instantly ashamed of the sarcasm. A
resigned, almost sad smile appeared on Drew's
face:
"My decision takes care of the poverty part.
Ensures it, I guess you could say. As for the
cha/y, I reckon I'll always have to pay for
whatever feminine companionship I get. I see
girls I like, but when I say hello, they won't
even answer because I'm so fat." He shrugged.
"By now I'm resigned to that. But look-here's what
I was getting at when I said you could prove you really
care about helping people. I want you to go into that free
clinic with me."
Will thought of what was symbolized by the words free
clinic. Failure. An admission to the world that a
man couldn't practice medicine profitably.
Incredibly, Drew wasn't being forced into such a
position. He was making his choice voluntarily!
"Out of the question," Will said.
"Don't turn me down so fast. You've already said
you plan to set up shop in New York too." --
"Yes, but-was
"Then give me a chance to show you what needs to be
done in the Mulberry Bend. Stay over a few more
days. We 11 take a tour of-was
"No, I can't. You know I'm due back in
Boston to study with Dr. Green."
"Next summer, then. Your social calendar
isn't booked that far ahead, is it?"
"Don't be snide."
"Well, is it?"
"Of course not."
"Then come with me to the Bend next summer. I've
met another doctor down there. An old fellow,
ready to retire soon. It's his practice that I
plan to buy-provided I can arrange a loan."
A loan of ten dollars is probably all you'll
need for a practice like that,
Will thought, but he didn't say it. Growing more
enthusiastic, Drew went on:
"Give me as much time as you can next year, but
promise me at least a week. We'll help the
old man a few hours every day, and you'll soon see
there's plenty of work for two men."
"How long have you been hatching this insane-?"

"Next summer. I want your word on it."
He took hold of Will's arm. His deceptively
soft hands constricted like bands of metal. "Your word."
Angered, Will shot back, "All right!
On one condition."
"What is it?"
"I don't want to hear another syllable about my
personal life."
"Done," Drew exclaimed. His pale gray
eyes shone in the sunshine. "Let's catch the
launch and go to Luchow's to celebrate."
"Celebrate?" Will snorted. "Celebrate
volunteering to spend a week in the midst of drunks
and thieves and pushcart peddlers?"
"Americans," Drew said, pointing back at the
pedestal again. "With just as much right to the name as the
nabobs on Fifth Avenue. And ten times as
desperate for your help."
Will shook his head. "What the hell have I gotten
myself into?"
Drew laughed. "The most important part of your
life. Excepting your marriage, of course," he
added, but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm or
conviction.

The following night, an express on the New
York and New Haven line rattled through a heavy
rainstorm, carrying a thoroughly sick Will Kent
toward home.
After dining at Luchow's-no, gorging was a better
word-he and Drew had gone back to the rooming house
and consumed a huge quantity of cheap bourbon. Now
Will had almost every known symptom of subacute
gastritis. Overpowering thirst and a coated tongue.
Extreme tenderness over the epigastrium.
Flatulence and eructation. Diarrhea, slight
pyrexia, and highly colored urine. A hammering
head, a weak pulse, and cold feet. Plus a
general feeling of debility and depression. Dr.
Austin Flint's textbook commentary on the condition
carried a faintly moralistic tone which made him
feel no better: "The affection sometimes follows a
prolonged debauch. Patients who are spirit-drinkers
should be told of the connection of the disease with their
habits."
A little late for that now! He couldn't eat, or even
think about food, without coming close to throwing up.
He'd tried a little of everything recommended as a
treatment. Small pieces of ice. Carbonated
water. Salts of morphia. Milk mixed with
lime water and a bowl of farina, both of which had
refused to remain at their intended destination. Nothing
helped; he was a digestive wreck. He'd just have
to wait until his system decided he'd
been sufficiently punished for his foolishness.
But it wasn't even the sickness causing his sharpest
concern comand confusion-tonight. It was what he'd promised
his friend, and what the consequences of that promise might
be.
In a way, Drew had tricked him. He'd
provoked an argument in which Will's pledge had been
drawn from him in a burst of anger. Drew understood
very well that dishis friend had a conscience. And he knew
just how hard to press Will in order to elicit the
response he'd gotten.
Queasy, Will rested his forehead against the grimy
window, his gaze lost in the dark of the Connecticut
woodlands through which the train was speeding. He was in a
trap. Squarely in a trap. Yesterday he'd
made a promise which was in direct conflict with the one
he'd given Laura comandwiththe monumentally important
one to Carter.
He thought about his dilemma with as much clarity as
possible, given his miserable condition. Certain
facts, seemingly irreconcilable, had to be taken
into account in any solution of the problem Drew had
precipitated: . First, Will was in love with Laura
Fennel. He worshiped her. But he also knew that
Drew was right about the triviality of a
society practice. What he'd seen in the eyes
of the young Polish girl after he and Drew had
delivered her child had all but canceled the impression
left by Dr. Vlandingham. Will wanted to be not
merely a competent and successful doctor, but a
useful one. That meant taking care of people who
genuinely needed help. And as Vlandingham had
suggested during their conversation at Sherry's, there was
no shortage of doctors on Fifth Avenue. Just
the
opposite.
So perhaps, in order to reconcile that which seemed
irreconcilable, something had to give way.
The promise to Laura?
The short term of service with Drew next summer
hardly
classified as horse doctoring in Will's mind. But
it would be classified that way by Thurman Fennel's
daughter. Every human being had failings, and one of
hers was arrogance. Perhaps he could do something about that after
they were married. He'd certainly try. But at
present, it was an undeniable part of Laura's character.
To her, the patients Drew examined at Castle
Garden, and those he intended to treat in the city's
slums would be-in Emma Lazarus"
word-refuse. If he helped Drew treat such people
next summer, Laura would object-
 she knew about it.
All right, then. She mustn't know. She mustn't find
out,
ever.
To ensure that she didn't, he'd have to keep his
promise to Drew-and his fulfillment of it-a
secret known only to the two of them. He'd have
to keep it from Laura, from Marcus, from the Harvard
faculty and fellow medical students comf everyone.
It was unpleasant to think of deceiving the girl he
meant to marry. He knew of no other way out. He
was torn, wanting the'best of two worlds.
He'd try like hell to have both, without ever being forced
to choose between them. He thought it would work but he couldn't
be sure. There were many-potential pitfalls. Many,
he repeated to himself as he stared into the rainy night, the
swaying lamps of the car reflecting his bleak face
on the dark, wet glass.
  CHAPTER XIV
The Only Hope
  GIDEON'S LETTER TO MOULTRIE Cal-
houn of the
World
brought about a cordial dinner between the two men, thus
provoking a stormy outburst from Joseph
Pulitzer. The publisher fired off a telegram
from Chat

wolcj, his
s
mansion in Bar Harbor, Maine, where he was
summering. He demanded a meeting with Gideon.
Gideon pondered strategy, then decided he could
best
- blunt Pulitzer's attack by a show of
politeness. He wrote a
note inviting his rival to an overnight cruise
aboard
Au-
vergne.
Julia told Gideon he was asking for trouble, but
he
insisted on sending the note:
"Dealing with Joe shouldn't be any worse than
putting your head up next to the muzzle of a
Yankee cannon. Besides, I doubt he'll take
me up on it."
To their surprise, they received an
acceptance. So the yacht steamed up the coast, and the
Kents welcomed their competitor and his entourage on
board with appropriate ceremony.
Politeness forbade any immediate discussion of the
successful outcome of Gideon's dinner meeting with
Calhoun. But the dinner had taken place three
weeks earlier. Now Gideon was worrying that perhaps
Pulitzer had presented a counter offer; one which was
too attractive for Calhoun to resist. But if that
were so, why had Pulitzer accepted the invitation?
Merely to gloat? That wasn't like him. Answers
would have to wait until evening.
Soon the yacht was headed south again, toward Mount
Desert Rock. As dinner began, the
Hungarian-born news- pape tilde man was
polite, but no more than that. His occa- caret nal
smile was closer to a wince. Heavily bearded and
wearing prim-looking eyeglasses, he resembled a
professor of the classics more than he did a
publisher with a taste for the sensational.
"I'm delighted we could meet here rather than in New
York," Gideon said after twenty minutes of
trivial talk about Washington, world affairs, and
various aspects of the newspaper business-not
including the thorny one which had brought them
together.
"I've never seen your yacht," Pulitzer said.
"Very handsome."
Gideon murmured thanks.
"Besides, even in the summer Chatwold's a
mausoleum. You know I like company." That was
evident from the two male secretaries Pulitzer
had brought along for the overnight trip. It was said he
employed as many as eight of them. "It's been some
time since we've seen each other, Gideon."
His host nodded. "Eight or nine months." And in
that interval, Pulitzer's health had obviously
taken a bad turn. Coming into the dining saloon, he
had moved slowly, and squinted as if his eyesight were
failing. Pulitzer was actually four years younger
than Gideon, but a lung condition had forced him
to relinquish day-to-day management of the
World
two years earlier, though he still exercised rigid
control of the paper's policies.
Lightning glared on the glass of the portholes. A
rain squall was moving across
Auvergne's
bow. The subsequent drum of thunder made
Pulitzer squirm and dab his eyes with a
handkerchief.
A few seconds later, Julia accidentally
dropped a teaspoon. It struck the silver sugar
bowl; not a loud noise, but a sudden one. Within
seconds, perspiration was pouring down Pulitzer's
cheeks and gleaming in his beard.
He managed to say, "I had another reason for
accepting your invitation. It struck me as fitting
to be on board your yacht when we discuss the
subject of piracy."
Gideon sat motionless. So did Julia. Both
felt the emotional temperature drop.
"I made a bona ride offer, Joe. And I
didn't ask Mr. Calhoun to keep it secret."
"Oh, believe me, he didn't. But I very much
resent your maneuvering behind my back."
"Joe, come off it. With your circulation, you've been
licking the
Union
and every other daily in New York. My editorial
department's been in disarray ever since Theo Payne
died. I have to do something about that. To continue your
nautical metaphor-suppose I were the captain
of a sinking vessel, and your ship were the only one in the
area with a lifeboat large enough to hold my
crew. Would you deny me the right to reach out and save their
lives, and mine?"
Rain began to spatter the deck above the saloon.
Pulitzer reacted as if rifles were exploding.
He mopped his forehead, then struggled to collect
himself. He looked hard at Gideon:
"Sophistry! Slick words that have nothing to do with the
issue. You stole Moultrie Calhoun from my
staff."
"Stole-his Past tense?" Gideon couldn't conceal
his surprise.
"Yes. He submitted his resignation. I offered
him
half
again what he was making at the
World,
and he still refused to stay."
Because he's unhappy with the working conditions and with your
temperamental behavior.
But Gideon wouldn't have said that under any
circumstances.
"He hasn't officially informed me-was Gideon
began.
"I'm
informing you! Calhoun's an able journalist.
A valuable man. I want to keep him." It had
the sound of an edict.
Growing annoyed in spite of himself, Gideon
shrugged:
"It appears you can't. I'd say our discussion of the
issue is closed."
"No it isn't. Withdraw the offer."
"In my place, you wouldn't do that."
"I
demand
that you withdraw it."
Slowly, Gideon shook his head. "Joe, I
refuse."
Pulitzer leaned forward, red-faced and wrathful.
Before he could speak, another peal of thunder jolted him
back against his chair. His eyes watered behind his
schoolmaster's glasses. He thumped the table:
"All right! If the son of a bitch doesn't like the
World
any longer, you take him-I won't have him! But
let me tell you one more thing-was Again that wrenching
grimace, intended as a smirk. "I don't forget
things like this. One d-7 I'll drive you to the
wall."
Gideon puffed his cigar and managed
to smile. "That comes as no surprise. You're already
hard at it."
The drumming of the rain intensified suddenly,
forestalling another retort. Pulitzer pressed his
palms to his ears, as if in extreme pain. He
stumbled to his feet and accidentally lurched
into Julia's chair. Before she could rise and help
him, he whispered, "Keep your seat, Mrs.
Kent. You'll have to excuse me."
When Peaulitzer
W
as gone, Gideon called Anderson to refill his
brandy snifter.
"Calhoun was right. Joe's getting more and more
peculiar. He can't tolerate noise, but he has
those flunkeys who talk or read to him all night
long because he can't sleep. I'm thankful the
Almighty never made me a genius. You pay a
high price for it."
"Are you sorry you invited him?"
Gideon shook his head. "At least everything's out in
the open now. I can put Moultrie Calhoun to work
with no
qualms. If I can get the paper back on a
sound footing, maybe I can concentrate on
Kent and Son for a while."
But it was neither the paper nor the publishing house that
worried him most. Even the chest pains that still
plagued him were inconsequential when compared to the
mistake he'd made in judging his son. A year
ago, he had decided that Will was finally on the right
track. He had been wrong; blindly, devastatingly
wrong.
He tossed down the remaining brandy as if it were
water.
"My, you drank that rather fast."
"I'd say that was my affair, wouldn't you?"
A moment later he jumped up, circled the table and
squeezed her shoulders by way of apology:
"I'm sorry. That was a churlish thing to say."
"What's troubling you, dear?"
"The usual. Business problems."
He leaned down to touch his lips to her forehead. She
turned in her chair, reaching up to clasp his arm.
He kissed her mouth. It was an awkward
embrace, but for Gideon a comforting one.
As they were proceeding to their cabin, Nyquist, the
deck hand, pointed out that the squall had already passed
astern. Gideon thanked him and said goodnight.
Alone in their quarters, he and Julia
came into each other's arms- he needing the comfort of it,
and she sensing that need. They made love during the
yacht's last violent rollings. Afterward he felt
better, and again apologized for his rudeness.
But he still couldn't tell her the cause of his
deep-seated worry. He still couldn't repeat the things
he'd been hearing from one of the
Union's
most reliable reporters.
u
Mr. Moultrie Calhoun was a portly widower of
fifty-two. He disliked his former employer, but he
favored Pulitzer's brand of journalism. When
he and Gideon concluded their negotiations and shook
hands, Gideon told the Charleston- born editor
that he could and should begin spicing the
Union's
front pages with some crime and society news.
From his very first day at the paper, Calhoun took
T
charge. In contrast to the vituperative Theo
Payne, he was a quiet man who seldom raised
his voice. But he had eyes of an arresting
blue-gray. The color of a pistol barrel, someone
remarked to Gideon. Calhoun had been
at his desk only two hours when he turned that
gunmetal gaze on a reporter and asked him in
polite and unprofane language to correct the
factual errors and sloppy writing in a piece of
copy. The reporter took one look at those eyes
and jumped to it.
As soon as all the copy for the next day's paper was
in the composing room, Calhoun convened a meeting of the
staff. Gideon gave the new editor a short
introduction, then sat down. It took Calhoun
less than two minutes to state his expectations.
He would dispense with the services of anyone who
didn't obey orders promptly, or behave in a
seemly way:
"You may drink yourselves to perdition, ladies and
gentlemen. You may-I shall use frank language
despite the presence of the gentler sex-debauch
until you have guaranteed yourselves berths in the nether
region. You may lie and cheat until the Devil
himself distrusts you. But you will keep all such activity
separate from these premises, and never let it
interfere with the performance of your duties. If my
requirements are not to your liking, or your character is such
that you cannot fulfill them no matter how good your
intentions, I urge you to seek employment
elsewhere. You will not last long working for me. We are
responsible journalists upon whom the public
depends for the truth. We shall behave accordingly-at least
during working hours. Which, I must warn you, will not be
short. Thank you for your attention. That is all."
That night Calhoun kept the staff at their desks
long past the normal quitting time. One by one he
called the reporters and illustrators into his
office, closed the door and interviewed them. By four
the next morning, he had issued dismissal
notices to three writers and one staff artist.
Clutching their severance pay, they staggered into the dawn
shaking their heads. Gideon woke on the cot where
he'd been catching a nap. Calhoun looked fresh
and full of energy:
"All personnel problems have been taken care of,
Mr. Kent. Shall we go out for breakfast?"
"Aren't you going to sleep?"
"I hadn't planned on it, sir. It'll soon be
time to start working on the next edition."
Yawning, Gideon sat up, folded the blanket
and laid it on the end of the cot. "Did you serve in
the war, Mr. Cal- houn?"
"Please call me Moultrie,
sir"
"Very well, Moultrie. Did you serve-was
"I did."
"Which side?"
"The same side as yours,
sir"
He seemed anxious not to say that too loudly in a
Northern newspaper office. "I was a
telegraph clerk."
"Well, if we'd had a few more like you running things
in Richmond, maybe we wouldn't have fared so
badly. I'll join you for an omelette and some
black coffee. But you'll have to nudge me if I
doze off. I'm only forty-five, but you put me
to shame."

From that first day, Gideon was completely satisfied
with the work of his new editor. Calhoun's childless
wife had been dead five years. He had no
interests except his job. As the fall election
campaign intensified-the
Union
endorsed Cleveland-Calhoun used the weekends
to come to Boston to report on progress at the
paper, and to listen to his employer's reaction. One
of the meetings was held at Kent and Son.
There, Calhoun met Helene Vail for the first time.
He kissed her hand, murmured some pleasantries,
and managed to bring a pink glow to her cheeks. On
Calhoun's next visit, Gideon asked his
typewriter to be present to make notes on a
number of important financial decisions. He
was astonished when Miss Vail appeared with a new
hairdo and a new dress. That night he said
to Julia:
"I do believe our thorny rose may blossom.
She was giddy as a young girl around Calhoun.
Maybe she won't be listing herself as "disappointed
in love" much longer."
He was trying to act lighthearted, but strain was
clearly written on his face. What secret
anxiety was tormenting him? Julia wondered.
Grover Cleveland amassed nearly one hundred
thousand more popular votes than Senator
Harrison, but the Republican candidate had a
larger total of electoral votes, and hence won
the presidency. His party took control of both
houses of Congress. The best that a disgruntled
Gideon could say about the election was that his friend
Roosevelt, who had remained loyal to the
Republicans, might now find an
outlet for his talent in Washington. He hoped so;
the country would gain by it.
As winter approached, Gideon and Julia continued
to entertain friends and well-known people at their dinner table.
Samuel Clemens, the writer who called himself
Mark Twain, paid them a return visit. On
another evening, Professor William James,
the anatomist, drove over from Cambridge. He
said little about his developing interest in psychology, but
he couldn't say enough about his expatriate brother
Henry, whose fiction was being hailed as the work of a
genius. Regrettably, Gideon found that same
work unbearably boring.
One week they entertained the evangelist Dwight
Moody, who was saving souls up and down New
England. The following week their guest was a man
trying to rescue those same souls from folly-Bob
Ingersoll, the successful Washington lawyer whom
the press called The Great Agnostic. He was in
town to deliver his famous lecture, "Some
Mistakes of Moses."
An aging Edwin Booth spent an evening at the
Kent house and spoke of the fine reputation Eleanor
was building in the theater; she and Leo were currently
on tour with one of the troupes sent out by the
famous producer-manager Augustin Daly.
Booth seemed a hollow man, somehow; he was
somber and melancholy despite his international
fame. Twice he made reference to "poor
Johnny." He was obviously still haunted by what his
actor brother had done that calamitous night at
Ford's Theatre.
Two pillars of the women's movement-leaders of
opposing factions within it-came to dinner on the same
evening. Julia had gone to great lengths to arrange the
reunion between the two, who had parted over a policy
dispute years before.
T
One guest had often been at the house-Julia's
mentor Lucy Stone, who headed the American
Woman Suffrage Association which had its
headquarters in Boston. She was small, seventy
years old, and remarkably energetic.
The other was a newcomer to the Kent house. She was
Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, reputedly
the first woman to refuse to include the word
obey
in her marriage ceremony. She and Susan B.
Anthony directed the National Woman Suffrage
Association in New York. The National
was generally considered the more radical of the two wings.
Mrs. Stanton had come to Boston for one of the
lyceum lectures which kept her traveling a good
part of each year. Like Lucy Stone, she was just a little
over five feet tall. She had merry eyes and a
tart manner. At seventy-three, she was as
animated and good-humored as her counterpart Mrs.
Stone.
There was tension when the two suffragists first greeted
one another in the parlor, but soon the atmosphere was
cordial and comfortable. Julia was clearly elated;
a reconciliation between the two organizations was one of
her highest hopes. She argued that the movement already
had trouble enough. Influential politicians,
preachers, and journalists regularly damned it and
its leaders from every available platform. Why, then, should
women further impair then- own cause by quarreling
among themselves? They needed a united front, not a
divided one.
To prepare the ground for this dinner party, she'd gone
to Washington several months earlier, to the first
International Council of Women, sponsored by the
National Association. There she had stated her case
to Mrs. Stanton and Susan Anthony. Now there
were signs that a resolution of differences,
and a reunion of the two groups, might be forthcoming.
At least Mrs. Stanton and Mrs. Stone were dining
at the same table, and appearing to enjoy it.
Differences remained, of course; important ones.
Lucy Stone still believed women should only work to gain
the vote, and not damage that effort by involving themselves with
issues such as divorce and child bearing, and debates
about virginity and marital fidelity. Although a
model of moral behavior herself, Elizabeth
Stanton had quite different views-especially on
free love:
"Lucy, I don't care whether the sisters who march
under our banner are spotless white or screaming
scarlet What
counts is their conviction. We've had enough women
sacrificed to this sentimental, hypocritical
prattling about purity. It's one of man's most
effective engines for dividing and subjugating
us-nothing personal, Mr. Kent," she added with a
crisp nod in his direction. "I say we must put
an end to that ignoble record and stand for one thing
only-with no qualifications. Womanhood."
A prolonged silence then. Julia looked
crestfallen; surely the prospect for
reconciliation was ruined.
But Lucy Stone spoke up with just the right blend of
firmness and restraint:
"Friendship has many rare qualities, Elizabeth.
One of the most precious is this. True friends can
disagree about a few things and still work together. Whatever
our differ- endfes on lesser questions, we have none on
the greatest question of all. Freedom for women. I
fear we may have forgotten that fact-and our friendship-far
too long."
Mrs. Stanton's face softened. "I fear we
have. Perhaps it's time we remembered."
She held out her hand. So did Lucy. They
clasped hands for a moment, both of them smiling. There
were no more disagreements that evening, and a spirit of good
feeling prevailed. Julia was overjoyed.
But she noticed that Gideon had a preoccupied
air, and a drawn look.
Why?
In the days that followed, he began to grow snappish
with her-behavior not typical of him. For hours and
even days at a time, he'd say little more than what was
necessary. He seemed not only depressed but
perpetually tired.
Julia urged him to see a doctor. He denied
there was anything wrong with him physically.
She felt he wasn't telling her the truth.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, matters came to a
head.
It promised to be a lonely Christmas. Perhaps the
loneliest they'd spent together. None of the children was
home. Will had boarded a train for New York at
eleven o'clock that morning. At noon, the servants
had been given then: gifts and the rest of the day off.
The house was still; heavy diswith shadows. Why turn on
lights when no one was there?
Julia and Gideon had gone to the parlor after eating
a simple supper she'd fixed. There was no
illumination in the parlor except that from the candles on
the small, fragrant fir tree. Hands locked
behind his back, Gideon paced in front of the window
overlooking the Common. Occasionally he stopped and
peered out. He looked dejected; miserable. Finally
Julia could stand it no longer:
"Gideon, come here and tell me what's wrong."
Without looking at her, he said, "What do you mean?"
"You know very well. You haven't been yourself for
months. You really must tell me what's troubling
you. I can't help if I don't know."
He turned from the window. It was a bitter, starless
night. Behind him the Common was bleak and
dark. There'd be no snow to soften the iron cold,
everyone said.
His blue eye momentarily reflected candlelight.
"Has it showed that much?"
"I'm afraid so." She moved to his side, her
skirts rustling. "Are you thinking about the children?"
He was silent a moment. Then he nodded. "I
miss them. They should be home on Christmas!"
"They're grown, darling. They have their own lives."
"But what are they
doing
with their lives? Nothing worthwhile that I can see.
Poor Eleanor's performing in some ten-cent town,
spending Christmas in a hotel."
"But she's with Leo, and she's happy."
"God, I hope so. And what about Carter? He's
idling his life away in Colorado-was
"You mustn't take all the burdens of the family on
yourself, dear. That's a Kent family failing, and
frustrated idealism can become destructive
guilt. You're not to blame for Carter's
waywardness. I'm more responsible than anyone
else. Besides, he isn't in Colorado any
longer."
"How do you know?"
"A letter came in the morning mail. We were so busy
getting Will packed off to New York City, I
didn't have a chance to show it to you. Carter posted the letter
in Denver but it says he's moving on."
"Where?"
A sad laugh. "That, he didn't say. I
don't suppose he knew. Believe me, I
fret over him as much as you do-was She touched his
shoulder. "I suspect I know the real reason
T
you're feeling so bad. You're angry because Will left
to spend Christmas with the Fennels. That's it, isn't
it?" He didn't answer the question directly: 
"Did you notice the way he kept talking about them
all morning? As if he damn near worships
"em!"
"He's in love with Miss Fennel, Gideon.
I suspect he hopes to marry her. It's
perfectly natural for him to praise her parents."
Gideon didn't seem to hear: "All he wants
to be is a Fifth Avenue doctor who dispenses
headache remedies to anemic girls. And now he's
taken up with a pack of robbers."
"He's almost an adult. Even if you feel that
way, you mustn't say it."
"Why not?" Gideon shot back. "Must I leave
his education comor should I say his seduction-to bandits
like Thur- man Fennel? Godamighty, Julia,
the man makes millions from the misery of others!
Factory owners fall all over themselves to buy the
wretched buildings his architects slap together. And for
years it's been rumored that he owns whole square
blocks of the worst tenements in New York
City."
"Rumored, or proven?"
"What difference does it make?"
"A great deal. I want you to make objective
judgments about Will and his friends."
Gideon's jaw set. "Then objectively
speaking-he's gone the wrong way. I've allowed it
to happen."
Julia was equally firm. "Regardless of your
opinions, you can't choose the girl with whom he
falls in love."
"Even if she's the kind who'll ruin his life?"
"Oh, Gideon-that's terribly exaggerated. What
you mean is that Miss Fennel may ruin his life
according to your standards."
"My God, whose side are you taking?"
"Please don't yell. You
cannot
dictate Will's choice of a wife."
There was a lengthy silence. Finally Gideon let out
his breath:
"I know. I suppose that's why I'm worried.
Months ago, I-I began to hear some disturbing
things about Miss Fennel."
Instantly Julia's anger was gone. "From whom?"
"One of the reporters on the
Union.
Her name's Hester Davis. She covers Mrs.
Astor's parties-that sort of thing. She's very
reliable, and very familiar with New York
Society families. When she heard Will was seeing
Miss Pen- nel, she came to me and passed along
certain facts. Out of consideration for us, she said."
"Facts, Gideon? Or more rumors?"
"Well-rumors," he admitted. "But there must be
something to them."
"What's the nature of the rumors?"
"That the young lady Will is seeing isn't as pure as
her doting mother likes to pretend. Far from it. I
don't understand the why's and wherefore's, but Hester
claimed that in the Fennel's circle, the girl's
reputation is so suspect, she can't
attract a single suitor who would think seriously
of marrying her."
"Oh, Gideon-those are vicious accusations.
Probably completely unfounded. Spread by some
spiteful person who has a grudge against the
girl."
His shrug admitted the possibility-but just barely.
"In any case, you mustn't repeat that sort of thing
to W. Unless you have irrefutable proof, you can't
tell him that the girl-he's fond of is-was She
gestured helplessly. "Immoral."
"But in many ways Will's an innocent. What if
it's true?"
"What if it is? He's grown up. You have to let
him learn the truth for himself."
"Suppose he doesn't?"
"That's a risk you'll have to take. Unless you intend
to destroy him by making all his decisions for the rest of
his life."
Gideon fumed. She patted his hand gently. "The
Kent spirit's a worthy and admirable one. But you can't
play the role of patriarch forever, controlling the
lives of grown men and women-was
"And why not?"
"Because it's out of style! Times are changing,
Gideon-was
"For the worse! Why shouldn't I step in if I think
Will's headed for disaster? Someone has to guide this
family-was
A glance at the shadowed room. A candle on the
Christmas tree hissed and dripped wax down its
side.
what's left of it after I'm gone. I'll be
forty-six
T
years old next year. I must get things in order!
I thought Will was the most likely candidate to take
charge. That was a terrible mistake."
He sounded hurt and angry. Julia's eyes
softened as she saw his pain. He lit a match and
touched it to a cigar. The flame put bright
highlights and deep, contrasting shadows on a face
no longer young.
He flipped the blown-out match into the sand bucket
kept handy in case of fire. Then he slipped his
arm around his wife:
"It has to be Eleanor. Now that Carter's wandering
all over hell and Will's fallen in with a crowd of
whited sepulchers, Eleanor's the only one left
to lead this family when we're gone."
He pulled Julia close to him. His face was
stern in the candlelight-a Biblical patriarch's
face-but she knew his sternness concealed a deep
anxiety.
She was thankful he'd finally admitted the cause of
his brusque behavior of late. But she firmly
believed in the Tightness of every word she'd said to him.
Even granting that the accusations about Laura Fennel
might contain some truth, Gideon simply couldn't
go to his son and repeat them. It was an unacceptable
alternative.
Something else he had just said bothered her:
"You mustn't count too heavily on Eleanor.
She's immersed in her profession, and in Leo."
"Maybe something will change that."
"What could possibly change it?"
Silence again; longer than the one before.
"I don't know," he said, drawing her still closer
against him. "But she's our only hope now. Nothing
must happen to ruin her life. She's our only
hope."
The
Waters Roar
The Troupers
IN 1873, NEW YORK had been the
first state to adopt the thirtieth of May as a
holiday honoring the Civil War dead. Now the
holiday was widely observed throughout the North. But
Memorial Day offered no respite to a
theatrical company on tour-and that was the case on this
last Thursday of May 1889. While most
citizens relaxed and enjoyed a day of leisure,
twenty-sevenyear-old Eleanor Goldman, her
husband, and the members of their troupe were rattling
eastward through the Allegheny mountain valleys in a
dingy Pennsylvania Railroad coach. According
to Regis Pemberton, the company manager, they were
about a half hour from the town in which they were scheduled
to give a show that evening.
The company had been sent on tour by Augustin
Daly, one of the half dozen most successful
producing managers in the United States.
Daly's Theatre was one of New York City's
best playhouses, and Daly's productions were almost
always hits because he mounted them lavishly, neglected
no details, and insisted on absolute personal
control of every phase of a show. The newspaper
writers called him "the autocrat of the stage" with
good reason.
Daly was also a prolific playwright. Every
season he turned out several scripts, both
original ones and adaptations. Eleanor and her
husband were touring in a very successful comedy called
A Night Off
which Daly had adapted from the German of Franz
von Schonthan six years before. Tonight's performance
would be professional, but certainly no pleasure,
Eleanor thought. She felt tired and depressed this
afternoon. She sat by the grimy window, her chin in her
palm and her dark eyes fixed on the misty dark
green peaks passing slowly above her. An unread
letter lay
in her lap. She was hungry. She'd overslept and
had had no time for breakfast before boarding the train.
And when she'd awakened, her first sight had been an
upsetting one -Leo, standing by the window of their hotel
room and gazing out at the streets of Pittsburgh.
On his face was a forlorn and faintly bitter
expression which was becoming all too familiar.
What tricks life can play,
she thought then, before he realized she was awake. An
outside observer would study the visible evidence and
conclude that everything was going splendidly for the
Goldmans. The truth was quite different.
Leo sat beside Eleanor, dozing and swaying
with the motion of the train as it switchbacked along a
track above a racing creek. A few raindrops
spattered the window. From two seats behind, one of the
actresses sighed, "More rain. That'll keep the
audience at home."
"Maybe not, Minna," Pemberton said. "This
place is supposed to be one of the best theater towns
in Pennsylvania. I've never played here myself,
but Daly told me the houses are usually
excellent. And the town's accustomed to springtime
floods. People are used to going out in bad weather."
"Seems like it's been raining all month," someone
else complained. "Won't we ever see the sun?"
Pemberton again: "Don't count on it soon. The
Pittsburgh paper said the Signal Service is
predicting another big storm today or tomorrow."
His voice blended with that of the company stage manager
across the aisle. The stage commanager doubled in
brass as Prowl, a minor character in the play. He was
saying to his assistant:
"We've been guaranteed possession of the Opera
House by three-thirty. I told them that if we
couldn't start shifting our scenery by four, there'd be no
performance. The house manager promised to make
sure the patriotic program ended on
time. Of course the start of the program really
depends on when the parade finishes."
"I hope to hell it doesn't pour before we
arrive," the assistant grumbled. "If it does,
we won't be able to find any pick-up laborers."
The voices droned on, punctuated by the sudden
loud laugh of an actress reading a copy of the
humor magazine,
Life.
Eleanor wished she could find something to laugh
about. Leo's mood made that almost impossible these
days. Why couldn't she soothe or humor him out of his
despondency? Why, when so many things were going jusf
right for them?
Professionally, their position was enviable. They were
well established in the organization of a fine
manager. Daly was temperamental, but he tolerated
no temperament in his actors and actresses. He
also despised the star system, and refused to permit it
in his shows. As a director, his chief goal was
to achieve an excellent performance by the ensemble. He
never permitted one actor to shine at the expense of
others.
That held true even in New York, where four of the
most accomplished performers on the
American stage formed the core of Daly's stock
company. The so-called Big Four-leading man
John Drew, the son of Mrs. Louisa Drew
of the Arch Street Theatre, the two comedians Jim
Lewis and Mrs. John Gilbert; and the ingenue
Ada Re- han-nil knew better than to try
to upstage one another, or anyone else in the
company.
Membership in the Daly organization was also
desirable because Daly believed in modern acting
methods. Like any art, acting was not static; during
the century it had gone through a steady evolution.
The first great American star, Edwin Forrest, had
summed up the evolution within his own career. He'd
started as a disciple of the stately declamatory
school of acting popular in Britain. Then he'd
fallen under the influence of the stormy emotional style
of Kean. By the time Forrest had done his last season
in 1871-72, that style, too, was passe, and
Forrest was dismissed by the avant-garde as a "bovine
bellower."
Now a more natural and realistic technique was
develop* ing. Men such as James Murdoch and
Edwin Booth exemplified it best. Of course there
was still an important place for performers
who could shift to the style known as extreme
emotionalism. Women who could cry copiously on
cue were in great demand for the many melodramas staged every
year.
Once categorized as emotionalistic, however, an
actor had few chances to try other kinds of roles.
Eleanor had struggled to avoid that kind of
pigeonholing by producers. She deliberately
sought varied roles. She'd started her probledai
fessional career as Eva in a traveling Tom show.
She'd played Juliet, Ophelia and, in
different productions of
The Taming of the Shrew,
Bianca and Kate. She'd understudied the title
role in
Camille",
ranted and sobbed in three Daly melodramas;
been menaced by revolvers while defending her
virtue in frontier dramas-even done knockab
comedy in a revival of Harrigan and Hart's huge
hit of ten years before,
The Mulligan Guard Ball.
Unlike some of Daly's performers, she enjoyed
all sorts of plays, from ancient to modern. A
lot of actors were traditionalists,
despising modern playwrights such as Ibsen or
Mackaye. Daly's ingenue Ada Rehan, for
example, loathed the work of both men and would appear
in nothing that was not light, innocuous, and-to use her
words-morally uplifting.
Eleanor didn't quarrel with Ada for holding those
views, but she felt sorry for her. Just as there was a
new kind of acting emerging, so there was a new, more
realistic and powerful dramaturgy. In America
its foremost exponent was Steele Mackaye. His
play
Hazel Kirke,
first produced in 1880, was still widely toured.
Hazel Kirke
took place in a mill and featured working-class
characters-a shock for audiences accustomed to the convention that
serious plays were only set in ancient palaces
or upper-class drawing rooms. The new
dramatists thrilled and excited Eleanor. The
theater was a banquet, and she had no intention of
settling for a one-course meal.
Despite Eleanor's efforts to keep from being
categorized, it was happening. Like it or not, she was
beginning to be thought of as an actress of the
personality school. Such actresses
developed a personal following; their audiences paid
to see them regardless of the vehicle.
Some personality actresses tended to be more than a
bit bizarre; the famed Madame Bernhardt kept
a lion cub as a pet and slept in a satin-padded
coffin in her Paris apartment. Eleanor abhorred that
kind of exhibitionism. Yet it was flattering to be
thought of as one who someday might have roles tailored
to fit her talents because she, not the play, was the
reason the audience came to the theater.
Since she and J caret eo worked regularly, they
were able to put money away in the hope of one day
realizing a personal and professional dream.
They'd started talking about the ideaddalm ten years
before. They wanted to own and
manage their own playhouse in New York.
During seasons with Daly and with Mrs. Drew at
Arch Street, they'd learned the business side of
theatrical management. Lately Eleanor had
begun to think they were almost ready to stop working for others
and start working for themselves.
Why, then, with everything going so splendidly, was Leo
constantly unhappy?
She knew, of course. The fault was hers.
u
She turned to look at her husband. Her
classically- featured, dark-eyed face that men found
so beautiful revealed nothing of her worry and
unhappiness. She was a good actress. She never
permitted herself to show emotion of the kind surging through her
now. And no matter how miserable she became, she
never cried. Never.
Leo was still dozing. Sleep had smoothed away some
of the strain on his face. One area of their marriage
hadn't worked out and never would, because of what had happened
that night in 1877 when men had broken into the Kent
mansion and driven Margaret Kent to her death, and
cornered Eleanor and-
She clenched her hands in her lap. Fought to blank out
the memory of the pain, the humiliation, the incredibly
soiled feeling as, one by one, those men-
No.
She would
not
dwell on it. She closed her eyes and breathed
deeply, failing to notice the letter slip out of her
lap as she changed position.
The moment of strain passed, the details of that
harrowing night successfully pushed out of her mind.
She opened her eyes, noticed the letter on
the floor and quickly recovered it.
The letter was from Papa's brother, Uncle Matt; the
man who had first encouraged Eleanor to try a
professional stage career. Matt Kent had served
as a genial and expert guide when she and Leo had
honeymooned in Paris. Among the theaters they'd
visited was the ComedieFrangaise, where Eleanor's
great-greatgreatgreat-grandmother, Marie Charboneau, had
performed.
For a few moments she immersed herself in the letter. Its
only real news concerned Tom, the son Uncle
Matt had
never seen. Before the boy's birth, Mart's
estranged wife Dolly-of whom he still wrote and
spoke in the most affectionate terms-had gone out to the
North-West Frontier of India as a
schoolteacher for officers' children. Now, Matt said,
Tom was hoping for a career as an officer in the
Indian Army-an organization not to be confused with the
British Army in India, he pointed out. Down
to the very last soldier of the line, those in the British
Army in India were Englishmen. The Indian Army
included many native- born noncommissioned
officers and enlisted men.
India was a colorful, if dangerous
place to soldier, Uncle Matt concluded. He
wanted to visit it and sketch its sights one day.
Eleanor suspected that what he really wanted was
to get his first look at young Tom.
She folded the letter and put it in her reticule. The
train was rumbling past shanties and wooden tenements
standing
on mud
flats beside a river which looked unusually swift and
turbulent. Across the river, large brick homes
perched on a steep hillside, then: fronts
supported on pilings. The train passed a
factory complex. Eleanor recalled Pember-
ton saying the town's main industry was steel.
But trivial things couldn't keep her mind off Leo
for very long. They had been married almost four and a
half years. In all that time, despite mutual
tenderness and consideration for the feelings of the other, they had
been unable to solve the problem which was Eleanor's
legacy from that dreadful night in '77. Her father had
sensed the existence of the problem. Of course she
couldn't discuss it with him.
But the problem was so serious that discussions with Leo were
inevitable. Time and again she told him the difficulty
didn't matter. He agreed-or
pretended to agree-then contradicted that attitude a
day or so later by another desperate attempt
to prove that
the
problem didn't exist. He always failed.
She repeatedly told him the fault was hers. But
she couldn't bring herself to do the one thing that might have
convinced him. She couldn't open the imaginary door
and, by sharing the secret with her husband, destroy its
power over her. She simply could not do it. And so
Leo's despondency and bitterness grew steadily
worse.
Now the train was rolling across a huge stone bridge
at least fifty feet wide. The bridge carried
four sets of tracks. "Looks like we're coming
in," Pemberton said. "Our hotel's
the Hulbert House. It's supposed to be the
newest in town. Before we left New York, they
wired that they were heavily booked. But I think we
managed to squeeze everyone in." "Leo?"
Eleanor tapped his arm. His eyes opened.
"We're here," she said, leaning over to kiss his
closely shaved cheek.
In
A Night Off,
Leo played Marcus Brutus Snap, an
eccentric and flamboyant theatrical manager-a
role far removed from the somber silence with which he
regarded her now. Others in the company stood up,
gathering hand luggage from overhead racks. On either
side of the train spread a panorama of tenements and
business buildings made indistinct by the rain and the
dark sky. "Feeling a little more rested?" she asked.
Leo shrugged. "I slept. I don't think I
got much rest.** She held back a retort.
Melancholy was becoming a way of life for him.
She hated that. She knew he had many more reasons
than one for becoming embittered. Yet that understanding
didn't make it any easier to live with him.
He tugged the brim of his derby down over his
forehead, slouched on the seat and stared out the window.
What he saw quickly soured his expression:
"God. Someone in Pittsburgh told me they
manufacture a lot of barbed wire here. A
fitting product for such a depressing place."
"Regis said it's an excellent theater town-was
"Oh, certainly. In this weather I'm sure we'll
play to all of a dozen people."
It hurt her to hear his sarcasm. These days he was so
unlike the merry, confident, and outgoing
Leo Goldman she'd first met at an amateur
theatrical club in New York. He was still
handsome. But the frustration caused by their failure
to achieve a satisfying physical relationship
seemed to be eroding his good looks as well as his good
spirits.
One indicator of his unhappiness was the frequency
with which he reminisced about the past. Although he'd spent
his boyhood in poverty on New York's Lower
East Side, he already regarded that boyhood with
great nostalgia. Often after a performance, he would
lie on the bed in their hotel room, lock his hands
under his head and deliver a long, rambling
monologue about the days when there had been a
mezuzah on the doorpost and pushcarts selling
oilcloth, garlic, fish, and a hundred other items
in the street. "After
a skimpy meal, those carts could provide dessert
if you were clever and fast. Apples went down your
shirt front, bananas up your sleeve."
He'd worked hard running newspapers from Park
Row, but there had been moments of relaxation, too;
wonderful moments. There were breathtaking vistas of the
city to be seen from tenement rooftops; bright immies
to be won in a marble shoot; a rubber ball
to be solidly whacked in the Hester Street
equivalent of a baseball game-
"Good times."
That was his summation. He'd been among his own people, not
constantly jostling against bigots who turned on him
because of his name or his dark, Semitic face. He'd
been full of hope and ambition. She blamed herself
for most of his dreams going bad.
Pemberton bustled along the aisle of the lamp-lit
coach. He was a runty, red-faced man of
sixty, inclined to be brusque. Now, though, he
sounded like a mother issuing instructions to a brood of
children:
"Take hacks if they're available, a trolley
if they aren't It's the Hulbert House,
remember-was
A conductor shouted t6e name of the town, but a
screech of the wheels muffled it. There were twenty in the
company traveling in the coach: five men and five
women who took the principal roles in the play,
plus musicians, scenery and property people, the
stage manager, his assistant, and Pemberton.
One of the musicians had evidently played the town
before:
"comt's the Little Conemaugh out that way, and the
Stonycreek there. The two rivers meet just above that
stone bridge we crossed. What I don't like about
the place is the dam. It's fourteen or fifteen
miles up the south branch of the Little Conemaugh, and
four hundred feet higher than the town."
"What's wrong with that?" someone wanted to know.
"It's an earth dam. Largest in the world, and the
reservoir behind it is the biggest artificial lake
in the country. The dam holds back four and a half
billion gallons of water. That's twenty
million tons. I guess the dam was safe
once, but now it's leaky as a sieve."
"My heavens, Waldo, why doesn't someone fix
x8** a young woman asked.
"Laissez-faire,
my dear Ellen.
Laissez-faire.
The dam was
combuilt forty or fifty years ago, as part of a
rail and canal system connecting Philadelphia
and Pittsburgh. When the system became
obsolete, the land near the dam was put up for
sale. Now the reservoir's called Lake
Conemaugh, and on the shore there's a private
fishing and hunting club for the Pittsburgh
swells. The Mellons, Carnegie, Frick-that
crowd. No one's going to tell them how to run their
businesses or maintain their property. They
refuse to repair the dam. I'm glad we're not
staying here any longer than
one-was
Pemberton interrupted with a hard tap on the
shoulder:
"That's enough, Waldo. The weather's doing a fine
job of depressing everybody. Don't help out with
scare stories."
"It's no story, Regis. That dam's been in
wretched shape for-was
"Waldo!"
"All right," the musician said, turning away with a
sullen shrug.
Eleanor knew Pemberton's edict was not just a
whim. A company's mood had a significant
effect on a performance; subtle influences could
result in a superlative show, or a drab one.
And audiences were quick to sense when a comr pany
wasn't up to the mark.
She saw no enthusiasm in the company this afternoon. The
gloomy weather and the drab town had destroyed it little
by little; Waldo's comments hadn't helped,
either. Voices grew subdued as the train slowed for the
depot. The women readied parasols that wouldn't be of
much use against the rain beginning to fall heavily
outside. The sky had grown so dark, it might have
been dusk instead of midafternoon. Lamps had already
been lit in the station.
As she and Leo prepared to leave the coach, she
heard a second, somewhat louder noise above the
drum of the rain. -- "What on earth is that roaring?"
Waldo answered. "The rivers." Something in his tone
made her shiver and recall his remark about the dam:
Now it's leaky as a sieve.
The Goldmans stepped down on the wet platform.
Leo pointed. "Look at that."
Beyond the depot, a red, white, and black
three-sheet billboard was visible in the falling
ram. The three-sheet advertised the evening's
performance at the Opera House
with a mammoth capital-letter heading which Leo read
aloud:
was "Intensely funny." Surely they can't mean
us."
No one smiled. Pemberton scowled. It didn't
promise to be a successful engagement, and it was
certainly a wretched way to spend
Memorial Day. What Eleanor saw of the town
only depressed her further. The main business
district was situated on a triangle of land bounded
by the two noisy streams. From the steep, dark
hillsides, homes of the well- to-do looked down
on the commercial buildings, and on shanties and
tenements along the rivers, which were already close
to overflowing their banks. The rain was falling harder
than ever.
Eleanor shivered. "What's the name of this gloomy
place?"
Leo pointed to the dripping depot sign.
JOHNSTOWN
CHAPTER H
The Other
Cheek
PEMBERTON SENT THE STAGE manager to the
Opera House to check on the progress of the
Memorial Day program. Hacks proved to be
nonexistent around the depot. So did trolleys.
Pemberton left two men at the station to arrange for
transportation of the scenery, then he and the others
trudged through the downtown carrying their own luggage.
By the time they reached the four-story Hulbert House
at Clinton and Main Streets, nearly
a mile of walking had left them soaked and in a
bad temper.
Leo carried both his valise and Eleanor's. He
sneezed loudly several times. Finally she asked if
he felt all right.
"Marvelous. I do this for my health all the time."
T
fche tried to cover him with a parasol that offered little
protection. He pushed it away.
The hotel was sturdy, elegant, and obviously
new. Leo didn't like to stand in line, so he and
Eleanor sat down in the lobby until all the
others had signed the ledger and claimed their keys.
Then they approached the desk. Pem- berton was at
the front door, conferring with the man he'd sent to the
Opera House. The holiday program wouldn't end
till about four-fifteen. Pemberton's curse could
be heard all the way across the lobby.
"Goldman, Mr. and Mrs.," Leo said at the
marble counter. They traveled under their married name but
at the theater Eleanor was always billed under her
maiden name. It was as Eleanor Kent that she received
bouquets and written invitations from men in the audience
who didn't realize she was married. Displeasing her
with his morbidity, Leo sometimes joked that
if he died, her suitors would attend his funeral.
"Goldman, Goldman-was the buck-toothed clerk
studied some card or paper beneath the counter. Eleanor
stepped up next to her husband, a wary look in her
eyes. This had the smell of something familiar and
infuriating.
The clerk turned around to examine the pigeonholes
containing room keys. After a moment he pivoted
back to face them.
"I'm afraid I just rented the last room, Mr.
Goldman. We have nothing left."
ii
Leo exploded:
"Our manager made reservations for the entire company
weeks ago!"
"Be that as it may-was The clerk's eyelids
drooped as he shrugged. "We have nothing."
Leo gripped the edge of the counter, his fingers white.
"Would the situation be different if our last name was
Smith?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me, you lying fraud.

*
The clerk stepped back. "I'm not
required to listen to that sort of-was
"Some trouble here?" Pemberton said, bustling up
to them.
Eleanor spun to face him. "The hotel doesn't
have enough rooms. At least not enough for us."
"Regrettably, we are one short," the clerk
told Pemberton. His face showed a pious
regret. But his narrow brown eyes were far from pious
as they slid from Leo's face to the swelling curve
of Eleanor's breast.
"This is disgraceful," Pemberton said. "Artists
aren't accustomed to being treated in this fashion. We were
assured by telegraph that your establishment could
accommodate my entire troupe."
"Well, someone made a mistake. And I don't
have to stand here and be insulted by this Je-this gentleman.
If you want to take your troupe somewhere else,
feel free to do so. We won't suffer
bankruptcy, I assure you."
He turned sharply and disappeared into his cubicle.
in
Pemberton whacked his soft hat against his plaid
trouser leg. Dismayed, he eyed the lobby. All the
others had disappeared, anxious to reach their, rooms and
change to dry clothes. One fat guest
sat with 4 newspaper in his lap and a smoldering
cigar in his mouth. The man's head was exceptionally
large; too large even for his obese body.
Protruding eyes added a final touch of ugliness.
The man had been amused by the incident at the counter.
He chewed the end of his cigar as he studied
Eleanor's face. A moment later he heaved himself
up from his chair and waddled around a pillar where he
fell into conversation with someone the pillar concealed.
"Well all go somewhere else-was Pemberton began.
"And turn everyone out into the rain again?" Eleanor
shook her head. "That isn't necessary."
"But if we stay, we're condoning-was
"Never mind, Regis," Leo interrupted.
"Eleanor's right. It would be all right to protest if
it weren't raining, but the others are worn out. Let
them stay. We're used to this kind of reception."
And in truth so was the company manager. He was only
one of many who'd urged Leo to Anglicize his last
name.
Even Gideon had made the suggestion to Eleanor.
But the one time she'd mentioned it to Leo, he had lost
his temper. Ever since the attack on his father in
Philadelphia, he refused to put up with
slights or insults caused by his being
Jewish. With bleak humor, he often said it was
easier for Christians to turn the other cheek because the
first one didn't get pummeled and spat on like the
cheek of a Jew.
Eleanor slipped her arm in his, picking up her
valise with her other hand. "Don't worry about us,
Regis. We'll find another hotel."
Leo nodded. "There must be one in town that isn't
run by bigots."
He said it loudly, so that the clerk in his cubicle was
sure to hear. A clearing of a throat said he had.
Leo smiled in a humorless way, then snatched up
the other valise with a suddenness that betrayed his
suppressed rage.
They walked toward the street entrance. Eleanor's
traveling cape and skirt were sodden and she was
bone-cold. Leo sneezed again, then a third
tune. Pemberton called after them:
"Don't walk in this weather. Find a hack. Offer
the driver double or triple-whatever it takes.
Ill reimburse you from company funds."
"Thank you, Regis," Eleanor called back.
It was a kind offer but a futile one. They all
knew no hacks were operating in the downpour.
As they passed the pillar, they came upon the
fat fellow and the man to whom he'd been talking-a
thin, white- haired porter in rank overalls.
Three steps more, and the Goldmans had nearly reached
the street door. Suddenly Eleanor heard the fat
man snicker and reply to a question. A few words of his
heavily accented English carried clearly:
"comsure he's a kike, can't you tell?
Gross gott!
It's almost as shameful as a white woman giving
herself to a nigger."
Leo dropped his valise and whirled.
"Leo, don't, he isn't worth it!" Eleanor
exclaimed. But her husband was already stalking toward the
fat German, who had turned gray as oatmeal.
Leo poured out invective in Yiddish. The porter
scuttled away. But the fat man, momentarily
puffed up by anger, brandished his cigar and shouted:
"Don't swear at me in your heathen tongue, you
black sheeny!"
Leo's cheeks turned plum colored. He kept
walking. In a panic, the fat man jabbed his
lighted cigar at Leo's left eye.
Eleanor clapped a hand to her mouth. But Leo was
quick. The cigar's glowing end only came within a
couple of inches of his face. He seized
the fat man's forearm with both hands and pushed. The
man could move the cigar no closer.
Leo squeezed the German's arm. The man's hand
opened. The cigar fell out, hit the carpet and
rolled. Leo kept applying pressure to the arm.
The fat man gasped curses in German. Tears
began to run from the corners of his eyes. He
dropped to his knees, moaning and pleading for mercy
in his native tongue. Leo didn't release him.
The fat man kept pleading. His bladder let go,
staining his crotch. The clerk peeked out from his
cubicle. A twist of strong-smelling smoke was
rising beside Leo's muddy left shoe. He pointed
to the burning circle in the carpet and called to the
clerk:
"Your rug's on fire. Maybe this gentleman will
help put it out."
He seized the back of the fat man's collar and
hurled him down. The man's chest crushed the hot
cigar. He floundered, squirmed, squealed like a
girl-
Leo grabbed Eleanor's arm, practically jerking
her to the door. "Maybe it'll rain forty days and
forty nights and wash this benighted place off the
map."
"Don't say that, Leo. Not even as a joke. That
man doesn't represent the whole town."
"I'd like to think not. But I wonder."
Luggage in hand, they lowered their heads and went through the
door into the downpour. Although it was only late afternoon,
the sky was almost completely black. Behind them, the
fat man began yelling:
"Sheeny Jew bastard! If I see you again, you're
in for it. You better not stay in Johnstown or
they'll ship you out in little pieces!"
Hard rain battered Eleanor's face as they headed
up the street. Sometimes she felt a flash of
pride when Leo stood up to the kind of witless
bigot they'd just encountered. Yet
what did you really gain when you offered resistance?
Only trouble and more trouble-and you changed nothing.
But she could never persuade Leo of that now. She'd
lost that battle after Papa Goldman had visited
Philadelphia.
The fat man had lumbered to the lobby window. He
pounded the window frame and continued to shout. were the
threats merely bluster, or something to worry about?
She didn't know, but she didn't care to learn.
CHAPTER I'll
A Dream
In the
Rain
THEY FOUND A ROOM at the Penn Hotel,
four blocks from the Hulbert House. The room was
cramped and shabbily furnished. A few sticks of
kindling in the grate provided the only heat, a
single dim gas jet the only light. One small
window overlooked an alley that resembled a river
in flood. The storm showed no signs of stopping.
An hour after they checked in, Leo was down the
hall in the bathroom used by all guests on their
floor. Eleanor was finishing a note to their friend and
sometime employer, Louisa Drew. She had
loosened her hair. It hung over her shoulders and
down her back, long and dark and glossy. As she
wrote, she snuggled deeper into the garment she always
took along when she traveled-an old, faded
cotton flannel robe of Leo's, much too
large but exceptionally comfortable and warm.
She'd decided years ago that she would never make a
society woman for a variety of reasons. One was
her almost complete lack of interest in clothes. A
large, expensive wardrobe simply wasn't
important to her. She'd often been told that she
looked stunning in the lavish gowns
provided for some of her stage roles. But her very
favorite garments
were old, familiar ones like the disreputable robe, which
she wore with nothing underneath. was His
Leo walked in, drying the back of his neck with a
worn towel. His robe was much like hers, but somewhat
newer. Suddenly he sneezed loudly.
"Oh, Leo, you're catching something.

*
"The Johnstown grippe. In this kind of weather who
could avoid it?"
He stretched on the bed in the familiar position,
hands laced under his head. He closed his eyes.
Another melancholy monologue about to begin?
Eleanor kept her head bent over her writing
to conceal her disappointment.
All at once Leo coughed and opened his eyes;
something was on his mind.
She signed the note, folded it, and smiled at
him. He smiled too, but in a wan sort of way.
He jumped up and stalked to the window.
Eleanor turned in her chair, watching him. As she
changed position, the robe's lapels fell away
from her deep cleavage. She clasped the
lapels together, not for modesty's sake but for warmth.
The kindling in the fireplace had nearly burned
away. A roach went scurrying along the
baseboard beside the bed. She took notice without being
unduly upset; she and Leo had stayed in far
worse places.
Leo eyed the streaming window. "The theater's liable
to float away by eight o'clock. But in case it
doesn't, I should go over those lines I had so much
trouble with last night."
So that was it; he was fretting about his performance again.
Well, that was better than longing for a past that would
never return.
"Which lines do you mean?"
"Third act. Where Snap's describing how the
professor's play failed."
She looked dubious. "I'd hardly say you had
trouble. I noticed a moment's hesitation, that's
all."
"It was more than that," he shot back. "I
paraphrased half a dozen words. It threw my
timing completely off."
Eleanor said nothing. Leo's insistence on
perfection made him a highly dependable actor;
one whom other actors trusted and enjoyed
being with on stage. But that same perfectionism played
its part in many of his personal disappointments. He
expected too much of himself, of others, and the world. He
always expected relationships to be flawbledcb
less, and his career, and Eleanor's, to be free of
major difficulties. Was there such a thing as being
too idealistic? she wondered.
He walked to the bureau, there rummaging among
personal articles they'd unpacked and put away.
She reached under the note lying in her lap:
"I have the
bikhl,
if that's what you're searching for."
She held up the frayed playscript. She'd
picked up his habit of referring to it by the Yiddish
word for small book. Leo had prepared the script
by hand. It contained the dialogue for the entire play;
normally, actors were issued only their own scenes.
He laboriously wrote out a similar play-
book for every show in which they appeared.
"I was using it to write on," she added. "Let me
find the page-was
One of the plot lines of
A Night Off
dealt with Marcus Brutus Snap's
attempt to make a killing by producing a
classical tragedy written by a college
professor named Babbit, who taught in a town
where Snap's troupe was playing. The production was
a catastrophe, and in the scene Leo wanted
to rehearse, Snap was bemoaning the result of some
scenic improvisation: a borrowed parrot in a
tubbed orange tree had been part of the stage
decoration for a scene in ancient Rome-for no very
clear reason.
"Here it is," Eleanor said. There were several characters
on stage with Snap in the scene. She lowered her
voice to read the line of the first to speak, a doctor:
was 'How is it going?"'"
Leo sat on the edge of the bed, immediately in character as the
manager whose production had just met with
catastrophe:
was "It's all over. It's all over!""
She changed her inflection, playing the professor:
"I knew it!""
Leo clutched his heart. was 'When I think of this
happening to me in my old age-to " his
She struggled to keep from smiling as she read the next
line:
was Tell us all about it.""
was 'I've been a manager twenty-five years, but
I never had such a failure as that!" his
Again she was the disappointed playwright. was "How did
it end?"'"
""How did it
end?
It ended in a riot, that's how it
ended!""
was "A-a riot?"
was 'We had to ring down in the middle of the second
act! I never heard such hissing and whistling on a
railroad train!""
Leo jumped up, waving his arms; his personation of the
flamboyant, excitable manager made her laugh
aloud.
was "The audience jumped up and down like madmen-but the
tragedy was not all to blame. Half the calamity was
your fault, doctor. It was your parrot in the tubbed
orange tree that capped the climax. Picture the
pine grove in the second act-Cassius had just
come on, and the audience was quiet. I was standing in the
center-" his
He took a long step toward the window. ""comz
King Titus Tatius, with my arms folded just
so-"" He folded them with great exaggeration.
""comglaring at the Roman soldiers. My wife
had just finished Virgia's great speech, defying the
haughty Romulus-" his
Leo pitched his voice much higher, raising one finger
as he declaimed:
was "What would'st thou, king? Thy stubborn silence
break comwhat would'st thou, tyrant? Answer.
Speak!" his
He looked at Eleanor. was "Then your confounded
parrot squeaked at the top of his voice-"" He
flung his arms wide and went falsetto:
was "Kiss me, darling!""
Eleanor burst out laughing again. "Oh, Leo,
you're wonderful. Absolutely wonderful!"
He dropped out of character. "That did go a little
better."
"A little better? Letter perfect!"
He walked to her side; put his hands on her
shoulders and leaned down. "Undoubtedly that's because I
have such a fine dialogue coach this afternoon. Thank you,
Madam Goldman-was He planted a chaste kiss
on her forehead. "But we both know where the genuine
talent lies in this family."
"Now, Leo, please don't start that." She
raised the play- book. "Do you want to go
over it again?"
He ignored the book. "It's true, though. I
realized it years ago. I'm a competent
actor-sometimes even a good one-but there are thousands and
thousands of those. You
have talent and something else. You have that rare quality of
holding every eye the moment you enter a room or walk
onto a stage. It can't be learned and it can't be
bought and only a very few possess it. The truth
is, my dear, it's a precious gift, and you should
capitalize on it-was
His right hand strayed to her face; his knuckles moved
gently back and forth along her cheek. That and the
expression in his eyes told her that he was falling
into one of his despondent moods.
He continued to stroke her cheek slowly. "You should
use that gift to attract a more suitable husband.
Some
goyische
nabob with a lot of money and a talent for getting more."
She slapped his wrist lightly with the script.
"Leo Goldman, I don't want to hear you
talk that way."
"Why not?" His face bleak, he turned toward the
window. "I've given you damn little,
Eleanor. When I was a boy-long before I ever met
you-I ran into your father one winter night on Printing
House Square."
"Yes, he's often told me the story."
If he heard, he gave no indication; he seemed
to be staring straight through her:
"We talked for a few minutes, and I said I
meant to make my fortune in America. I
predicted that very blithely at the time. You notice
I hardly ever predict it these days. I haven't
made a fortune and I never will."
"No one who goes into the theater jexpects to get
rich. Not unless you move from acting into managing and
producing, and even then it's chancy. We've always
known that."
"But you really could do much better when it comes to a
husband. You could easily find one who isn't
turned away from good hotels. One who doesn't
drag you down to mediocrity with-was
"Leo, don't!"
He inhaled sharply, shrugged and leaned on the window
sill, staring at the rain. He no longer looked
handsome, only tired and defeated.
Eleanor's eyes shone with anger. How she loathed
these dark, self-pitying moods. They
filled her with a special frustration because she was
incapable of talking him out of them. She supposed a
certain amount of disappointment was
natural for him; he really had expected to grow
rich in America. It was the eternal dream of the
immigrant. Reality and the passage of time had
slowly chipped it away. But that happened to everyone's
dreams. Living with the disappointment was part of growing
up.
Don't evade,
she thought.
Of course being poor hurts him. But you're the one
who gives him his deepest wounds. You strike at his
manhood. If only you didn't make him feel
a failure that way, he might be able to stand everything
else.
With a shuffling step, he returned to the bed. He
didn't look at her. She stood up and thrust her
suddenly chilly hands into the pockets of the old
robe. Then she took his place at the window,
gazing at the rain-blurred rooftops and the steep
hillsides beyond.
Somewhere on the same floor of the hotel, a man
laughed. She wondered whether Leo would ever again find
anything to laugh about.
u
She heard Leo throw himself down on the bed with a
melodramatic sigh. It did no good to remind
herself that all actors over-dramatized their own
emotions. He was hurting. He needed her help.
She knew of only one subject that might draw
him out of his melancholy. She straightened her
shoulders, composed her face and walked to the bedside.
She sat down with her right hip touching his and began
to stroke his forehead.
"Darling, we mustn't let this terrible weather, or
what happened at the other hotel, get the better of
us. I don't want any husband except you.
No-was She covered his lips with her fingers.
"Don't say anything. We're both adults.
We know some of the dreams we had when we were younger
won't come true. But we needn't be rich to be
happy. We must keep our eye on the goal
we've set for ourselves. Owning that theater in New
York. Running it. Hiring actors and
actresses we respect, and producing the kind of
plays we want to produce."
She leaned down and kissed his mouth, adding a whispered
word:
"Together."
At that he showed a little more animation. "Maybe
we've toured long enough, Eleanor."
"I was thinking the same thing."
"Daly's a good employer, but I'd rather work for myself
-"
"So would I."
"I don't know whether we have enough money to make the
move, though." Over, the past few years they'd
put every spare penny into a special account at the
Rothman Bank in Boston. Under the bank's
management, the principal had appreciated.
"We have at least nine thousand dollars," she said.
"Not a fortune, but we shouldn't let that hold us
back. New York real estate prices keep
rising. We should start looking for a theater immediately, and
when we find one, we should try to buy it. If we
don't have enough for the down payment, I'm quite willing
to ask Papa-was
"No gifts, Eleanor! I'll accept no
gifts from anyone."
"I know that, darling. It would be a loan, that's all.
A loan we'd repay, with interest, just as if we'd
gotten it from a bank."
He considered it a moment. "Well, that would be all
right-was He wasn't wholly
impractical. They had often discussed the
negative feelings of most banks when considering
actors as credit risks.
"I do think this might be the time to launch out on our
own, Leo. While we're young enough to do all the work that
will have to be done to launch a new company in a new
theater. We could stay with Mr. Daly until this
tour's over, then start searching for a property-was
All at once, Leo raised himself on his right
elbow. His old, charming smile appeared suddenly;
the smile that had quite won her heart long before she'd
married him. She was thankful her effort had been
successful. His self-pity was gone, and he was more
cheerful than he'd been in weeks:
"I think you're exactly right. If we wait for every
circumstance to be perfect, we'll still be waiting when
we're seventy." He swept his left hand in an
arc above her head, as if imagining a poster.
"Eleanor Kent and Leo Goldman present
Bronson Howard! Sardou! William
Shakespeare-was
"Don't forget Ibsen."
He laughed and hugged her. "By God, Eleanor,
that's as fine a dream as getting rich."
"And it's one that can come true. We must
definitely leave Daly when this tour's over. We
can go to New York and work there until we find the
right theater. It might not take too long. Regis
has a nephew who's scene designer for the
Knickerbocker. Regis heard that the principal
stockholder is in poor health. The rest of the
stock's owned by the man's family, and none of them
is experienced in operating a theater. We might
make an offer-was
Leo's face lit with enthusiasm. "The
Knickerbocker's a splendid little house. Good
location right off the Rialto. The right size-four
hundred and eighty-five seats-was
She smiled. "Four hundred and ninety."
Up went his eyebrows. "You've been doing
homework."
"Quizzing Regis," she nodded. "I'm tired of the
road. We've served our apprenticeship-my
heavens, it's been twelve years since we first
went with Bascom's Tom show. Let's take the
step while we can. Commit ourselves to it! I know
we'll make it work."
A troubled look dulled the glow in his eyes. He
raised a cautioning finger. "Provided-was
"Provided what?"
"Provided you're still sure you want to be married
to a Jew."
She took his cheeks between her palms.
"Listen to me, Leo Goldman. I am saying this
for the very last time. No, I do not want to be married
to a Jew, or to a Chinaman, a Berber, a
Pole, or any other conveniently categorized
type-was
She leaned down again, her hair falling soft and dark
on both sides of her face. She loved him, but
there was always a certain fear when she demonstrated it.
She knew where such demonstrations could and frequently
did lead.
Yet there was no equivalent way to tell him she
considered him the most important person in the world.
With only a moment's hesitation, she whispered:
"I want
you,
Mr. Goldman. As for your religion, and your
faults-was
She tried to put a teasing note in her voice
to overcome the tension already starting to build within her.
"comn so numerous as mine, of course, but still considerable
in number-all those things, dear sir-was
She kissed him, wondering how she could he
so eager for such a normal human contact and at the
same time dread
it.
"com^th things are incidental. I love you." Just as
she'd feared, he put one arm gently hehind her
neck and pulled her mouth down again. His other hand
slipped beneath her robe. Gentle fingers closed on
her breast. She wanted to pull away. There was a
wild, hysterical feeling within her; an irrational
urge to run-
But she was an actress. And she did love him.
She kissed him with feigned ardor, pressing her
breast against his hand even though she knew what the
outcome would be.
No, by heaven,
she said to herself. Only moments ago they'd agreed
to give their lives a different direction. It was time
for.the marriage to have the same kind of new start.
She would make it all end differently for once.
She swore that as Leo began fumbling with the cord
of the old robe.
He pushed the robe down her back, baring her
full, dark-nippled breasts. She
would
succeed this time. No fear was so great that
courage could not overcome it- Leo knew Eleanor
well, and was a considerate husband: "Darling, are you
sure you're up to this?" "Yes, Leo, yes,
please-I love you. I do love you so!" , Her
suddenly husky voice gave no hint of her
terror.
m
From the first, Eleanor had wanted to be a good wife.
The rape had made that impossible.
She and Leo had always gotten along well as
colleagues and companions. It was as lovers that they
failed. Their wedding night-and most of the European
honeymoon- had been a disaster of awkwardness and
deep hurt. Only Leo's innate kindness and
understanding had seen her through that terrible time, which should have
been so joyous.
Once back in the States, this part of their
relationship improved very little. Whenever she and Leo
started to make love, Eleanor was instantly in an
agony of fear. She knew the physical contact
would inevitably result in discomfort; even severe
pain. The knowledge fueled her fear,
and generated tension he could feel in her naked body
long before they were united. The tension was like some
virulent disease, quickly infecting him too,
and growing worse in both of them as they came closer
and closer to union. The result was disappointment and
constantly reinforced failure for him, and unremitting
guilt for her. The guilt was enhanced because she was
incapable of doing the one thing which might have resolved the
situation. She couldn't tell him
why
she felt pain when they made love.
-
How ironic that was, she often thought. She and Leo
were members of a liberal, free-thinking profession.
And although she did discuss certain sexual matters
with him, she positively could not bring herself to confess
that she'd been raped.
She'd come close to telling Leo many times.
Once, on New Year's Eve, she'd drunk a
whole bottle of wine in secret, hoping it would
wash away her hesitation and permit the truth
to spill out. It had almost worked. She'd blurted one
sentence and part of another. The exact words were
forgotten now. But she vividly recalled how he'd
stared at her, puzzled, while her heart pounded and
her stomach ached and the confession ended abruptly.
When he pressed her for an explanation of her
strange behavior, she lied and said it was
too much wine. The sad truth was, she hadn't had
enough. Was there enough in the whole world? She doubted it.
She hated herself for that. She knew silence didn't
represent strength, but weakness. She truly
believed Leo might be relieved of some of his worst
feelings of inadequacy if he knew she was
damaged goods when she married him.
Damaged goods.
Deep down, that was the root of all the difficulty.
Not only had she concealed the foul thing that had happened
to her, she'd entered into marriage dishonestly.
She knew Leo would be outwardly forgiving if she
told him. He was that sort of man. But what would
he be thinking?
The woman I married is a slut. A woman
other men dirtied before 1 took her, foolishly
imagining her to be a virgin.
How cleansing just a little frank talk would be. And
yet doubt and fear continued to keep the secret sealed
away, even when she saw the consequences of silence.
Of course, she realized that in the view of some, she
was
a sinner damned to hell simply because of her wish
to break the silence. Conventional wisdom in
Victorian America said that a wife
did not sully her mind with undue attention to the
physical side of marriage. A wife was
supposed to submit to her husband without complaint, no
matter how uncomfortable or distasteful she found that
submission. The purpose of the act was procreation,
not pleasure, and thus contemplation of it for any
purpose other than marital duty was immoral.
So was candid discussion "of the act, even between spouses-
Well, the devil with the dictates of convention. Their
problem demanded thought, and a resolution. Just once she
wanted to make Leo happy by successfully hiding
the pain a sexual union produced. She dreamed
of being free of that pain herself, and-most unrealistic
dream of all-of actually finding joy in the moment
when, with utmost care and tenderness, he came into her-
This time,
she thought as she lay in his arms.
Let it be different this one time.
But it was not.
iv
She shuddered and winced uncontrollably. The dry,
abrasive contact stiffened her body. He felt
that, and the tension transmitted itself to him:
"I hurt you again."
"No, Leo. No, darling, please-go
on. I'm fine." Her voice was hoarse; barely
audible above the beat of the rain.
"Goddamn it!" he said softly, pulling away.
"I can never do it right."
She started to speak but somehow couldn't. She covered
her eyes to hide tears of self-loathing. Capable
actress that she was, she still couldn't control the
workings of her own body. The dream of finally lifting
some of Leo's guilt died stillborn once again.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat
up, his broad back toward her. He reached for his
shirt. She turned on her side and sat up,
too. She put her cheek against his back and huddled
there, both of them silent and cold in the dark, mean
room.
Attack
SHORTLY BEFORE SIX, ELEANOR suggested they
make a dash to the Hulbert House, despite the
rain, so they could join the rest of the company for supper.
Sharply, Leo said he didn't care to give the
Hulbert House one penny of his money.
She knew there was another reason he snapped at
her. As he turned up the gaslight in an effort
to brighten the room, she walked to his side:
"Darling, don't fret over what happened
a few minutes ago." It was the first time since
they'd gotten dressed that she was able to speak of it.
And it was instantly clear that she shouldn't have. He
whirled to face her:
"Fret? Why, no. By now I'm accustomed
to hurting my wife every time I touch her."
"But it isn't your fault! I've said it over and
over, but you never believe me."
Nor did he now. He turned away, and she went
on:
"You mustn't continually scourge yourself for something I'm
responsible for-was
"Eleanor, we've been married four and a half
years. That's a long time. Enough time, surely, for me
to learn how to make love so that you at least find it
bearable. God knows I'm unable to make it
enjoyable."
"Don't keep saying things like that! There's something
wrong with me. Something I-was
She drew in a quick breath. She ached to tell him,
and perhaps he sensed that. For a few seconds,
expectancy smoothed the bitterness from his face. But
then the silence lengthened, and the old shame and fear
took control again. The door must stay closed.
Forever
-
"Something IV-EVERY always been at a loss
to explain," she blurted finally.
"Well, a better man would be able to do something about
it." He turned back to the window, eyes gloomy
as he watched the rain.
A feeling of futility swept over her. How dare
she scorn him for weakness when she could not tell him the
distruth? More practically, what could she now do
to break the mood of tension? She thought of one reminder
that might help:
"At least we won't have to put up with places like this
much longer. We'll soon be off the road, and new
owners of the Knickerbocker. I feel sure of it."
She slipped her arms around his waist from behind; hugged
him. "That's something to look forward to, isn't it?"
"Yes," he replied in a low voice, "that's
something-**
The last word trailed off, as if to suggest he
couldn't see much else in their marriage that was worth
anticipating.
ii
They ate supper in the dining room of the Penn
Hotel.
Both of them ordered pot roast which turned
out to be
stringy and dry. Before Leo had finished half of
his, he tugged out his pocket watch and began
to drum his fingers on the tablecloth. Old, familiar
signs, Eleanor thought, smiling at long last.
Leo hated to be late for a performance. So did she,
but with him, punctuality was a passion, if not an
outright mania. He was proud that he'd never missed
an opening
curtain, or an entrance, in his entire
professional career- except once. In
Chicago, a stagehand had moved a saw horse in
the dark wings during a performance. Coming
back after a change of costume, Leo had tumbled
headfirst
over it, delaying his entrance a full fifteen
seconds.
Consequently, Eleanor understood his sudden
response to an internal clock, and his sudden
impatience. Without finishing his meal, he left the
table. He returned in fifteen minutes to say that
he and the hotel's elderly porter had finally
located a hack.
The rain showed no signs of letting up. If
anything, it was heavier than it had been an
hour ago. The cabman

drove with one hand and used the other to hold an
umbrella over his broad-brimmed hat.
The horse splashed through wide streams of water
running in the streets. The electric lights of
Johnstown looked pale and shimmery in the
downpour. The cabman delivered them to the stage
door of the Opera House, took the fare and Leo's
generous tip and said: "You folks leavin' town tomorrow?"
"That's right," Leo answered. "Well, you better
git ready to swim to the depot." "What do you
mean?" Leo said, while Eleanor hurried toward
the building.
"When it starts ra*' this hard, most of the streets
flood out."
Eleanor reached the porch by the stage door. It was
kept almost completely dry by a projecting roof.
She shook water off her parasol. Suddenly, down
at the corner of the building, she thought she saw a
man standing motionless, watching.
No sooner had she seen him than the man stepped
back out of sight. Almost immediately half a dozen people
appeared at the same corner, complaining about the
storm. Early arrivals at the theater.
Surely the man she'd glimpsed had been part of that
group-
Or had he? She remembered the fat man at the
Hulbert House. Remembered his threats. Had he
come hunting them-his
No, that was too far-fetched, especially on such a
bad night.
The storm certainly wasn't inhibiting the
cabman's desire to talk. Hunched under his
umbrella, he called down to Leo, "Happens
dang near every spring. Most businesses have to close
up for a few days. Looks like they may be doin' it
again. Lot of folks with two-story houses are already
carryin' their rugs and good furniture upstairs.
Friend of mine told me the first shift at Cambria
Iron might not work tomorrow. But if you're headin' out
early, I expect you'll miss the worst of the
flooding. What's your next stop?"
"Altoona," Leo told him. She heard the
impatience in her husband's voice. Rain dripped
from the brim of his rakish crush hat. "Well, good
luck to you. Give a good show an' don't
think too poorly of Johnstown. It's a mighty
nice place when it's dry-which is what I hope
to be in half an hour. I'm callin' it
a night."-
He raised his umbrella in a kind of salute and
drove away. Leo ran to the porch and sneezed
again. Eleanor said, "Why on earth did you stand there
chattering with that man?"
"I certainly didn't want to. But he brought us
here when he could have gone home. The decent people of this
world ought to be encouraged. God knows there are enough of the
other kind, and they don't seem to need one damn
bit of encouragement for what they do."
His smile was vivid white in the gloom. He
took off his hat and shook water from it. In just a
few seconds, the rain intensified so that it was hard
to see more than a yard or so. Protected by the
overhang, they watched the downpour. Suddenly Leo
said:
was "God is our refuge and strength, a very
present help in trouble." The people of Johnstown
may want Him to make a practical demonstration
of that. If I lived here, I'd pray for a
rowboat. Especially since I can't swim."
Eleanor laughed. "I'm glad you're feeling
better. What in the world made you think of a Bible
verse?"
"Do you suppose I'm just another one of
those pagan actors, Mrs. Goldman? I know
several Bible verses. In two languages! I
didn't skip all the sessions of Hebrew school
when I was growing up. That verse is from a psalm that
talks about bad weather. "Therefore will not we fear,
though the earth be removed-though the waters thereof roar and
be troubled-""
"That's certainly appropriate. But we should go
in. You're sneezing so much, you'll probably have
influenza by the second act."
Leo didn't move. There was still plenty of time for
them to don makeup, and he seemed fascinated by the
water cascading from the edge of the roof:
"I don't think I've ever seen a worse storm.
While I was hunting for the hack, the hotel porter
told me the spring flooding could be moderated if the
river channels were widened. But the Cambria
Iron company wants them narrow for a technical
reason I completely fail to understand. In any
case, the porter said that what Cambria Iron
wants in this county, Cambria Iron gets."
"You mean they deliberately ignore the town's
welfare? That's despicable."
"I agree. But as you've often remarked in other
circumstances comx isn't our fight. All
we have to do is give a performance and stay afloat
another ten or twelve hours. Then Johnstown will
be just an unpleasant memory." He started
to sneeze, jerked out a handkerchief, and held it
to his nose. He sneezed anyway.
"We'd better go in before I blow my own head
off."
Leo offered his arm. She was happy about the
noticeable improvement in his mood; he always grew
more cheerful and energetic as curtain time approached.
They turned toward the door. The man Eleanor had
seen lurking was forgotten. But he wasn't gone.
He stepped from behind the corner of the building and watched
the Goldmans disappear through the stage door. Then,
taking a step backwards, he settled down
to wait. Not happily; but at least he was getting
paid for the night's work. It would be two or three
hours before it was over.

Inside the Opera House, Leo immediately seemed
to be his old self. He took a long, deep
breath, inhaling the odors that were so familiar to all
actors. Smells of lumber and backstage dust;
the stale tang of old gas fixtures and the quite
different smell of the new, hot electric
lights that were revolutionizing the theater. He
stretched, tossed his hat in the air, and caught it:
"I think it's going to be a damn good show tonight.
Everyone will want to please those few hardy souls
brave enough to come-and those who show up will want
to demonstrate to one another that it was worth the
effort."
He was right. Both Goldmans had a strong
intuitive grasp of what lay behind an audience's
reaction. A fine performance was not solely due to the
actors; the audience also played a part, and that was
especially true in comedy. Good response early in
the play spurred the cast to a greater effort. Tonight, as
if in defiance of the storm savaging the city, players
and audience were quickly joined in perfect interaction.
A Night Off
consisted of four acts. Before the first act
was even half through, Eleanor had the exciting feeling
that she was witnessing and helping to create a performance as
nearly flawless as any in which she and Leo had ever
appeared. Contrary to their expectations, the
nine-hundred- seat Opera House was filled almost
to capacity. And the men, women, and children out front
recognized the extra effort the actors were putting
into their roles, and the perfection with which even the
smallest part was being played. The audience rewarded
the cast with loud and frequent laughter. Lines or
bits of business which never even drew a chuckle on
a bad night produced a roar of mirth, and even
applause. The clapping after each curtain was
increasingly longer and louder. Eleanor had never known
the first three acts to fly by so fast.
She played Nisbe, one of Professor
Babbit's daughters; it was a choice role. By the
middle of the last act, Nisbe was about ready
to succumb-with all due propriety-to Jack
Mulberry, the young British actor with whom the
convoluted plot had romantically involved her.
Mulberry was a favorite of producer Snap,
because he was the only leading man Snap had ever
employed who owned eight suits of clothes-thus
making it possible for Snap to stage "society
plays."
Snap's career was in ruins by this point in the comedy.
But thanks to a convenient coincidence, he found a
new post as manager of a London theater which just
happened to be owned by Mulberry's long-lost father-with
whom he was of course reunited before the final
curtain.
It was a complicated and nonsensical
play, but well written, and the audience loved it.
Snap's dialogue in the fourth act gave Leo
a chance for a bravura performance. Tonight he took
maximum advantage of that, drawing spontaneous
applause when he made a flamboyant exit just
minutes before the end of the show.
He caught an admiring glance from Eleanor as he
swept off stage. The stage manager squeezed his
arm. "Grand, Leo. Just grand."
"Thanks very much," he whispered. On the other side
of the flats representing Babbit's study,
dialogue produced another explosion of laughter.
Leo pulled out his handkerchief and carefully dabbed his
warm forehead; he didn't want to wipe off
greasepaint.
Rather than wait in the wings for his final entrance, he
decided to catch a breath of air on the protected
porch. He tiptoed away in the dark, ignoring the
stage manager's anxious glance. Leo knew he
had plenty of time. About five pages of dialogue
had to be played before he came on stage for the last
time.
He stepped outside and immediately regretted it.
Wind drove the rain into his face with unexpected
force. He turned, reaching for the doorknob.
Just as he did so, there was a sudden movement in the
shadows a few feet beyond the porch.
"Someone there?"
Almost as he said it, he saw the man. He wore a
slicker and a slouch hat and came striding out of the dark
along the side of the building. Leo was surprised but
not alarmed; not until the man jumped to the porch.
Leo backed away quickly, trying to see the man's
face beneath the hat brim. In a rough voice the man
said:
"Didn't expect you to come out so soon, sheeny. You
stayed in Johnstown one night too many."
Astounded, Leo could only think,
The fat man hired someone. He actually
hired
someone
-
Then there was no more time for thought. The other man yanked
something from under his slicker.
"Let's see how the audiences like your looks after
this, Jew-boy."
The man's right hand streaked toward Leo's face,
fingers clasped around the broken neck of a bottle.
iv
Leo didn't jerk his head back fast
enough. The jagged glass missed his eye but raked the
skin below. He grabbed his assailant's wrist,
smelling tobacco and liquor. The man lunged one
way, then the other, shaking him off. Leo's left
shoe slipped on the slick porch. He almost
fell. He twisted on his left heel as he righted
himself. Pain shot from his ankle all the way up
to mid-calf. He held back a groan and rammed
his right knee into the attacker's midsection.
The man bent over, gasping in pain. He dropped
the neck of the bottle. Leo caught it and slashed
upward. The man howled and clutched the underside of his
chin. He stumbled off the porch and fell on hands and
knees.
The stage door opened suddenly. The doorkeeper
stuck his head out.
"Who the devil's makin' all the racket?"
The man in the slicker was floundering in the mud. Leo
started for him. But his injured left leg betrayed
him. He would have pitched off the porch if he hadn't
grabbed one of the roof posts.
The attacker regained his feet. Blood ran between
his fingers as he held his chin and staggered toward the
corner of the building where he'd first appeared. He
vanished there, leaving Leo clinging to the post
and taking out his frustration with loud profanity.
He wanted to run after the man but he knew he
couldn't He'd need all his strength just to finish the
play.
The stage manager appeared, pushing the doorkeeper
out of the way. "Leo, where the devil have you got to?
Your entrance is coming up-God above." He gulped
at the sight of blood leaking from the cut below Leo's
eye. "Are you all right?"
"Splendid!" Leo snarled, trying to favor his
left leg as he pressed his handkerchief against the
gash. He hobbled back inside and in half a
minute stepped on stage dizzy with pain and sweating
under the greasepaint that was now streaked and smeared.
CHAPTER V
Stranded
LEO CAME ON STAGE with the kerchief
pressed to his bleeding cheek. His limp was clearly
apparent to the audience. But his entrance and the final
curtain were separated by just fifteen short speeches,
and he kept the play's momentum going by sheer will.
He ignored glances of consternation from Eleanor while
he announced that the disastrous premiere of
Professor Babbit's tragedy
had been saved at the last moment by quick
thinking on the part of Mrs. Snap, a character never seen
in the comedy:
"When she saw that your piece was irretrievably
damned-was
He paused for a beat; just long enough to allow the
professor and all the others on stage to register
astonishment. Earlier in the act, Babbit had been
misled into believing his play had turned out well after
all.
"In the second act, she-was Again Leo paused
deliberately.
"Well?" exclaimed the actor playing Babbit.
"Well?"
"She dropped your tragedy altogether and substituted in
its place-was
"What?"
Leo summoned all his energy for the curtain line:
"A Night Off!"
A cannon-burst of laughter greeted the
unexpected twist. The curtain came down to the
beginning of applause. Leo heard voices all
around him-Eleanor's most clearly:
"What in God's name happened to-?"
"Places, take your places!" the stage manager
yelled from the wings. "Here we go with the
call."
Up went the curtain. Leo fixed a smile on his
face, joining the others in a line stretching across the
stage. In unison, they bowed slowly into the blaze
of the incandescent footlights.
When he leaned over, he was afraid he'd fall.
He clenched his teeth and came upright again. Pain was
scorching the wrenched muscles of his left leg. But
he managed five more calls before Regis
Pemberton personally grabbed the ropes and lowered the
curtain for the last time.
Pemberton had been told about Leo's injury
while he was counting box office receipts in the
office. Now he rushed to Leo's side, joined
by Eleanor and the others. They all wanted to know how
he'd gotten hurt.
"I made the mistake of going out for some air," he
said, his voice weak all at once. "One of the
local Jew-baiters was waiting with a piece of
broken bottle."
"I thought I saw someone when we came in!"
Eleanor said. "Here, darling, lean on me. You
look dreadful."
"Perfectly-all right. Perfectly-capable of
standing." ft
wasn't true. His head was clanging like a fire
bell, his left leg was threatening to collapse again,
and all at once he was sure he was hallucinating.
The walls of Professor Babbit's study were
rippling and swaying-
He realized it was only the scene shifters. They were
already starting to strike the set.
"I'll get a doctor," Pemberton said
to Leo. "Ill see that he comes right to your hotel.
I'll also get the police on the case. These
small-town simpletons can't mistreat a member
of a Daly troupe and get away with it. Do you know the
identity of the man who attacked you, Leo? Was it that
fat German Eleanor told me about?"
"Didn't see the man's face." Leo limped
upstage toward an upholstered chair. "I'll bet
it was someone the German hired. The man wasn't
expecting me outside until the play was over. I
took him by surprise. Otherwise he might have
done a better job."
He sank into the chair and took deep breaths.
Pemberton growled another promise of swift
action by the police. Leo shook his head, a glazed
look in his eyes:
"No use, Regis. The police
won't-find either of them. Not on-a night like this."
"Well, it's a
wretched
piece of business, just
wretched,"
said the rather prissy young actor who played Jack
Mulberry. "But you were splendid, Leo. A
trump to the very last."
Eleanor knelt beside her husband. He was growing
groggy. His right hand slipped off the chair arm. The
crumpled handkerchief touched Eleanor's white
sleeve and stained it red. Unconcerned, she took
the handkerchief and gently wiped blood from his cheek.
No longer fully aware of what he was saying,
Leo muttered to the young actor who'd complimented him:
"Thanks, Tom. This audience-deserved-was
Before he could finish, his head lolled over and he
fainted.
ii
The custom of performing an afterpiece was nearly gone
in the American theater. So when
A Night Off
rang down its final curtain at ten
thirty-one-five minutes later than
usual because of all the laughter-the show was
over. It took half an hour for a police wagon
to arrive. Leo was placed on a stretcher and moved
to the Perm Hotel in the wagon. Eleanor rode with
him.
Pemberton conferred with a detective from the
Johnstown force. As Leo had predicted, the
effort was wasted. An hour's investigation by the
police revealed that the fat man had paid the
Hulbert House the day rate and left with his
sample cases shortly after six that evening. The
hotel management knew little about the man. The
register said his name was Kleinerman, and that his home was
Baltimore. He had told a dining room waiter
that he was a traveler specializing in ladies' and
gents' stockings.
But there was nothing to prove he'd hired some local
thug, the detective said to Pemberton when the two
met again in the lobby of the Perm. Leo hadn't
gotten a clear look at the attacker, so that
closed the matter. Pemberton was disgusted but could do
nothing.
The manager sat down to wait for Eleanor. The
hotel's elderly porter and the night clerk were
rolling up the lobby carpet when she finally came
downstairs a few minutes after midnight,
followed by the doctor. He gave Eleanor a few
last words of instruction, fastened his cape overcoat
at the collar, picked up his satchel and vanished
into the storm.
Pemberton stood waiting. A damp, wrinkled
Pennsylvania Railroad timetable stuck out of his
pocket. Eleanor walked toward him in a dispirited
way. She was exhausted.
"How is he?" Pemberton asked.
"Asleep again. He woke up when we put him in
bed. The doctor gave him
greater-than
a draught that should help him rest till morning."
She sank down in an old chair. The lobby had
an eerie air. The two men working silently
to remove the carpet seemed like specters under the
old-fashioned gas chandeliers.
Eleanor's dark eyes drifted to the front
entrance. She frowned. An inch-wide stream of
brown water was trickling between the door and the sill.
The water carried bits of mud and refuse. It was
already a foot into the lobby.
"My God, Regis, look at t.**
Pemberton turned, as did the young night clerk.
As they
watched, the stream widened and lengthened. Gaslight
reflecting on its surface made it resemble some
primitive form of life that kept changing shape,
its growth out of control.
The night clerk didn't take the sight as
seriously as his guest:
"Don't worry, ma'am. We get water in here
most every springtime."
She wasn't reassured. She could only think of
remarks she'd heard earlier in the day:
That's four and a half billion gallons.
. . .
Four hundred feet higher than the town.
. . .
Ifs an earth dam. Leaky as a sieve
-
By now the sound of the rain had become nerve- wracking.
She felt herself losing control and dug her nails
into her palms until a measure of calm
returned. The clerk added:
"No matter how hard it rains, you'll be snug and
dry in any of the rooms upstairs."
The old porter tried to do his part to soothe her: "And
don't get all scairt if you hear some fool
yelling that the South Fork dam's busted.
That's an old joke around this town."
"How comforting!" she said.
The porter and the clerk exchanged eloquent looks and
walked away. Pemberton studied his hands. How
infantile to snarl at two men who were only trying
to help, she thought. She turned to apologize but
both men were already back at work. She covered her
eyes a moment, then said to the manager:
"Regis, I've got to make a decision. The
doctor said that if Leo wants to perform tomorrow evening,
he should stay flat on his back with his leg elevated
for at least twelve hours. Otherwise the injury
may take much longer to heal. When are we scheduled
to leave?"
Pemberton pulled the limp timetable from his pocket.
He peeled the pages apart until he located the
one he wanted. "Here it is-was He showed her. "The
Chicago-New York Limited. Departs at
seven-fifteen in the morning."
"I was afraid of something like that." She pondered.
"We'll be on board if I have to carry him to the
station." "But I thought the doctor said-was "He did.
Leo's supposed to stay in bed. I want to get out
If
of here. If Leo can't go on tomorrow night,
his understudy
can do the role."
Pemberton chewed his lower lip. "Whatever you say.
Tomorrow night's Altoona. A very big house.
We're completely sold out. I'd rather have Leo on
stage than sitting in the wings. And you know how he
hates to miss a performance-was
Eleanor couldn't deny that. But the manager's tone
produced a flare of anger:
"I refuse to stay in this wretched town one moment
longer than necessary."
He shrugged. "As you said-it's entirely your
choice."
"You act as if I made the wrong one!"
"No, Eleanor. He's your husband. But maybe
there's a way to resolve the problem. Here, look."
Again he showed her the timetable. "This eastbound train
leaves at eight minutes past three in the afternoon.
It arrives in Altoona in plenty of time for you and
Leo to reach the theater and do your makeup. Taking the
later train would give Leo the rest he needs, and
he could still
get there in time to perform tomorrow night." -, Eleanor
uttered a tired laugh. "Stranded in Johnstown.
Sometimes I can't get over the thrills of a
life in the theater."
"Stranded? No one's stranded!" Pemberton
exclaimed, bending to clasp her chilly hand. "It's
just a delay of a few
hours. I'll stay too, if you like."
"Oh, come, Regis-you're embarrassing me." She
sat up straight, wiping her cheeks with her palms.
"I'm behaving like a child. I'm tired and upset, I
guess. I apologize. You 1 go in the morning and
we'll catch the later train. Then Leo can do the
show and everyone will be happy. Unless, of course, the
rain doesn't stop, and the bridges wash out, and the
three-oh-eight fails to arrive in Johnstown."
The night clerk had obviously been listening as he
wrapped twine around the rolled carpet. "She'll be
here, all right," he called. "Nothing can hurt the
old bridge your train comes in on. It's seven
arches of solid stone. We'll get you and the mister
to the depot even if we have to paddle a canoe."
The clerk ambled toward them, so anxious to be
helpful, Eleanor couldn't possibly take
offense at his eavesdropping.. The young man went
on:
The stormll probably pass by morning. Even if
it doesn't, Johnstown's been through a
downpour like this nearly every year that I can recollect,
and I was born right here in Cambria County."
The clerk smiled again, shy, yet eager to persuade
the visiting actress to think better of his hometown.
She couldn't be unkind to him. She put on a
smile she didn't feel and said:
"Well, if we can't trust a local resident,
there's no one we can trust. What's your name, young
man?"
"Hack, ma'am. Homer Hack."
"Well, Homer, I'm very sorry I spoke
sharply to you and the other gentleman a while ago.
I'm Mrs. Leo Goldman, by the way."
"Yes, ma'am. I signed you in, remember?"
"That's right, you did. Lord, that seems eighty years
ago."
The young man blushed at her mention of the Deity. She
tried to forget how weary she was as she rose from her
chair. "All right, Homer, it's a bargain. You and
I will both paddle the canoe if necessary." She
turned to the manager. "Leo and I will be on the
three-oh-eight to Altoona."
"Ill have a cab waiting at the depot. Shall I
look in on you a few minutes before we board the
Limited in the morning?"
"Not necessary. Thank you for worrying about us."
"It's my job, Eleanor. I've been a
bachelor all my life but I always wanted a
flock of children. When I started managing road
companies, I got my wish."
She laughed. "You're terrible."
"No, I just understand actors. Along with liking them,
of
course."
She laughed again, and kissed his cheek. The
familiarity brought another amazed look to young
Hack's face. He nearly dropped the end of the
rolled carpet he and the old porter were carrying toward
the stairs.
Pemberton waved as he turned to leave. "Good
night, then. See you in Altoona." His boots
splattered and spread the muddy water that had widened
until it measured eight or ten inches across. The
forward point had reached the center of the lobby.
Pemberton opened the front door. The wind tore
it from his hands. Homer Hack had to drop his end of the
carpet,
run, and force the door shut with his shoulder. But the
wind had sprung it, and ripped the screws in the
lowest
hinge halfway out of the wood.
Instantly, Eleanor felt she'd made a
dreadful mistake
solely out of loyalty to the company. She thought about
running after Pemberton to tell him she'd changed
her
mind. Somehow she couldn't
She trudged upstairs. In the room she wrapped
a blanket
around her legs and tried to sleep sitting in the chair
beside Leo's bed. But the constant sound of the rain began
to
grate on her nerves again. The sound seemed
to develop a
(terrifying resonance, like the roar of a waterfall.
Pictures filled her mind. Frightening pictures
of an earth dam high in the mountain darkness. It
began to spout water from a few holes; then from a
dozen-
She shook her head; rubbed her eyes. She was an
adult She mustn't give in to childish fright. She
and Leo would be perfectly safe overnight in
Johnstown, and would take the afternoon train for an
uneventful trip to Altoona-
But if all that was true, why did the sound
of the rain and of her husband's drugged breathing continue
to depress
her spirits? Why did those sounds make her feel-to
use the word she'd used with Pemberton-stranded in a
lonesome, even dangerous place?
"The dam's busted." That's an old joke around
this town.
Suddenly she thought of the Psalm Leo had quoted:
God is our refuge and strength, a very present
help in
trouble.
Though the earth be removed
-
Though the comwaters thereof roar and be troubled
-
She wasn't on familiar terms with the Almighty.
She believed in God, but she didn't practice
religion in the formal sense. She'd always considered
her religion to be the way she lived her life;
especially the way she treated others. Tonight that
philosophy seemed trivial and of little use. She
wanted a strength greater than her own to touch her and
relieve the unreasonable fear mounting within her.
She wanted that relief and couldn't find it. She
huddled deeper into the blanket, exhausted
yet sleepless. Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Adrift
THAT SAME NIGHT, FAR across the continent from
rain-soaked Johnstown, a footsore Carter
Kent limped into the Southern Pacific ferry
terminal in Oakland.
Mellow California sunshine had bathed the dirt
road he'd followed into town, but now the sun was
down. Cold fog was billowing in from the Pacific.
It was seven o'clock on a spring evening but it might have
been midnight. And he might have been seventy.
He felt that old.
He paid the fare at a booth, then went on board.
Just beyond the gate at the stern of the ferryboat, he
stopped to count his money. Less than three dollars
left. He trudged to the large midships cabin,
pushed through a swinging door, and sank down on one of the
lacquered benches. Across the bay, the lighted
hillsides of San Francisco had disappeared in
the fog.
He shivered and clenched his teeth to keep them from
chattering. His old corduroy trousers, cracked
boots, and cast-off gentleman's jacket
provided little warmth. The jacket's plaid was
faded by weather and hidden by dirt. The stiff
bill of his large cap was broken in the middle.
Carter was heading for San Francisco at long
last, though he didn't know precisely why.
Maybe it was because the city had been his original
destination, and some inner sense told him nothing would go
right for him until he finally got there.
He knew Willie Hearst was in San
Francisco, managing his father's newspaper.
Willie had taken over the
Examiner
two years earlier, when the California
legislature had at last been persuaded that it should
send George Hearst to the U.s. Senate. That
made his son Willie a publisher at
twenty-six. Willie could be proud of that. Carter
had no intention of looking up his friend right away,
however. He couldn't stand to have Willie see how low
he'd fallen.
He couldn't stand to have his mother or stepbrother know, either.
In the past six months he'd written only two
letters to Julia. Both of them, extremely short,
had consisted entirely of lies.
ii
When Carter had stepped off the train in North
Platte five years earlier, he'd been
convinced he was taking his future back into his own
hands. He was further convinced that it would be a fine
future since he personally controlled it. Both
judgments had been wrong. When he added up those
five years, the sum of them was exactly nothing.
He'd traveled from the Nebraska prairie to the
parched plains of Texas, then further south
to Galveston, where he'd learned how foolhardy it
was to give anyone your trust until they proved
worthy of it. From Galveston he'd drifted
to Colorado and, eventually, on to the Pacific
Northwest.
In all that territory, he'd never been able to find
a town or a job in which his glibness and his infectious
smile could be put to good use-or were even wanted.
When he took a job, it was almost always some
backbreaking menial task an African ape could
have done nearly as well. Carter still hated to obey
orders. It was a supreme irony of his life that
since leaving the train in North Platte, he'd
done virtually nothing else.
He'd learned some harsh lessons in five years.
Life was much more hazardous if you were poor and far from
friends and family. Earlier this spring, he'd lain
ill under a pier on the Seattle
waterfront for two days, only rats and mongrel
dogs paying him notice. One old yellow hound .
had pissed all over his pants. Wouldn't that be a
fine story was to tell his stepbrother, to whom he'd
given so much advice?
He hoped Will hadn't taken the advice too
seriously. Some of it could damn well ruin him, and
one squandered life was enough for the current generation of
Kents.
It was after his illness that he'd finally started south down
the timbered coast to California, making the long,
slow journey by foot and by boxcar. Several times
he'd run
into some rough-looking tramps. When it wasn't
possible to avoid them completely, he always assumed
they were planning to rob or kill him. He credited
that wariness as the reason he hadn't been molested
once.
Now the journey was over, at least for a while. The
ferry whistle shrilled. Men closed and latched the
wicker gates at the stern. Lines were uncleated,
tossed aboard, and secured. The engines chugged as the
vessel nosed into the fog, its bow wake faintly
phosphorescent.
In the distance a bell buoy clanged. By the
time the ferry reached open water, the fog was even
thicker. The whistle sounded a signal every fifteen
seconds. Carter, feeling queasy, weaved to his
feet and headed up the aisle toward the doors leading
out to the bow.
There were only four other passengers in the cabin.
One, an elderly Chinaman, sat on a bench which
faced the aisle. The Chinaman was dressed all in
black. A derby "covered the root of his long
pigtail. Carter smiled feebly and touched two
fingers to the broken bill of his cap.
The gesture of friendliness terrified the Chinaman,
somehow. He huddled down on the bench with his hands in his
lap, trying to look inconspicuous. A ferryman
appeared outside, glaring at Carter through a window.
By greeting the Oriental, Carter had evidently
done something wrong.
Carter pushed through the swinging door. The ferryman's
truculent stare infuriated him. He hooked a
thumb over his shoulder to indicate the Chinaman:
"Just saying hello to an old friend. He used to cook
for my mother at our ranch in the valley."
Then, almost jauntily, he walked on across the wet
deck. The ferryman scowled. The sallow young man
in the cap didn't look as if his family
could afford a servant, let alone a ranch. The
ferryman walked off shaking his head.
At the bow Carter turned and leaned back, his
elbows resting on the rail as he tried to control a
growing dizziness. His teeth started to chatter. He
asked himself why he was standing out here as casually as some
dandy on a Sunday excursion trip. The fresh
air wasn't doing
him
a bit of good.
The thick fog closed around him. He felt
rootless; lost; adrift in a world in which he had no
place. The feeling had become very familiar.
Practically thirty years old, he had mishandled
his past and left himself without a future.
But the defeated feeling passed. He willed it
to pass. He was a man, and he was a Kent, and the
Kents were survivors. Part of his inheritance from the
family was the streak of optimism no amount of
failure could destroy. He was
not
lost. The city of San Francisco was out there
somewhere. It was just temporarily hidden, that was all.
Hidden like the success he knew could be his if he
only had a touch of luck. Besides, he'd
learned too many painful lessons not to put them
to use somehow. He'd 'd that in San Francisco.
He'd make a new beginning. That was what America
was all about, wasn't it? New beginnings. Hell,
over the past few years he'd made dozens.
But this one, now. This one would be different. This one I
would count. This one would put him on the right road at
last-
A moment after he made the vow, he saw faint
lights flickering ahead. The whistle blasted three
times.
The wind felt stronger suddenly. It blew against his
face and tore the fog away. He gripped the wet
rail and watched the lights loom up on the
hillsides of San Francisco. More and more
lights appeared every second, and all of them grew
steadily brighter. He had a destination after all.
He stayed on deck in the wind and damp as the ferry
lumbered on to the terminal at the foot of Market
Street. And although there was no reason for it except
the hope or brass or whatever it was that kept him
going, he had a smile on his face.
I
I
CHAPTER VH
Danger on a Dark Street
CARTER LEFT THE FERRY with the few other
passengers who had made the crossing. In the
terminal he spied a newspaper in a trash
barrel. He fished it out. Luck was with him; it was the
morning
Examiner.
*
He paused under a lantern just inside glass
doors leading to Market Street. He peered out at
the fog, which was thick again. He must have looked lost,
because one of the other passengers walked up to him:
"Need directions, mister?"
He turned to see a sturdy boy of twelve or
thirteen with curly brown hair, large blue
eyes, and a soft, almost delicate mouth. There was
nothing delicate about the boy's hands. They were red and
calloused. In each of them the boy held several
books.
Carter nodded. "Matter of fact, I do."
The boy eyed Carter's shabby clothing. "Need a
job too, I'll bet."
Carter was amused. The boy was as poorly clothed as
he was.
"Eventually," Carter told him.
"Well, you've come to a good place. There's plenty
of work to be had all around the Bay. I know. I've
had four jobs since I turned eleven."
"Why'd you change so often?"
The boy looked insulted. "Four at one time! I
carry papers in the morning and evening, on Saturday
I apprentice at an ice house, and Sunday I
set pins at a bowling alley."
"But it looks like you have time for reading."
The boy's blue eyes grew hard. "I find time.
I make time. The first day I walked into the Oakland
Public Library, it was like discovering a palace
full of treasure." He held up the books in
both hands. "These can help you be something besides a
drudge all your life. I learned that from Miss
Coolbrith."
The special emphasis on the name failed to draw
a response from Carter.
"Ina Coolbrith," the boy said.
Again nothing. Condescendingly he explained:
"I thought they'd heard of Miss Coolbrith
everyplace. She's the head of the whole free
library system. I'm returning these to her right now.
They're books from her own collection. She runs
what she calls a literary salon at her
flat on Russian Hill. Mark Twain's been
there, and Bret Harte-all the big writers. If
you want to see famous people, you're in the right place.
You can see just about everything else, too. Out in the
estuary, there are ships from all
over the world. Pacific whalers. Chinese junks.
South Sea schooners-was
Carter broke in, "Right now I'd like to see the
offices of the
Examiner."
The boy pointed to Market Street and gave
directions. "You can't miss it, mister-was
"Kent."
"Sounds familiar-wait a minute. IV-EVERY read
books from a publisher named Kent."
Carter's eyes grew remote. "A relative of
mine. But not a close one."
"I see. Well, you'll like the Bay. Take it from
a native son. One you're going to hear about, too.
They say it's too late to be a gold or silver
millionaire so I'm going to get rich being a
writer, or maybe the prince of the oyster
pirates." He waved and started out of the terminal.
"Good luck, Mr. Kent."
"Thanks," Carter called after him. "But
how will I recognize you when you're famous?
What's your name?"
"First name's John, but I go by Jack." A
trolley bell on Market Street muffled the
rest of what he said. He waved a second time and
disappeared in the fog.
Tough little beggar, Carter thought. Likable in spite
of a certain arrogance. Like so many millions of
Americans- like Carter himself a few years ago-the
boy believed that his own sweat and diligence, plus the
unparalleled opportunity the country afforded, would
automatically combine to make him wealthy. But only
a few realized that dream. Very likely the boy
wouldn't.
Still, you never could tell. Some were born with a gift for
successfully capitalizing on what they were given,
be it a little or a lot. Willie had that gift.
Carter studied the newspaper. Doing so was almost like
meeting his old friend. The
Examiner
even sounded like Willie, from the masthead which
proclaimed him "editor and proprietor" to the box
on the front page which promised:
The most elaborate local news, the freshest
social news, the latest and most
original sensations, and the relentless exposure of every
scheme to rob the common man of hard-earned money or
dearly-won rights.
This is our pledge no matter how loftily
positioned the perpetrators of such schemes may
be.
"comoughtn't to let passengers bring that damn rag on
our boats. Hearst's always attacking the line."
Carter glanced up. Two ferrymen with lunch pails
were passing, evidently on their way home. In
reply to the first man, the second grumbled,
"Oughtn't to let Chinks ride in the same cabin with
white men, either."
Carter recognized the ferryman who'd disapproved
of his friendliness, and was in turn recognized with a
contemptuous glare as the men went out the door. The
hostility surprised Carter. San Francisco
was supposed to be a tolerant, cosmopolitan
town. It had enjoyed that reputation ever since the great
discovery at Captain Sutler's mill brought
Europeans, Orientals, and South Americans
flocking to California to join the Americans in the
search for gold.
The
Examiner's
front page revealed the reason the Southern
Pacific ferrymen disliked the paper so much. Next
to a short, lurid account of the knifing of an
Italian sailor in a "foul Chinatown crib,"
there was a longer piece about a Southern Pacific
derailment in the Livermore Valley. It was a
minor accident; two passengers were slightly
injured. But the reporter, a Mr. Bierce, made
the derailment sound like a wreck of huge
proportions, and used it to justify an attack on
the line:
This is but one more harbinger of an even greater disaster
yet to come. For accidents will inevitably happen when
timetables become forlorn jests, and profit is the
only god the railroad serves. How can there be
anything but catastrophe after stupefying catstrophe
on the Southern Pacific when schedules are never
adhered to, and trains are invariably so late that the
passenger is exposed to senility?
But Southern Pacific management does not care
about such matters. Let its wretched road-beds be
littered with the mangled bodies of trusting women and
innocent babes in arms!
-
no one in the board room will deign
to notice. The road to wealth is the only road which
concerns humanitarians such as Mr. Le- land
Stanford.
One of the railroad's owners, if Carter
remembered correctly. He was amused to see that
Willie's wrath extended even into typography.
The paper had set the name as @l eland Stanford.
Carter knew his old friend well enough to suspect that some
of Willie's crusading spirit sprang from his knowledge that
controversy improved circulation.
God, what he wouldn't give to see his friend again.
Perhaps the boy named Jack was right. Perhaps he could
make money in California, just as his grandmother had.
Then, when he once again encountered Willie, he'd
be able to look him in the eye with no shame.
Of course he had less than three dollars for a
stake, and absolutely no notion of how he'd
survive in San Francisco. But he still had his
wits. He'd put them to use to solve the problem-
Provided he didn't perish of pneumonia or
starvation before the night was over.
He tossed the paper back in the barrel. With his
hands in his pockets, he stepped out into the fog. He
immediately began shivering. He knew why he'd stayed
in the terminal so long. Not merely because it was
warm, but because passing through those doors plunged him
into the city.
And into the possibility of failing again.
ii
He wanted to buy something to eat. But Julia's
peace of mind was more important. He found the
nearest Western Union office and spent all but
fifty cents of his money to send her a telegram.
He told his mother that he was in San Francisco,
and in good health. The clerk who took the blank
darted a look at Carter's pallid,
sweat-drenched face, but said nothing.
His stomach was hurting because it was so empty. He had
no idea where he'd sleep tonight. Some alley,
probably. Out on Market Street again, he
observed a couple of sinister men drifting along in
the fog, eyeing the few pedestrians who were abroad.
He heard raucous laughter and rough language from
several grog shops.
He found the
Examiner
as easily as the boy said he would. He smiled as
he gazed up at the impressive gold-leaf
signboard, well lit, which proclaimed the paper the
MONARCH OF THE DAILIES.
Typical Willie.
Reporters were hurrying in and out since there was a new
edition to be readied for tomorrow morning. A crowd of people
stood reading news bulletins block-printed on
long sheets of paper which were hung side by side on
the front of the building. A man in a waterproof
came out to put up a new one. It dealt with
torrential storms and damaging floods in the
East.
Carter blew on his stiff hands, shoved them back in
his pockets and turned north along a street with a
moderate slope. It soon brought him to a public
square surrounded by solid buildings, including
several brightly illuminated, obviously first-class
hotels. One of them on the east side of the square
bore the words
Hope House
above its canopied entrance.
He stopped out in front, impressed by the finery of the
guests coming and going through the main doors. It was his
grandmother's friend, the mulatto for whom Gideon had
wanted him to work, who owned this establishment. He
approached the doorman, a burly fellow in a
kind of bastardized hussar's outfit.
"Excuse me, sir. Is Mr.
Israel Hope still alive?"
"Why the devil do you want to know about Mr.
Hope?" The doorman shoved him. "Get up to the
Coast with the other riffraff! If I see you
loitering here again, I'll call the foot patrol."
Carter swore. The doorman started toward him,
huge hands raised. Carter dodged across the street
and was soon safe from the man's wrath.
He moved on up the hillside and quickly found himself
in a neighborhood of quite a different character. The shops
were narrow, the lighting within them dim. The shopkeepers
wore embroidered robes and queer caps. Young
Chinese toughs in American clothing lounged in
doorways, watching the passing crowds as closely
as did their robed elders.
Carter turned into an even narrower street teeming with
people. Paper banners decorated with Oriental characters
and fire-breathing dragons hung down from
clotheslines strung above the thoroughfare. Beyond an
open door he glimpsed men lying in tiered bunks
in a sweet-smelling haze. Before the door closed,
he saw a huge woman in a silk robe pass a
pipe into one of the bunks.
In the next block, the merchandise offered for sale was
female, and most of the potential customers
were sailors- German and French, Italian and
American. Loudly, often obscenely, they commented
on the women available, some of whom posed inside
their windows. Most of the women were well past youth, and
ugly, but a few were pretty. One of the latter,
frail and no more than fifteen years old, caught
Carter's attention. She was seated on a stool.
She pulled up her blue silk gown, spread her
legs, and smiled. The callousness of the display
shocked him, but no more than what was revealed by the
girl's smile. Only one tooth remained'in the
rotted black interior of her mouth. He waved
to show he wasn't interested. The prostitute spewed
a string of filthy English words and slammed a
shutter in his face.
He hurried on, ignoring hands that plucked at him
and whispering voices that offered a cup of plum wine;
a pipe of opium to promote lovely dreams; a
bag of ginseng to make his ladylove want
to copulate all night.
After another block or two, the neighborhood
began to change again. He was in a congested area of
secondhand clothing stores, pawn shops, cribs
containing white girls, and elaborate saloons with
names such as the Fierce Grizzly, the So
Different, the Nymphia, the Bella Union.
There were plenty of whores on the sidewalks,
searching for customers, and scores of men drifting
among them; many of the men were reeling drunk.
Carter was thankful he was sober. Bright and cheerful as
the district seemed at first, he soon noticed
watchers in cul- de-sacs or the dun doorways
near the grog palaces. Watchers hunting for a man
just a little too drunk to defend himself -
A reed organ in a saloon called the Thalia
pealed "Oh, Susanna!" into the foggy night.
Carter presumed he'd arrived on the Barbary
Coast, named years before in memory of the equally
infamous pirate coast of Africa. Here, too,
there were pirates-as well as at least one man trying
to put a stop to the ubiquitous sin. The man marched
through the crowd shaking a tambourine and calling, "A
free meal and a helping hand always available at the
Salvation Army. Eight-oh-nine Montgomery
Street, where Major Wells receives those in need!"
Carter saw rolls of bills clenched in fists, and
heard coins clink. Visitors to the Coast who
displayed their money were
clearly fools. They'd soon be penniless if the
platoons of sauntering pimps, whores,
and thieves had anything to do with it. He decided
he'd better find some other part of town in which to spend
the night. Some of the people around him looked vicious enough
to kill a sleeping man for his bootlaces.
He was feeling feverish again. He'd lost track of
directions, but he thought Market Street lay behind
him. He turned around and started back down the
sloping street.
Almost without his noticing it, dance halls and gaudy
bars were replaced by stores and offices shuttered and
chained up for the night. The only other men he saw in
this all but lightless section were two husky
specimens wearing white blouses and tarns with red
pompons. They were going uphill on the other side
of the street. Foreign sailors in port for the night
and bound for the Coast, he surmised. The sailors"
laughter faded away. Carter reached an
intersection. He was about to cross when he heard a
soft tapping, and two voices midway down the
next block on his side of the street.
He stepped to the corner of the building and leaned there,
studying the block ahead. The two men were going in his
direction. He studied them to be sure he wasn't
coming up on a couple of roughnecks.
No, they looked respectable enough. The
one on the outside, tall and frail, had his left
arm crooked so the other could hold on. The man on
the inside, older, had a cautious, shuffling gait.
He poked his stick out ahead of him, tapping the
walk. A blind man.
The fog hung heavily here. The men almost disappeared
as they reached the next intersection. More visible were the
other two men who startled Carter by stealing out of an
alley half a block behind the first two men. The
two began to slip along the sidewalk, creeping
up on the blind man and his escort.
Light from up the hill speared through the fog, creating
an eerie effect and affording just enough illumination for
Carter to see that there was no one else on the sloping
street. He was about to be the sole witness to a
robbery. Or worse.
Whatever the crime, it was no affair of his.
He'd be smart to slip away.
Yet a new idea held him motionless on the
corner. He had only fifty cents to his name.
The hour was late, he felt feverish, and the thought of
going hungry and sleeping in the open had become
unbearable. He might have stumbled on a way
to improve that situation.
From a distance, the intended victims looked
prosperous. Suppose he warned them of the impending
danger-he could practically do it from here. If he
did, there was an excellent chance that he'd earn a
reward.
After Ortega's death, he'd vowed that he'd never
again voluntarily involve himself in anything that might
lead to violence. But the danger here seemed
exceedingly small. Surely a shout would scare the
thieves away-
Mercenary considerations aside, there was another reason
he lingered on the corner. Although he wouldn't have
admitted it aloud, his conscience demanded that he step
in. One man outwitting another-even robbing him,
if they were evenly matched-that was the way of the world. But
picking on a blind man? That was too much.
He took a deep breath, jumped down from the walk
and ran across the street to the comer of the next block.
He kept his attention fixed on the two men gliding
along the plank walk behind their prey. The blind man
and his friend would certainly have heard a telltale creak
if they hadn't been talking so boisterously and having
such a good time; the blind man's rich, mellow laughter
carried all the way back to the corner where Carter
crouched.
He cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling
as loudly as he could:
"Watch out behind you!"
The frail man pivoted first, then his companion.
Carter could discern a mustache on the blind man's
face but nothing else. The thieves whirled to see
who had sounded the alarm. Carter could only tell that
they were young, and dressed in dark clothing.
He expected the thieves to bolt. When they
didn't, his stomach started to hurt.
The larger of the two thieves yanked something from his
coat pocket. Light penetrating the fog flashed
on a pistol barrel. The man waved the gun and
shouted at the second robber:
"You take care of that meddling son of a bitch.
I'll handle the other two. I want the boss's
bundle."
What that meant, Carter didn't know. But he did
know he'd miscalculated badly. These weren't
common thieves who fled when discovered and outnumbered.
These were Crazy men. And one of them was running back
along the sidewalk toward him. The diffuse light
flashed on a long knife in the man's right hand.
Ortega,
Carter thought.
Over the head of the running man he
glimpsed the other thief closing on the victims.
Panic dried his mouth. He'd sworn to start over
and squandered the chance in a single moment of greed and
misguided altruism.
The thief was coming fast. Even as Carter stepped
back, the man shot out his right hand, driving the long
blade straight at Carter's midsection.
CHAPTER VIII
The
Weapon
HE'D FORGOTTEN HOW CLOSE he was
to the edge of the sidewalk. When he stepped
backward, there was only air under his right foot.
Off balance, he tumbled into the street, and landed
hard. But that misstep and fall kept him from being
disembowled by the slashing knife.
The thief had trouble checking his momentum. He
skidded to a stop, recovered, and made a lithe turn
toward Carter. Distant light from the Coast showed
dark eyes and curly hair that glistened as if the
man dressed it with Macassar oil.
Panting, Carter scrambled to his feet. He
took three long steps backward. The man on the
walk spoke to him in a British accent:
"Too late to run, mate. I can catch
ye if ye try. Shouldn't've shoved yer bleedin'
nose where it don't belong. Now I'm obliged
to cut it off-was
He leaped into the street and ran at Carter, who
darted to one side just as the man again shot his knife
hand forward. The thief cursed and tried to shift the
direction of his charge. He couldn't. Carter brought
his right knee up. The tip of the knife tore through his
trousers at the thigh, narrowly missing flesh. Then
Carter's knee jolted the thief between the legs.
The man grunted, stumbling to one side.
Too close,
Carter thought as he swiped the back of his hand across his
eyes. He smelled the stench of fish. A second
knife seemed to overlap the one in the thief's hand.
Then Carter saw Ortega at the Red Cod.
Flickering and flashing, the past hid the present for a
heartbeat of time-
He heard cursing and came to his senses. He
wasn't out of danger. Fortunately the angry
thief was still groggy. Carter ran at him and rammed
his knee into the man's groin a second time. The
thief yelled, clutching himself. The knife clacked
on the wood blocks with which the street was paved.
Carter had an impulse to duck down and
grab the knife, but he was afraid of losing his
momentary advantage. He laced his fingers together and
pounded the back of the thief's neck. Once.
Twice. Three times-
The man gave an exhausted sigh and fell over,
barely breathing.
Carter eyed the knife. Taking huge, gulping
breaths, he crouched and closed his fingers around the rough
hilt. The fish stench nearly made him gag.
It's only in your mind.
He had difficulty convincing himself of that.
Down the block, the frail man was grappling with the
other thief for possession of the thief's pistol.
To Carter's surprise, the frail man looked
anything but helpless now. He had a bung starter in
his left hand, and brass knuckles on his right.
Ordinary citizens didn't walk around carrying such
weapons. The man was either a thug, the blind man's
bodyguard-or both.
Clutching the knife, Carter raced toward the
struggling
men. The blind man stood near them, his back against the
building and his lacquered walking stick raised in
front of his chest. A few steps more, and Carter could
make out some of the man's features. He
looked to be in his forties. His ruddy cheeks and
forehead suggested he might be English or Irish.
His eyes had a curiously commanding quality comperh
because they were so large, dominating his face.
An elegant wide-brimmed hat lay at the blind
man's feet, and the earlier impression of prosperity
was confirmed by what he wore: an expensive tweed
sporting suit cut in the popular Norfolk
pattern, but with long trousers, not the usual knee
breeches.
"Shove him over here where I can shillelagh him!" the
blind man shouted as Carter sped down the last half
of the block. But the blind man's companion needed no
help. He beat the thief's wrist with the bung
starter. The thief let go of his pistol. The frail
man tossed the bung starter away and snatched up the
gun.
The thief weaved on his feet, clutching his wrist and
moaning. Suddenly the frail man looked past the
thief and saw Carter running with the knife in his hand.
Confused by the darkness and the sight of the knife, the
frail man yelled:
"The other one's coming back, boss!"
"Wait, I'm not-was
Before Carter could finish, the frail man
aimed and fired. Carter dived for the sidewalk,
hitting hard and skinning his jaw. The bullet thumped
wood somewhere above him. To hell with
humanitarianism. It had nearly gotten him
killed twice in only a couple of minutes. He
began to crawl toward the edge of the walk, where he
intended to drop into the street and keep crawling
until he was safe.
Even that plan went wrong. The frail man let out
a hurt cry. Carter raised his head and saw the
man stagger, struck on the skull by the bung starter
the thief had managed to pick up.
The blind man knew something had happened to his
companion. He kept poking the air with his stick:
"Alex? Alex, where are you?"
The man named Alex didn't answer. Dazed, he
couldn't defend himself when the thief hit him a
second time. His

greater-than
- "H,
eyes rolled up in his head. He slumped to his
knees and toppled sideways off the walk,
dropping the pistol.
The thief seized the gun, then darted in beneath
the blind man's jabbing stick. Astonishingly, the blind
man seemed to have no concern for his own safety. He
sounded irked:
"Alex? Answer me, can't you?"
Out of the thief's throat came a curious sound; a
chuckle distorted by nervousness. The thief whispered,
"Boss?"
The blind man drew his stick back by his shoulder,
ready to jab. He looked alarmed for the first time:
"Who's that?"
Watching the stick, the thief kicked the blind man's
right leg, then his left one. The blind man fell,
sprawling on his back. The thief tore the stick from
his hands and hurled it away.
He's going to kill him,
Carter thought, still on his belly and creeping toward the
edge of the sidewalk.
The thief paid no attention to him. Evidently he
thought Carter had been hit by the bodyguard's
bullet and was no threat.
Let him go on believing that till I get out of
here.
To appease his conscience Carter told himself he'd
done all he could.
He was about ten feet from where the thief stood
over the blind man. Slowly, cautiously, he worked
his way toward the edge of the walk. He heard the
thief say:
"Can't you tell who it is, boss?"
"Now-was The blind man was short of breath. "Now I
can. You sound very pleased with yourself, Charlie
Schmidt."
A hard laugh. "Want to shake hands to make sure
it's me?"
"I only shake hands to identify a friend, never an
enemy. Never a poltroon to whom I gave an
honest job with the push, only to have
him
reward me by stealing from my cash box."
"I took only a little."
"Don't whine, Charlie. You always did strike me
as a whiner. You took a hell of a lot."
"And you fired me for it! That should have made us even."
"Not in my book."
"No, that's right. Firing me wasn't enough. You had
to make a stink all over town." He put his right
foot on the
man's shoulder, pointing the pistol down at his
eyes. "I
can't get work because of you."
"What did you expect when you robbed me, a
proclamation honoring your honesty? You got what you
deserved. Now let me up, you damned rogue,
or-was
"Or nothing!" Schmidt broke in. He stepped
down on the blind man's shoulder; the man let out a
short, pained cry. "I'm going to blow your fucking
head all over this walk, boss. Then I'm going
to help myself to that bundle of bank notes you always
carry. After that I'm going to catch a coasting ship for
Los Angeles."
Only about six niches separated Carter from the edge
of the sidewalk. The fault music of a melodeon
drifted down the hill from the Barbary Coast.
Holding his breath, he braced his left elbow on the
walk, then his left knee. In a moment he'd be
down in the street; less visible.
He started to move-
A loose board creaked.
The thief spun around; saw him:
"I thought you were done for. Well, I can take care
of that. A little payment for putting my partner away.
Stand up."
Carter remained awkwardly propped on one elbow
and one knee. A part of his mind urged him
to leap up and lunge with the knife he was still holding.
He might be able to surprise the man. Force
him
into a wild shot, then reach him before he could shoot
again. But memories kept flickering in his head.
Ortega; his knife; his ripped throat-
Get up and go at him!
He refused to listen to the voice. He remembered
the Red Cod, and what the weapon in his hand had almost
cost him tonight. And besides, he was too far from the thief.
A wild charge stood no chance of succeeding. There
had to be another way out of this. Another weapon with which
to disarm and overcome the man.
He knew of one. Would it work? Did he dare
gamble?
"You son of a bitch, I said stand up."
"All right. But I have your friend's knife. Don't
shoot when I throw it away."
The blind man reacted to what he'd heard with
surprise and disgust:
"Whoever you are, boyo, you must be daft. If you have
"*.
knife, don't toss it away or he's sure
to kill you, too."
Carter paid no attention. Sweat ran
into his eyes. He slowly raised his right hand.
Flicked it outward-
The knife sailed into the street; thumped on a
paving block. The sickening fish stench receded.
In a strained voice, he said, "It's gone. Can you
see?"
"I see. On your feet."
Carter clambered up.
"Hands in the air!"
Carter obeyed. He heard a groan; a faint
stirring out in the foggy street. The thief glanced that
way, apparently saw nothing alarming, and returned
his attention to Carter.
The thief was about Carter's age. A colorless man
with a moon face and stooped shoulders. Carter eyed the
pistol pointed at him. He guessed he had only
a few seconds to still prevent the blind man's
murder-and his own.
ii
With all the urgency and conviction he could muster,
Carter said:
"You'd better run for it, Schmidt."
It took the thief a moment to realize what he'd
heard; his first reaction was a laugh of disbelief:
"You're giving me orders when I've got
this?"
He waggled the gun. Carter broke out in a sweat
again. Trying to ignore the small, round muzzle,
he struggled to maintain a blustering tone:
"Listen to me, you damned idiot." The man was
stunned to be addressed that way. "Why do you think I
took a chance and interfered with your little adventure?
I'm being paid to patrol this district along with four
other detectives."
The thief laughed, but less confidently.
"Bullshit. No San Francisco coppers
patrol this part of town after dark. If they did, they
sure wouldn't be as sorry looking as you."
"Think we're going to carry signboards? Our
job's to blend in and watch for tinhorns like you." The
lies came more easily all at once:
"We've been working these streets since a week
ago Monday night. The saloon owners on the
Coast and the merchants along here whose places keep
getting broken into took up a special
collection. They pay us for the extra
duty." He turned toward the blind man. "Isn't
that the God's truth, boss?"
Whoever the man was, he had brains. He picked
up the intent of the ruse instantly:
"The gospel, officer. You'd better heed him,
Charlie Schmidt."
Schmidt blinked, clearly confused. Carter's hands
were still raised. He hoped their trembling didn't
show. The longer he kept Schmidt from firing, the
greater his chances. But he couldn't afford to pause too
long and give the man time to think:
"How long has it been since that pistol went off?
Two minutes? Three? I guarantee at least
one of the others in the special patrol heard the
shot. One or more of them will be coming along soon
to check on-was
"Shut your mouth!" the thief yelled, his voice so
ragged Carter knew he'd successfully planted a
seed of fear. The man might never swallow the
farfetched story but he was wondering about it If he
wondered long enough, he might lose his nerve-and his
will to do murder.
When he spoke again, he sounded as if he were trying
to convince himself: "I don't believe a damn word of
what you're telling me, mister."
Carter shrugged. "Your privilege." He was
positive he heard a footfall in the street.
But he didn't dare look. "You'll find out soon
enough whether I'm lying. You'll find out when
we string a noose around your neck."
The thief looked shaken; even in the near-darkness,
Carter could see that. The man was an amateur.
Carter's hopes soared. He bore in hard:
"Every man on the special patrol is empowered
to act under what's known as a municipal writ.
That's a writ signed by a municipal judge and
kept in a vault at police headquarters. Those
of us on the patrol don't carry any papers, but
that writ gives us the right to raise a
posse comitatus
coma posse of citizens which can legally pass sentence
and carry it out right in the street. Under the supervision
of any man in the patrol, the posse can hang
aq.. offender caught committing a crime."
"I-was The man swallowed. "I worked for the boss
six months. I never heard of anything called a
municipal writ."
"Am I responsible for that? You'd better cut and
run. Do that and we'll give you a sporting chance.
You've hurt
people but you haven't killed anybody. But if I'm
found dead, all that money you stole won't do you a
damn bit of good. Four other San Francisco
detectives will catch you and hang you. And
they'll do it before the sun comes up."
"You're lying"
Schmidt whispered. "There's no way a man can be
lynched without a trial and-was
He stopped, hearing the same sound Carter and the blind
man heard; the wonderful, unmistakable sound
Carter had been hoping and praying for. Men coming down
the hill from the Barbary Coast.
How many had banded together to investigate the gun shot,
he couldn't tell. It sounded like at least a half
dozen. The thief began to breathe in short, hard
gasps.
"They're coming for you, Schmidt. I told you they
would. Go while you still have tune.
Go!"
The command, almost shouted, made the thief back up as
if he'd been punched. He blinked again, lowered the
pistol and swung around to peer at the moving
silhouettes visible against the lights further up the
hill. The men were coming rapidly. Carter was
euphoric. He'd staved off a killing by using
only his ability to think quickly, speak quickly, sow
doubt and thereby-
The blind man's companion came lunging up from the
street so fast Carter barely saw what
took place. In his hand was the knife Carter had
discarded. He rammed it into the thief's back
halfway between shoulder blades and buttocks. Then
he seized the thief's arm and flung him to one
side.
The thief screamed. His trigger finger jerked, but the
bullet he fired thunked harmlessly into the
sidewalk.
The thief fell, dead before he rolled into the street.
Raging, Carter turned on his killer:
"You murdered him. Why? He was ready to run. still
had him ready to run!"
ill
Boots hammered on paving blocks as the men came
closer, shouting questions. The blind man's companion
sounded surly as he said:
"We're grateful. But nobody turns on the
boss that way. Nobody."
He picked up the thief s gun and shoved it
into his belt Then he extended his hand to the blind man,
who was sitting up now:
"Let me help you, boss."
Carter stared at the knife jutting from the dead thief
s back. He'd thrown the knife away and bet
everything on his own ability to spin out words that
would make the man hesitate. He'd been
successful, and then this damnfool bodyguard had
ruined everything!
Elongated shadows of eight or ten men appeared on
the wall of a warehouse on the other side of the
street. The fog had thinned somewhat during the last
few minutes. The huge shadow of a pointing hand was
clear on the wall as someone yelled:
"That must be one of them. Catch him!"
Down at the corner, the Britisher darted away
into the cross street. Two men raced in pursuit.
The others came on, then: shadows looming. The
bodyguard helped the blind man to his feet.
"You all right, boss?"
Carter didn't catch the answer. What did it
matter? All the effort had been for nothing.
Despairing and angry, he leaned against the front
of a store, his forehead resting on his forearm. He
heard the new arrivals clamoring around the blind man.
They seemed to know him well.
A new thought struck him. On top of everything
else, he was an accomplice to murder. He
clenched his fist and hit the siding on the front of the
store. From somewhere-the night streets or the
recesses of his own imagination-there came
again the terrible odor of rotting fish. .
The Blind Boss
IN THE CROWD SURROUNDING the blind man, Carter
suddenly spied two new arrivals, both in
uniform. A badge threw off a flash of
reflected light.
He swore softly. Why had he waited to run?
Why had he involved himself at all? His reasons-the
hope of a reward, and the prodding of a conscience he
hated to acknowledge comnow seemed completely
absurd. There was a corpse in the street.
A curious thought struck him then. He seemed the
only person worried about the corpse in the street.
The man responsible for it certainly wasn't.
He'd seated himself on the edge of the sidewalk,
lanky knees drawn up in front of his chest, and
was carefully fingering his temples and forehead.
The blind man didn't act worried either. Smiling,
he thanked those who handed him his broad-brimmed hat
and stick. He grew positively ebullient when
someone said policemen were on the scene:
"Splendid. Who's on duty tonight? Don't
speak, officer. Shake hands with me first."
The older policeman did so. The blind man nodded:
"Sean Phelan."
The gray-haired patrolman grinned. "Right,
boss." The crowd murmured; a couple of men
clapped. The blind man asked:
"How does your sister like that teaching job,
Phelan?"
"She likes it just fine. Thanks to you, she's able
to salt a little into the Bank of California every
payday. My Lord, it's uncanny, the way you
recognize people by a handshake."
"Only my friends, Phelan, only my friends-as I
told
T
poor Charlie Schmidt. I understand he's no
longer among the living."
The second policeman, quite a bit younger, rose from
a quick examination of the corpse. "That's right, boss.
Somebody planted a knife in his back."
Carter swallowed the sour fluid burning his throat.
He backed up half a step, hoping to slip out of the
crowd, turn and walk away unnoticed. It might
be possible. The blind man was the center of attention as
he explained:
"There were two of them, Charlie and some Limey. I
suppose they planned to split the loot. I hired
Charlie as a candidate for my push, you
see. But I soon found him untrustworthy and
discharged him. Robbing and killing me would have been his
way of getting even."
Phelan's expression was sympathetic. "Can you
tell exactly what happened?"
"Certainly. My companion and bodyguard, Mr.
Alex Gram-was
The blind man raised his cane and, without an instant's
hesitation, pointed it straight at the frail man.
Someone let out a soft whistle of astonishment.
"comaccompanied me to the Coast, where I took care
of a small errand. We were on our way back down
to Bush Street when Charlie and his accomplice
ambushed us. Then another fellow came along-where
is he, by the way?"
Heads turned. Eyes fixed on Carter's face
as he swore again. An aisle opened. He'd
backed almost the whole way out of the crowd, but now he
was caught. And when he saw the stern look on the
face of the older policeman, he thought:
The blind man's someone important. He'll
probably pin it on me to save his pal. And the
coppers will play along.
The young policeman moved in beside Phelan. One
hand rested on iron handcuffs hanging from his
belt. "Step up here!" he ordered. When he
motioned, the cuffs rattled.
A last impulse to run seized Carter. But it
quickly faded. With so many people available to help the
police, he had no chance. No chance at alLike
The two policemen were scowling at him. The crowd
stared. Run, stay-what difference did it make?
They had him either way.
"Didn't you hear my partner?" Phelan said.
"Up here, if you please."
Carter shuffled forward, completely exhausted. The
fever was raging through him again. His face was sticky with
sweat and his ears rang. He wasn't sure how
long he could stay on his feet.
The older officer pointed the billy at Carter's
chest. "What's your name?"
Should he lie? Invent something?
Glowering, Phelan raised the club. "Lad,
I'll ask you but once more. What's your name?"
"Kent. Carter Kent."
The blind man took charge then:
"Well, Mr. Kent, my friend Mr. Gram told
me you did a game job of coming to our assistance. That
will not be forgotten. No, indeed-not forgotten for one
moment."
He reached for Carter's right hand and found it with only
a little fumbling. He held it a moment, as if
memorizing its contours. Then he shook it, as if
he was working a pump handle. At last he let go.
His sightless eyes had been fixed on Carter's
face the whole time. Carter was too surprised
to say a word.
The blind man again addressed the older officer:
"Mr. Kent's hand feels feverish. I want
to offer him the hospitality of my saloon-was
The suggestion sounded wonderful to Carter, though he
knew he should be careful; far away, on the coast of
Texas, another man had once offered him shelter,
and a job-and he'd nearly lost his life.
"coms let's conclude this business."
"Yes, sir," Phelan said, so meekly he could
barely be heard. Carter held his breath, fearing that
at any second the reprieve would be withdrawn. But
it wasn't. With a sweeping gesture of his stick, the
blind man went on:
"And get rid of the body. We've enough of them on the
streets of this town as it is."
"Be happy to take care of it, boss. But-was
Phelan licked his lips; unconsciously began
twisting a button on his jacket. "I do
need to clear up one or two details."
"Be quick about it. I told you Mr. Kent's
feeling poorly. And night air tends to give me
catarrh. Mrs. Buckley is always nagging me
to stay indoors after dark."
Nervous, the older officer asked, "Can you just give
me a connse account of what happened?"
Though clearly irritated, the blind man did so,
starting with Carter's shout of warning:
"I expect ordinary footpads would have run for it.
But an outcry wasn't enough to drive Charlie off.
As I told you, he bore a grudge. He also
knew, as do all my associates and employees,
that I always carry a sizable roll of cash. He
didn't intend to leave until I was dead and the cash
was in his pocket. Despite Mr. Gram's best
efforts, he might have carried out his plan had it not
been for this young man's intervention."
"Jumped Schmidt and fought him off, did he?"
The blind man chuckled. "No, Phelan. He
talked him out of it."
The officer's brows shot up. "What did you say,
sir?"
"I said Mr. Kent talked Charlie Schmidt out
of his violent reprisal. He did so with the
finest flow of blarney I've ever heard. Mr.
Kent gave Charlie no time to think, and bombarded
him with some very impressive threats about being a
detective in plain clothes. A detective
patrolling these streets under the authority of something
called a municipal writ. Mr. Kent said this
fictitious writ gave him power to summon a
posse and hang Charlie on the spot. No smart
fellow would have believed it for an instant. But of
course when someone's smack in the middle of robbery
and murder, he's heated up and not thinking clearly.
To that you must add Charlie's inherent stupidity.
Mr. Kent bamboozled him just long enough for us to get
out of the scrape."
Carter was stunned to hear the blind man speak with such
obvious relish. Buckley had acted as if he were
telling a humorous story, not describing a
crime. -- Phelan was insistent on one point,
though:
"I'm afraid you still haven't told me who killed
Schmidt."
Carter tensed. Again Buckley waved his stick:
"Oh, Mr. Gram did. By then he had recovered
from blows which took him out of action temporarily."
The acknowledgment of guilt obviously
didn't worry the
frail man. He didn't even turn around, just
continued to rub and poke his head. The gray-haired
policeman twisted the jacket button so hard the
thread broke. He was afraid to speak, but finally
did so:
"Boss, you know that because of what you've just told me,
I'm required to put Mr. Gram in the lock-up
overnight. I don't want to do it, but the law
explicitly-was
"Come by the saloon in an hour or so," Buckley
interrupted. "I have a supply of orders of
discharge. I keep them for emergencies like this. I'll
sign Judge Toohy's name and then Mr. Gram
won't be inconvenienced."
Phelan let out a huge sigh. "A fine
solution. That way, I needn't even take him
in."
Forge the name of a judge to a legal document?
Carter couldn't believe a man would publicly
announce his plan to do such a thing. The laws of
logic didn't seem to apply in San
Francisco, though. Buckley's statements
caused no comment among the crowd left at the scene.
Several men had already departed, their
curiosity satisfied. One burly fellow prodded
the corpse with his boot, an then made a joke about
it as he and a companion strolled back up the hill
toward the Coast. Carter didn't consider himself
overly scrupulous, yet he was appalled. As
Buckley had suggested, death was evidently a
common occurrence in the city, right along with
circumvention of the law.
Suddenly Phelan seized his arm. "I'll also
need some information about you, Kent. Place of
residence, in case we have further need to contact
you-was
The man's peremptory tone angered Carter: "I
don't have a place of residence. I just arrived
today." Phelan whipped his club up over his
shoulder. "Damn you, don't speak smartly to me,
or-was
There was a swish and a loud clack. The blind man's
cane had blocked the policeman's stick in
mid-air. Buckley was furious:
"Phelan, you're taking advantage of your
authority and harassing a stranger. Evidently I
didn't make my wishes sufficiently clear. This
young man assisted Mr. Gram and me, and we're in
his debt. If you need to reach him, follow
the instructions I already gave you. Come to the saloon!
I also suggest you permit us to go on our way at
once. Unless, of course, you're bucking for a new
job with some hick department down the peninsula-was
The blind man's eyes seemed to fasten on
Phelan's and hold there:
"If that's your wish, Phelan, it can be arranged."
The policeman wilted. "Boss, I'm sorry.
I didn't think you-was
"That's quite correct," the other broke in. "You
didn't think. Which is why you're fifty and still a
foot patrolman. Mr. Kent-Alex-come
along. I don't want the damned catarrh."
And, displaying all the wrath of a king insulted by a
commoner, he moved majestically down the sidewalk,
his stick extended six inches in front of him to tap
and test the way.

Carter fell in step beside Alex Gram. Phelan
caught up with them, clutching the bodyguard's arm:
"Gram, I can't afford to lose my job. I've
a big family to feed. Try to fix it, for God's
sake. Put in a good word-was
"I'll do what I can, but you angered him. He
doesn't get angry very often. Bring some
cash around. That might placate him."
"How much should I bring?"
"As much as you can get together. Even then I can't
promise he'll relent. You'll just have to take your
chances." Gram put his hand on the policeman's
shoulder and rudely pushed him aside.
The policeman didn't protest, just redirected
his wrath at those people still loitering by the corpse. He
ordered them to move along or face arrest. .one
man laughed and Phelan struck him twice with his
billy. A friend dragged the man away before Phelan
could do more damage.
Gram kept an eye on Buckley as they
walked. Presently he said to Carter, "It isn't
far to the saloon. You look like you could use a drink
and a meal."
"Both," Carter nodded. "But more than that, I need
a place to sleep. Mr. Buckley was right. I'm
not feeling very" good."
"There's a stable near the saloon. The owner owes the
boss a favor-was Gram stopped, waiting for
Buckley to negotiate the drop-off at the next
corner.
"Will there be any more trouble because that man got
killed?" Carter asked.
Once Buckley was across the intersection, Gram
moved on and finally answered: -- "Not a whit."
Carter shook his head. "Seems incredible."'* A
chuckle. "You
are
new in town. You don't know who he is, do you?"
"Obviously someone with influence-was This time Gram
laughed aloud. "Yes, you might say. You might
say that a man who runs his party's central
committee, decides which way the primaries will come
out, and tells a majority of the city supervisors
how to vote has influence. Let me give you a
fast introduction to local politics, Kent. My
employer's a pal of Senator Hearst and every other
important office holder in California. No,
I'll put that a better way. They're pals of
his-because they never stop needing what the boss can
deliver on demand. Extra ballots. Our
price is five dollars a vote or ten dollars
for a straight ticket. That includes a little cream
on the top for us."
"You mean your boss can always find as many votes as
someone needs?"
"Usually," Gram nodded. "But he isn't just my
boss. He's
the
boss. Remember that."
"I will. Where do you get the extra votes?"
"Wherever we can find extra voters. Flop
houses. The drunk tank. Sometimes we use our
own stalwarts to vote names from the cemeteries or the
obit columns. Hell-was An amused shrug.
"comin an election a couple of years ago, the
boss came up short. But there was a French warship
in port. We rounded up half the crew and voted
them.
Believe me, Kent, nothing important happens
around here without the boss okaying it first. If your
sister wants to teach in the San Francisco
schools, the fee for the job is two hundred
dollars. Every municipal job has its price.
That isn't to say the boss doesn't have a conscience.
He does. His father came here from Ireland, and he
knows what it means to be poor. He hates the
damn gougers who run the railroads. He wants
the streets to be safe for everybody. And he's a
prince to work for. If you're loyal to him, he'll
always be loyal to you. Altogether, I'd say he's the
most powerful
man in the city-probably the state. They
don't call him
the Caesar of the Democracy for nothing."
  Carter was impressed. Sick and worn out though
he was, he felt a stir of hope. His luck
might have taken a favorable turn at last.
CHAPTER X
Steam
Beer
  CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY'S SALOON on
Bush Street was a gas-lit place full of
cigar smoke, beer fumes, and noisy, cheerful
men. The moment Buckley walked in, he was
besieged by a well-dressed man and four others in
much shabbier clothing. All obviously sought
favors.
  Buckley waved his stick to acknowledge greetings
from several customers. Then he took the five
supplicants into an office at the rear. The door
closed.
  In about two minutes, one of the poorly dressed
men emerged. He was grinning. The others came out at
short intervals. All looked satisfied caret
except the prosperous-looking gentleman, who was the
last to appear. Buckley shouted at him from the
office door:
  "comand tell your cronies at the Southern
Pacific never to approach me again with that kind of
filthy scheme. Otherwise the push may visit
then: fancy Snob Hill palaces some night!"
  Pale, the man fled. Carter was leaning on the
beautiful turned rim of the mahogany bar. Gram
stood next to him. Buckley walked to the bar and
stepped behind it. "What was that about?" Gram asked.
  "Ah, one of their high-toned officials messed
with a conductor's twelve-year-old daughter. The
girl's mother was pimping for the child in the hope of furthering
her husband's career. The father found out, immediately quit
the
S.p. and pressed charges. Now the railroad
wants me to spring its man from the clink. I said
I'd be "damned if I would. Men like that should rot in
jail and burn in hell. When I expressed that
view, the rogue who was just here grew a trifle
testy. I told
him
to shove his five thousand dollars up his rosy ass."
Buckley had hung his coat on a rack and
rolled up his sleeves. Now he tied a white
apron around his waist. "The fellow threatened me
then. It was at that point that I threw him
out. He won't be back. They know better than
to tread on Boss Buckley. Mr. Kent-?"
"Right here, sir."
"Feeling any better?"
"Since we came inside, much." But he still
didn't feel good.
"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
An embarrassed laugh. "I confess to both."
"Well, we usually have some dabs on the stove in
back."
"Dabs, sir?"
Buckley spaced his index fingers a few niches
apart "Small Pacific coast flat fish. Very
succulent when properly broiled."
Carter swallowed. "If it's all the same to you,
Mr. Buckley, fish isn't a favorite of
mine."
"Boiled beef, then. And something to drink-and perhaps a
chance to put a little money in your pocket?"
Carter's excitement overcame his caution. "That would
be very welcome, too."
"Where are you from, my boy?"
"Boston."
"Ah! A good Irishman's town. Nearly as fine
as New York, where I grew up. By the
way, what may I pour you? The hard spirits sold in
this establishment are safe to drink."
"You mean they aren't elsewhere?"
Gram laughed cynically. "This place is an
exception in town. A rare exception." He
snapped his fingers at another bartender. It was
obvious to Carter that the man didn't like being ordered
about that way. With a sullen stare, he passed Gram
a quart of whiskey and a glass. Meantime,
Buckley continued:
"Depending on whether a saloon owner wants you
dead in order to rob you, or alive in order to ship
you out to
some heathen port, you're liable to find your drink
laced with opium or laudanum or chloral. That
kind of thing gives San Francisco a foul name,
but we can't seem to eliminate the practice, much as
we try. There are a few places you can safely
enjoy yourself. I run oneeaof them." He gestured to the
gleaming bottles ranked behind the bar. "Name your
poison-no, wait."
  caret A smile spread on his pink face.
Without hesitation, he extended his hand and plucked a
schooner from among a dozen arranged on the back
bar. Taking two steps to the left, he
pulled the handle of a keg tap. Beer spouted into the
schooner.
  "Since you're new to the area, you must sample
this," he said.
  Carter drank. "That's delicious." He wiped
his upper lip and set the schooner on the bar.
"I've never tasted any beer half as good."
  Buckley nodded. "I venture to say you
haven't. That's a special brew unique to the
city. San Francisco steam beer."
  He went on to explain that ice, required for
conventional brewing, hadn't been available when San
Francisco boomed at the time of the Gold Rush.
What little ice there was had to be brought all the way from
the mountains. So a canny brewer had formulated a
beer which could be manufactured without refrigeration.
  Carter barely caught half of Buckley's
remarks. He was feeling increasingly feverish, and the
walls seemed to ripple like windblown cloth. The
beer didn't help matters.
  "Barley," the blind man went on. "And malt and
hops only-no rice or corn." Then came
something about, "Steam mash bubbled up by what they call
krausening, a natural carbonation process." The
rest of the explanation was lost on him.
  His next sip was a tiny one; he was again afraid
that he might pass out. He rubbed his eyes and stared
at a fat bronze cupid holding up the milky
globe of a gaslight behind the bar. Slowly the
cupid's navel came into focus. By the time it was
sharp, he felt a little better.
  Gram noticed his drawn look. "I think the
lad needs food more than he needs steam beer,
boss."
  "Coming up!" Buckley sent another bartender
hurrying to the kitchen. It was the same man who'd
brought Gram
his whiskey. He didn't act resentful when
Buckley gave the
orders.
"Let's sit down at that corner table,"
Buckley said. "You needn't worry about a place
to sleep. I believe I can persuade
Hanratty's Livery to accommodate you for a night
or
so."
The blind man emerged from behind the bar, obviously
disfamiliar with the dimensions and placement of all the
fixtures and furniture; he never bumped into a
chair or a guest as he led the way to the
secluded table. As he sat down, he chuckled:
"A municipal writ. Glorious! If there
isn't such a document, there should be. I'll have
to speak to the supervisors about it. There are twelve
of those gentlemen. Seven of them can usually be counted
on to vote as I ask. Sometimes I can even swing
nine if it's necessary to override the mayor's veto."
He laid smooth pink hands on the table top. A
waiter arrived with a plate of steaming beef surrounded
by thick slices of brown bread. Carter tore a
slab of bread in half and stuffed the pieces into his
mouth. Buckley continued to smile, but a hard tone
came into his voice:
"As you may have gathered, Mr. Kent, a great many
matters affecting the municipality are discussed in
these somewhat unlikely quarters. So are some things
pertaining, to the state and the nation, for that matter. My
enemies call this place Buckley's City
Hall. I consider that an honorific, not an
insult. Because I'm a busy man, I can always use
helpers who don't allow scruples to interfere with
their duties or diminish their party loyalty."
Carter cut and ate the tender beef as fast as he
could. With his mouth full, he asked, "You're talking
about the Democratic party, aren't you?"
"Yes, but to anyone on the inside of San
Francisco politics, that's incidental. I'll
explain what I mean in a moment. From your voice
I'd guess you to be in your twenties. Am I
right?"
"Yes, sir."
"That was the decade in my life when I discovered my
passion for politics. My first job in San
Francisco was conductor on a North Beach
horse car. From that I rose to the eminence of tending
bar at Snugg's, a very cosmopolitan saloon
on the lower level of Maguire's Opera House
on
T
Washington Street. At Snugg's, murder was not
infrequent. But a great many fascinating and
influential men congregated there. I was soon on a
first name basis with gamblers, actors, and
politicians of both parties. Of the lot, the
politicians seemed the most worthy of
emulation-at least to my impressionable eyes."
He realized what he'd just said and laughed-this time it
had a melancholy sound. "In those days, you understand,
I could still see."
Gram poured another stiff shot of
whiskey. He'd obviously heard the story before.
He looked bored. Carter wasn't. The blind man
fascinated him. Behind the deceptively congenial
face, Carter sensed the presence of a man to whom
weakness was loathsome and defeat a mortal sin.
"Soon I was busy involving myself in local
politics. My training ground was the Fifth Ward.
I learned how to drag votes out of boarding houses
as well as less savory places. I developed
a knack and a liking for all the rough work that
accompanies a primary which comes out the way someone
wants it to come out. Within a couple of years I'd
built a reputation as a handy fellow to have around. Of
course I had a splendid group of tutors.
Republicans, every one of them."
"You mean you didn't start out a Democrat?"
"Indeed not. My best mentor in the Fifth Ward was
a young Republican who attended Harvard. Bill
Higgins is his name. He still runs the party here in
San Francisco. In any case, there came a
time-oh, twenty years ago now- when I decided that
if I wanted to continue to move ahead in
politics, I'd need to work for myself. So I could
apportion my time as I saw fit. I left town
and went up to Vallejo to establish myself as
an independent businessman. I opened a saloon.
It wasn't an entirely wise decision. It was
consumption of spirits which later caused me to lose my
sight."
Cigar smoke drifted slowly in the air. All
around them, men talked and laughed. But it was suddenly
quiet at the table where the three sat. Buckley's
eyes appeared to be fixed on his hands. For a moment
Carter had the strange feeling that he could see them.
"I did well in Vallejo," the blind man
resumed. "I worked my way in as secretary of the
Solano County Republican Committee. But
by "72,1 had a yen to come back
to this side of the Bay-where there wasn't any way
to climb higher on the Republican ladder. All
the rungs were filled. It took me about ten minutes
to decide what to do. I walked out of Vallejo a
Republican and into San Francisco a member
of the Democracy. I've remained a Democrat,
although Bill Higgins and I still close the door
occasionally and strike a bargain if it suits our
mutual purpose. A few minutes ago I said
belonging to the Democracy was incidental. Now I
hope you understand what I meant. Politics is the
grandest game a man can play, but it
isn't the party organizations that make it so. It's
the power."
The quiet declaration sent a prickle along
Carter's spine. The ruddy man with the sightless eyes
could teach him what Willie Hearst had talked about
such a long time ago. How to hold the reins. How
to run others, rather than letting them run you. The thought
of taking orders didn't appeal to him, but the
advantages of the situation far outweighed that.
Eagerly, he said, "I'd like to work for you, Mr.
Buckley. I got to know Willie Hearst.
Willie once suggested tkat I think about being a
politician."
For some reason the atmosphere at the table had
chilled in just a few seconds. "Willie,"
Gram repeated. "You call him Willie?"
Baffled, Carter nodded. "Everyone did." "They
don't do it any more. Around the paper it's Mr.
Hearst or nothing. He's a stuck-up young snob."
So that was it. Carter came to his friend's defense:
"A lot of people think he's snobbish, but it's really
shyness -"
He stopped. The explanation changed nothing. In
fact, Buckley had a scowl on his face:
"Mr. Hearst and I try to cooperate because
of his father's position in the party. On some things, we
fully agree. He hates the Southern Pacific
as much as I do. But newspaper publishers are a
queer breed. Most of them are a menace to an
established political organization. Young Hearst
falls into that camp, I fear. He's a crusader.
Dangerously unpredictable. If you were to work for
me, I'd want to be sure of where your loyalties
lie."
Carter's hands tightened on the empty schooner. This
was the test. He didn't dare fail it.
"You'd be sure, sir. They'd lie with you."
"What if I asked you not to renew your friendship with
Hearst?"
Carter let out his breath slowly. "I'd refuse."
"Hell," Gram snorted. "Why the hell are we
arguing this? Hearst's so snotty these days, he
probably wouldn't let someone as ordinary as Kent
clean his privy."
"Let him finish, Alex."
"I don't have much more to say, Mr. Buckley.
If I work for you, I'll give you my loyalty,
and my word that you have it. But if Willie Hearst can't
trust me not to abandon him, how can you? Until he
tells me otherwise, Willie's my
friend."
A silence. Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Suddenly the tension left Buckley's face:
"Good. That tells me all I need to know about you.
We don't have to make an issue of Hearst.
I've had no significant trouble with him so far."
Carter relaxed a little. But if he landed a job, it
was obvious that he'd be wise to play down his
friendship. That much he was willing to do. What Gram
said might also turn out to be true. Willie might
not want to associate with him any longer. He
didn't intend to explore that question for some time; not
until he could afford a decent suit of clothes,
at least.
There was another moment of silence. Gram poured his
* fifth drink. Buckley's hands began to move
in slow circles on the table top. He seemed
to think out loud:
"I had in mind that you might join the push-was
"I've heard that word several times, sir. What's
it mean?"
"The push is a gang of rockrollers, mostly.
Roughnecks from south of Market Street."
"What do they do?"
"Exactly what the name says. They
supply a push when a push is necessary. They push some
to the polling place, and they push others away. The
push is important to me. I pay every member
handsomely."
The blind man paused, and though Carter knew he
might be bringing a quick end to a relationship not even
fully begun, he had no choice but to say:
"I don't want that kind of work, Mr.
Buckley. I don't want roughneck work."
That didn't set well with Gram. He pulled his
hand
down from the bruise he was fingering. "What's the
matter? Not respectable enough for a Harvard boy? Or
is it that Harvard boys don't have the belly for it?"
Buckley spoke softly but firmly:
"In view of the help Mr. Kent gave us,
Alex, those remarks are not only rude, they're
stupid."
Gram turned red. Carter looked him in the eye.
"Mr. Gram, I don't mean to insult your
position as Mr. Buckley's bodyguard. But
it's no use covering up how I feel. Violence
only comes back to hurt the man who deals it out in
the first place."
"Oh?" Gram was sneering. "You don't
think it's ever necessary? It was necessary tonight."
"No, it wasn't."
"That son of a bitch Schmidt would have killed us
all!"
Carter shook his head. It was hard to do, considering
all he stood to lose.
"No," he said. "I had him ready to run. If you
hadn't knifed him, you'd never have seen him again."
Gram uttered a curt laugh. "Sure of that, are
you?"
"Pretty sure, yes."
This time Buckley defended his employee:
"You may be right in this case, Mr. Kent. But you
aren't completely right. Violence is sometimes the
only means to reach a desired end. There are times
when everything else fails and you're left with no other
choice."
At that point Carter felt he'd lost the battle.
But he still tried a tactical maneuver:
"Then if it's necessary, I don't want to be the one
to do it. I'd hire it done, if need be, but I'd
never involve myself. When I'm your age, Mr.
Buckley, I want to be walking around enjoying the
rewards I've earned
1
."
Buckley raked a fingernail lightly along his
lower lip. "Hire it done, eh?"
"Yes."
"For that answer and the ones about Hearst, I'll hire
you, Mr. Kent. Five dollars a month and all
you can take from my free lunch counter."
Gram swung sideways in his chair, disgusted.
Buckley laid a hand on his sleeve.
"Alex, I can hear you fairly seething. Don't.
Each of us has his own calling in this life. You
needn't approve of
Mr. Kent's, or he of yours, so long as we all
work together."
Gram replied with a shrug which only pretended
agreement, as did his muttered, "Sure, boss.
You're right." Carter knew he'd alienated the
bodyguard for good. He didn't care. Buckley
was smiling.
"Boss," Carter said, "do you mind if I order
another schooner of this steam beer?"
h
In a few minutes, Gram went off to his rooming
house. Buckley called a bartender over and
dictated a note to the night man at
Hanratty's Livery. He gave the note
to Carter.
"Come see me when you've had a good night's rest,"
he said as he ushered Carter to the door on Bush
Street. "And don't worry about Alex. He's
a fine fellow, but he has his limits. And you're
right, he's in a bad trade. I expect both of
us will outlive him. You needn't fear he'll cause
you any trouble. He wants to keep on earning his
high salary."
The blind man gave Carter's arm an almost fatherly
squeeze, but when he spoke it was without sentiment.
"I'm getting older, Mr. Kent. I've been
looking for a pupil in whom I could finally place some
confidence. Perhaps I've found him. You'll get your
hands dirty working for me. But if you're willing to do
that within the limits we discussed- and if you're willing
to take my guidance-you ought to go far. I'm
impressed not only with your talent for blarney, but with
your attitude
in
general. I think you have the makings of a remarkably
successful politician."
The cynicism grew heavier:
"Beg pardon. Public servant."
He waved Carter into the fog like a doting parent
ill
Blissfully soft, the straw in the loft of the livery
stable sank beneath Carter Kent. There was no-heat in the
building, and it stank of horse manure and all the
garbage and human slops dumped in the alley
running along one side. But those smells were
transformed into perfume by
his sudden good fortune. Even the stinking horse
blanket given him by the grumpy night man
smelled wonderful next to his nose.
He began to shiver again, alternately roasting and
freezing. But he knew he'd get well, and work
hard for Boss Buckley, and prosper. What if
he did dirty his hands, as bar Buckley put it?
Wealth could buy you a carload of soap. And then one
day his hands would be holding the reins.
Carter was sure of that now. He was exhilarated;
happy for the first time in months and months. San
Francisco had been Amanda Kent's lucky town
and it was going to be his. He was going to like its
politics as much as he already liked its steam beer.
And to think he'd jumped off that train in North
Platte and wasted five whole years getting here!
With that thought he turned over and fell
asleep.
CHAPTER XI
Puncher
Martin
IN JOHNSTOWN AT EIGHT o'clock next
morning, the rain still showed no sign of slackening.
Leo was awake and feeling fairly comfortable.
Eleanor tucked the covers around him and went to the
lobby to look for some rolls and coffee.
From the botton of the stairs, she saw young Homer
Hack cranking the handle of the lobby telephone.
Seven hotel guests-all men, and all commercial
travelers, she suspected-were sitting or standing
near the clerk, anxious looks on their faces.
Hack spoke into the mouthpiece. Eleanor picked
up her skirts to cross the lobby. The entire
floor was submerged beneath a quarter inch of
yellow-brown water.
As she approached, one of the men was saying, "He's
calling the central telephone office for a late
report."
On what? she wondered. The words
late report
had an ominous sound. Beyond the window, a wagon
rumbled by, filled with a swaying pyramid
of household goods. The street was covered with water;
up to about ankle height, she judged by watching the
wagon wheels.
"Thanks very much, Imogene," young Hack said, ringing
off. He turned back to the others. "Most of the
early shifts at Cambria's divisions were sent
home. Too much water on the floors. Morning,
Mrs. Goldman." He struggled to smile.
"Bet your friends wish they were back here."
Politeness kept her from laughing at such a
ridiculous statement. "Why is that?" she said, her
attention drawn to the hardware store across the street.
A man who looked like the proprietor was
frantically motioning at the door. One after another,
four adolescent boys appeared, arms laden with
merchandise which they carried away down the street. Then
the owner went in, presumably for another load.
Hack's remark turned out to be far from
ridiculous: "Your friends went out on the New
York Limited, didn't they?"
"That's right."
"She's stalled up at the mountain summit. According
to the telegraph report, there's some kind of
obstruction on the tracks. Imogene at the
telephone office just told me about it."
"Better to be sitting up there than down here," one
of the guests complained. "I walked over to the Little
Cone- maugh a while ago. Saw two dead
heifers float by. And more tree trunks than I
could shake a stick at. If it doesn't stop
raining, the mountains will slide right down on top of
us."
"I do think we should all move to the third floor,"
Hack said. "Can your husband do that, Mrs.
Goldman?"
"He isn't supposed to move for another five or
six hours. In an emergency he'll do whatever's
necessary."
She started for the dining room, then saw that the gas
fixtures hadn't been lit; the room was dark and
empty.
"Isn't there any food this morning, Homer?"
Chagrined, he shook his head. "The cook didn't
show up."
"Or the owner of this damned rat trap, either!"
another
of the men exclaimed. "He's probably moving his
family to high ground."
"I expect that's pretty close to the truth,"
Hack admitted. "But we'll be fine on
the top floor. I've unlocked all the rooms.
Take any one you like."
Panic began to gnaw at Eleanor then; panic
fed by her weariness-she hadn't slept-and by the
incessant rain. The young clerk started away, but she
caught his arm:
"Is the dam all right?"
"Far as I know. At least there haven't been any
reports of trouble."
"Would you get a report like that?"
"Most likely. I've been calling the telephone
company every few minutes. The central office is
located in the same building as Western Union.
Mrs. Ogle who runs the Western Union
office keeps the telephone girls advised of
any dispatches from up near the dam. That's how
Imogene knew about the Limited."
"That makes me feel better. Thank you,
Homer."
"Surely, ma'am."
The clerk gave her a smile meant to bolster her
confidence, then splashed toward the lobby counter in
rubber fishing boots Eleanor noticed for the first time.
He stepped behind the counter and found an old coat and
cap. Then he splashed back to the main
door, stopping there to say:
"I'll trot over to Konig's Bakery and try
to find a couple of loaves of bread. Meantime
I'd appreciate it if all of you would go on
upstairs."
Eleanor returned to the room. Leo asked about the
situation. She tried to sound more cheerful than she
felt:
"There seems to be no danger from the dam. That nice
young man who handles the desk is just suggesting we
move to the top floor. I hate to make you do it,
but I suppose we'd better be safe."
"Absolutely."
He swung sideways in bed and carefully lowered his
left foot to the floor. "This may sound stupid, but
all at once I wish I knew how to swim."
"Well, sir-was Again she forced a smile. "If a
rescue becomes necessary, you can count on me." She
bent and kissed the tip of his nose. "Provided
you're nice to me, never start your line before I finish
mine, and never upstage me for as long as we both shall
live."
He laughed. "Bargain."
"Let me help you stand up-**
She took his arm. The sound of the rain on the
window grew louder. She frowned as she went on:
"Lean on me and don't put weight on that
leg-good, very good. A little effort and we'll be
upstairs and perfectly safe until this blasted
rain's over."
But statements like that, from her own lips or from others,
were beginning to have a decidedly false sound.
ii
From the room they chose on the top floor, they were
able to see more of the downtown area. Quite substantial-
looking, Eleanor decided. Its many brick and
stone buildings looked sturdy enough to withstand a severe
storm as well as high floodwater.
Here and there she noticed abandoned trolley cars.
Two young men on horseback went cantering through the
streets, the hooves of their mounts shooting up
geysers of water. Not a bad way to see the
flooded downtown, she thought.
Now and again the rain let up a little. When it did,
she could glimpse the towering stacks of the Cambria
Iron Company's blast furnaces, and the cupolas
of its Bessemer plant in the borough of
Millville across the foaming water of the Little
Conemaugh.
She kept the door of their room open.
Some of the other guests drifted in from time to time, the
storm having cemented everyone in the three-story
building into enforced camaraderie. One of the salesmen
staying at the Penn had been raised in Ferndale,
just a short way down the Stony- creek. The man
knew a lot about the area. The population of
Johnstown was around twelve thousand, he told
Eleanor in response to her question. She soon wished
she hadn't asked it, because it brought a torrent of
information she didn't really want, including the
population of the nine surrounding boroughs and a capsule
history of the development of Cambria Iron
into an industrial complex producing everything from steel
ingots and heavy track bolts to railroad car
axles, plowshares, and of course the world-famous
Cambria Link barbed-wire.
She and Leo nodded politely at each new fact
or statistic. That encouraged the man to describe the
large Pennsylvania Railroad marshaling yards
up at East Conemaugh, between Johnstown and the
dam. All at once Homer Hack appeared
carrying three loaves of bread and a hig blue
enamel pot of lukewarm coffee; happily, the
food ended the description of Johnstown.
As the morning dragged on, she found the
room increasingly confining. She began to pace. Leo
suggested she go off by herself for a bit-downstairs, if
the lobby wasn't under water, or outside if the
rain wasn't too fierce and Homer Hack would
lend her the boots he was wearing.
"I don't need boots," she said, eager to get
away.
"The devil you don't. Your feet'll get
soaked."
She tied her cape around her shoulders and picked up
her parasol. "I don't care. These are old
shoes, and I'd love some air. It doesn't
seem to be raining so hard. I'll walk around the
block." She kissed his cheek and hurried
downstairs, holding her skirts high as she
crossed the lobby. Young Hack came out of the
lightless dining room, shaking his head when he saw her
leave.
The rain had indeed let up a little. Her parasol
offered some protection and rain or not, she was glad
to be outside. She put her head back, shut her
eyes, and inhaled the damp air. How much better it
smelled than the hotel, which already reeked of mold.
She tilted the parasol outward from her left shoulder
and started walking, staying close to the
buildings on her right. The overflow of the rivers
swirled and gurgled through the street, completely
covering the raised wooden "sidewalk with a half inch
of yellow water.
She reached the corner and started to turn right. Just then
she saw men watching from the large window of a saloon
on the corner diagonally opposite. Like targets
in a shooting gallery, their heads were visible above
gilt scrollwork on the lower half of the window.
Weak lights shone inside. Evidently the owner had
decided to remain open to serve those who had nothing to do
but drink until the storm passed.
One man raised a stein, pointing her out to a
companion. What caught and held her attention was
another face at the opposite end of the window.
She stopped abruptly and stared. The man holding the
stein assumed the attention was meant for him. He
waggled the stein and grinned. The true object of her
interest quickly stepped back out of sight. But the
huge head, protruding eyes, and venomous scowl
had been unmistakable.
Would it be possible to find a policeman this morning?
She doubted it. For a moment she entertained the idea
of charging into the saloon and accusing Kleinerman herself.
But that wouldn't get her anywhere either.
Suspicion wasn't evidence. There was no way
to prove that the fat man had paid for the attack on
Leo, even though they both believed it to be a
certainty.
She couldn't forget the bulging, hate-filled eyes
behind the saloon window. Shivering, she turned and
resumed her walk. She fervently hoped she and
Leo had seen the last of the man.
She planned to make a complete circuit of the
block. At the next corner, three boys of
twelve or thirteen were romping in the street. They
slapped up handfuls of muddy water, shouting as they
doused each other. As Eleanor went by one of them
pointed:
"Hey, look. There's a lady who needs a
bath."
A second boy laughed. "That she does. She
ain't wet enough by half-was He whipped his right hand
toward the water. One slashing scoop and Eleanor was
drenched.
Sputtering, she wiped her face. She was about
to charge into the street and whack the young oafs with her
parasol when she saw their attention shift to someone behind
her; someone coming along the submerged sidewalk with
swift, noisy strides.
"Get the hell away from her or I'll toss you
all in the Little Conemaugh!"
The boys replied with some obscenities and a couple
of feeble threats. One started to scoop up more water,
but another grabbed his arm to stop him. The surly
trio splashed away down the street while
Eleanor turned to see her benefactor.
Her first glance explained why the boys had fled. The
man was exceptionally tall; two or three inches
over six feet, with wide shoulders and the roughened,
ruddy com
plexion of someone who spent a lot of time
outdoors. She noticed a paper sack tucked in
the crook of the man's left arm. From the sack came
the fragrant smell of coffee.
She judged the man to be thirty or a little older.
His face was neither handsome nor ugly, yet it was
instantly memorable and eminently likable.
His teeth were a bit irregular, and he showed a lot
of them when he smiled. The ingenuous charm of that
smile didn't quite jibe with the worldly look in his
pale gray eyes. His brows were dark and thick, his
hair the same. It curled out beneath an old
fisherman's cap. He wore dark clothes; shabby
but not dirty. Their drabness was relieved
by a bright red railroad kerchief knotted around his
neck.
He touched his cap. "Sorry I swore, ma'am.
Seemed the best way to get rid of those louts.
Here-better step closer to the building."
Flustered, she did so. She knew how silly she
must look, strolling in the rain and soaked to boot.
She took the man's advice, moving to his side
beneath a roof at the front of a tobacco shop. There,
virtually no rani reached her. The shop was dark.
A carved and painted Indian chief on the
sidewalk was fastened to the wall by a chain around his
throat.
After she caught her breath, she said, "I
appreciate your help-cusswords and all."
The man grinned again, taking in her figure with one
swift glance. The inspection was more admiring than
lustful. Yet it made her uncomfortable, and not a
little sad. She'd seen other men look at her the
same way. She could never be flattered and let it go
at that. Such looks always touched off feelings of
insufficiency, and bitter speculation about what the men
would think if they knew she was an incomplete
woman. Acting a role in everyday life just the way
she enacted roles for Daly-
The silence stretched out longer than she intended.
Embarrassed, she touched her soaked sleeve:
"Those boys were boorish, but more water wouldn't have
hurt me very much."
He eyed the sky. "If the object is staying
dry, I'd say we both chose the wrong week
to visit Johnstown."
She wondered about his choice of a verb. How did he
know she wasn't a resident?
The man was impeccably polite, and yet he
continued to
fluster her. All those irregular teeth somehow added
up to a smile of great warmth. His gray eyes,
capable of the anger she'd seen when he drove the
boys off, were cordial now.
"I take it this isn't your home-was she began.
"Yes and no." He leaned against the wooden Indian
and gestured to the west. "I was born up in the hUls
behind Sang Hollow."
She wondered why in heaven's name she was interested.
Perhaps it was because she'd run into so much hostility in
Johnstown. It was good to talk to someone friendly. She
found herself listening closely as he continued:
"I left town years ago, but I still have
relatives here. My brother-in-law
works for Cambria Iron. My sister's the one who
sent me out for this." He shook the sack of coffee.
"She and her husband have eight children. The whole ka-
boodle's crowded into one of those tenements down by the
river, the ones Cambria built-at a pretty
fair profit, I might add. I haVe a
brother with the company too. But he isn't married.
He lives in a nice brick barracks the company
maintains for bachelors. Cambria likes to watch
over the morals of single employees."
"It's obvious the company pretty well controls
the town."
Cynicism ruined the man's smile a moment. "You
might say that. Still, King Cambria can be a
benevolent despot."
Those words told her more about him. Obviously he
hadn't come from a well-off family, but he'd
educated himself. How and where? she wondered.
The man folded his arms and gazed past her, seeing
something other than shuttered shops along a flooded
street:
"Cambria really does take care of anyone who
goes to work there. The company store over on
Washington sells you everything from chewing tobacco
to goosedown comforters. The Cambria
Benefit Association pays you when you're laid
up, and the Cambria Hospital takes you in when
it's time for you to die. If you've been sufficiently
loyal and had a spot of luck, there might even be
some fellow members of the Cambria Club at your
funeral. You have to rise pretty high in the company
to get into the club, though. I suppose working for
Cambria's fine for those who want that kind of
existence. It takes most of the fear and
insecurity out of living. But it takes away all the
surprise and joy, too. I couldn't tolerate it.
That's nothing against my brother and sister, you understand."
"No, of course not. What do you do, Mr.-?"
"Martin. Cornelius Raphael Martin. My
mother hung two fancy Christian names on me and
I hate both of them. I use Rafe instead.
"When I was growing up here, I worked in the barbed-
wire plant. But only long enough to save money for
college out in Oberlin, Ohio. Oh, I don't
mean the regular college-the fancy one. I went
to Oberlin Business and Telegraph College.
I'm a puncher. That's-was
"I know what it is," she broke in. "My father
publishes a newspaper. You're a
telegrapher."
"Good for you. But I don't work for anyone on a
regular basis. I'm a boomer. I travel a
lot. I suppose a more honest word would be wander."
"A gypsy of the key." She smiled. "IV-EVERY
heard my father use that expression, too."
"Fits," Martin nodded. "Some of us can't hold
jobs, and some don't want to. I like to think I'm
in the second category but maybe I'm really in
the first. I go wherever I can find work. Fill in when
someone's sick, or when there's a lot of extra
wordage to be sent. After a big fire, or a
flood-was
"Let's hope you have no call for your services
here."
His smile faded. "No, let's hope I don't
Those nabobs up at the Lake Conemaugh club have
refused to repair the dam for too many years.
Well-enough chatter. I expect you want to change
into dry clothes. And if I don't deliver this
coffee, my sister'll think I've drowned."
She extended her hand, man-fashion. "Thank you
again for your help, Mr. Martin."
He held her hand longer than necessary:
"Pleasure, ma'am."
"I can understand why you wouldn't want to consign
yourself to one company for life. I'm something of a boomer
myself."
He surprised her when he nodded and said, "I
know."
"You do? How is that?"
She'd overlooked the obvious: "I saw you at the
Opera House last night. From the gallery. Best
I could afford- but you were fine. Just fine. Your
performance was a bo
nus I didn't expect when I came home for a
visit, Miss Kent."
"Thank you indeed. But Kent's only my stage
name. My maiden name. My husband Leo
Goldman is also in the company."
"Goldman, Goldman-the fellow who played
Snap!"
"You have a good memory."
"I have a liking for good performances. Just like good women,
there aren't enough of them in the wouldrld." He paused before
adding, "Your husband did a splendid job, too."
It struck her as something he felt obliged to say,
but she didn't let on:
"I'll tell him, Mr. Martin. He'll be
pleased to hear it."
"I knew you were married," he said. "I
saw your rings when I chased the boys off.
Well-goodbye again."
One more touch of his cap, and he turned up his collar
and started across the street, moving through the foot-deep
water with long, strong strides.
Eleanor watched him go, wondering why she'd found the
past few minutes so enjoyable. She was wet, she was
cold- and despite a twinge of conscience, she was
wishing she could have kept Martin talking longer. Why?
Shortly after he vanished around a corner, she found
a possible explanation. It had nothing to do with a lack
of love for her husband. She'd enjoyed herself with
Martin because the encounter had been an inconsequential
one; an agreeable conversation completely free of the
kind of pain and guilt that accompanied her
relationship with Leo.
Then, staring into the rain, she saw Martin in her
mind's eye and felt an emotion sharply at variance
with her conclusion of a moment ago. She didn't want
to acknowledge that emotion. It was disloyal; shamefully
so-
She banished the feeling; turned back the way
she'd come and soon reentered the room at the Perm.
"You were right, I shouldn't have gone out," she said as she
closed the door and pulled off her wet
cape. "It's raining hard again."
From the bed, Leo said, "I thought you'd bumped
into old man Noah and decided to buy a ticket
for the ark."
She averted her face. Unexpectedly, Rafe
Martin's smile had flashed into her thoughts.
She concentrated on getting into dry clothes. She was
thankful she was enough of an actress to keep her
guilt hidden. After everything else Leo had endured
because of her, he didn't deserve so much as one moment
of infidelity.
But she was giving him more than that; much more. She kept
thinking of the stranger. She felt an undeniable
attraction that was all the more pathetic because she was a
sexual cripple.
The attraction, and her own shameful response,
mystified and angered her, adding more tension to a day already
too heavy with it.
CHAPTER XII
The
Deluge
BY NOON THE DOWNTOWN area was completely
flooded. Some streets could only be traversed
by rowboat or improvised raft. Yesterday's
farfetched jokes about swimming to the theater and
canoeing to the depot had become today's reality.
Black clouds pressed down overhead. The rain
poured without letup. The two narrow rivers continued
to spill over their banks upstream of their junction
near the stone railroad bridge. One of the men
who'd taken refuge on the top floor of the Penn
worried about the possibility of water reaching the
boilers and hearths of the Cambria mills. If that
happened, he said, there could be catastrophic
explosions.
From her window Eleanor watched people splashing along the
submerged sidewalks and poling rafts down the
center of the street in an effort to reach higher ground.
Others were still carrying merchandise out of stores. Here and
there children romped in the water, laughing and beating at it
with sticks. Why a parent would send a child out to play
on such a day, Eleanor couldn't understand.
At a few minutes past one, Homer Hack
looked in. He
confirmed something Eleanor had suspected for a couple
of hours:
"No more trains are running. I can't raise the
central telephone office, either."
From the bed where he was sprawled with a bedraggled copy
of the previous day's
Johnstown Tribune,
Leo asked, "How deep is the water in the
lobby?"
"About three feet."
"Good God."
Suddenly, down the hall, a man began to weep:
"We're going to drown. We're going to drown and
die in this goddamn place."
Young Hack looked upset, and uncertain about what
to do. Eleanor strode to the door and gently pushed
him aside. Her hand white as she gripped the
doorframe, she spoke to the sobbing man in a low,
ferocious voice:
"Don't do that. It doesn't help you and it
doesn't help the rest of us."
The man-the same one who had described
Johnstown at such length-was leaning against the wall
to Eleanor's right. He looked at her with eyes
reddened by tears:
"Then what will, lady?"
"Patience," she said, suddenly aware of how tired
and hungry she was. "Just patience."
Disbelieving, the man shook his head and turned
away. Leo said, "Patience and maybe a
prayer-just in case the foundations of this fine
hostelry aren't as strong as we assume they are."
He sounded nonchalant. But his face was nearly as
pale and strained as Eleanor's.
ii
At four o'clock, a faint, shrill sound roused
Eleanor from the chair where she'd been dozing. Men were
running past the open door, but it was difficult
to see much else because the hall was so dark; Homer
Hack had shut down the main gas valve hours
ago.
Leo had been resting too. Now his eyes flew
open. Someone shouted, "What's that crazy sound?"
Another voice: "Train whistle."
Like a faraway scream, the sound continued. "The whis-
tie's tied down," a third man exclaimed.
"Homer, get up on the roof and see what the
devil's happening. Maybe there's been an
accident in the Pennsy yards."
Eleanor rushed to the door, waiting there until the
young clerk clattered back down the stairs connecting
the third floor hall with the roof. Just as he
appeared, the whistle stopped.
Men crowded around the clerk, shouting questions. He shook
his head:
"I couldn't see far enough. The rain's
too heavy. And there's a lot of white smoke over
in Woodvale. But I heard an explosion. Could
be the wire works."
"Bet you saw steam, not smoke," said the man who'd
been crying earlier. "The boilers must have exploded.
All that wreckage will be coming down the river into town-
we have to get out of here.
We have to get out!"
He shrieked the last, slumping against the wall with his
arms clasped over his stomach. Childlike, he
bent his head and sobbed.
"Maybe the worst is over-was young Hack began.
Jeers and humorless laughter greeted that, but he
went on in a dogged way. "No, no, I mean it.
The rain's still coming down pretty hard, but the sky
isn't so black. Go look for yourselves."
It was the first hopeful word they'd heard all day.
Men hurried past Eleanor and rushed up the stairs
to the roof. Hack went with them.
She turned to the window of the little room. In the
northwest, boiling black clouds were yielding
to gray. Jubilant, she clapped her hands.
"Leo, I think Homer's right. The sky's
definitely lighter."
He pushed himself up from the bed. "Let's go
upstairs for a better view." She started to protest
but he cut in, "Look, I've been flat on
my back for the prescribed length of time. And we'll
never reach Altoona tonight, so it hardly matters
whether I walk, limp, or crawl the rest of the
day."
Once on his feet, he slipped his left arm over
her shoulder and she put her right arm around his waist.
They made their way slowly along the corridor
redolent of dust, leaking gas, and wet wool
carpet.
In a moment, Eleanor felt almost lightheaded with
relief. Above herea'the oblong of the doorway at the
head of the stairs changed from dark gray to pearl.
She helped Leo up the steps. All at once
she heard sounds like claps of thunder. Then came
another distant howling, deeper than the first. A
factory whistle, perhaps. Just as she and Leo reached
the top of the stairs, a man began to yell:
"Oh my God. Look up there. She gave way.
The dam gave way!"
Eleanor and her husband staggered into the rain and looked
northeast along the steep-sided valley. Dimly
at first, then with increasing clarity, she saw a sight
so incredible, so numbing to the mind, that it
made her bite down on her lip until blood
ran.
Filling the valley from wall to wall, its noise like
that of a runaway locomotive, a foaming rampart of
water forty feet high was rushing down on
Johnstown.
m
For a moment everyone on the roof stood motionless,
numbed by the sight. From the streets below rose
shrieks and shouts. One of the traveling men tugged out
his gold turnip watch, as if compelled to fix the
exact moment of the catastrophe:
"Nine minutes past four. No, make that ten."
The man snapped the lid shut and put the watch
back in his pocket. He had a curiously
peaceful expression on his face. What could be done
now? it seemed to say. Everyone shared his silent
resignation for a few more seconds.
Then the calm shattered. The man who'd cried
downstairs turned his back on the moving wall of
water and ran, screaming and waving his arms. He
failed to see the low roof coping. Still screaming, he
stumbled, pitched into space and fell. But even such a
calamity could only briefly draw Eleanor's and
Leo's attention, so huge and horrifying
was the wall of water traveling toward them at
incredible speed.
iv
A few short blasts of factory and train
whistles were Johnstown's only warnings that up in the
mountains, the
earth dam had collapsed beneath the weight of the water
behind it. The resulting floodtide, pouring down through
nearly fourteen miles of river channel, had
wiped out farms, homes, factories, and the
Pennsylvania marshaling yards. Eleanor had no
knowledge of all that. Yet she was able to understand the enormity
of the disaster by looking at the rolling mountain of water-and
at what it contained.
  Appearing and disappearing within it she saw broken
timbers that once might have supported bridges or
buildings; she saw a big steel boiler with a great
hole blown in its side; lengths of iron cable
unreeling from tumbling drums and lashing back and forth
like fifty-foot whips; the front half of a
locomotive thrusting up like a great whale's head,
then sinking down again; the shingled roof of a house with two
tiny human figures clinging to it; a log jam of
uprooted telegraph poles; wheels from farm
machinery; bricks, chunks of mortar,
pieces of siding and-worst of all-once-animate
things. She saw the bloated bodies of calves,
hogs, and human beings. The bodies were borne
along like limp dolls, sucked under by the current one
moment, flung to the surface the next. There were
scores of corpses in dist incredible wall of water
that shot off smoke and vapor as it inundated everything
in its path.
  The scene might have been conceived by a demented
designer of theatrical effects. The water-wall
lifted a young woman into view; she'd been impaled
through her breastbone by an iron rail and hung dead
halfway between the ends. Mercifully, rail and
corpse soon sank from sight.
  When the flood wall encountered the somewhat greater
resistance of the larger buildings downtown, the water
appeared to split. One branch rushed along the Little
Cone- maugh toward the stone railroad bridge; the
other surged into the business district. Eleanor was
stupefied with terror. The water was now only a few
blocks from the hotel. All over downtown
Johnstown, on rooftops and in the upper windows of
buildings such as the Hulbert House, people stared at the
flood wall and knew, as she did, that escape was
impossible.
  The earth seemed to rumble and shake as the water
shattered building after building and swallowed the
remains. The flood wall was so high, nothing was
visible behind it but a few hilltops and the sky.
  One of the traveling men cried, "Run-run, all
of you!"
She was tempted to break into hysterical laughter.
Run where? And to what purpose, with the churning,
foaming apocalypse sweeping down,
indiscriminately tossing on its forward crest
half a barn, three Pullman cars, a dozen
bodies; crushing houses and substantial buildings
and grinding them together into wreckage as it roared on-
Homer Hack had grown befuddled. He was staggering
toward the edge of the roof where the other man had plunged
off. The sight of the dazed clerk walking to his death
jolted Eleanor back to her senses.
But it was Leo who moved first. Despite his injured
leg, he lunged and pulled the clerk back from the
coping just a step away:
"This way, Homer! You can't stay up here-was
Hack turned his rain-drenched face toward Leo.
"What? What's that?" The young man's eyes were
vacant, his mind no longer functioning coherently.
Leo grimaced at Eleanor and
half-dragged, half-carried the clerk toward the head
of the stairs.
By the time Leo got there, Eleanor was already shoving
frightened men down the steps into the darkness: "Hurry,
you've got to hurry-was
She could barely be heard. She looked back, and the
water seemed to tower to the top of the sky. One calm
question flashed into her mind:
still
wonder if dying hurts very much.
"Get in there!" Leo shouted, pushing her. She
stumbled down the stairs, her husband and Hack right
behind her.
All at once Leo lost his footing. He came
crashing into her from above as the flood noise peaked,
loud as a thousand trains at full throttle. The
water struck the hotel and tore it whole from its
foundation.
Flood Tide
AN INSTANT AFTER LEO tumbled against her,
Eleanor heard the incredible sound of the flood crest
striking the hotel. The building immediately began
to tilt, pushed from its foundations by the enormous force
of the water. Simultaneously, a great yellow
wave came crashing down the stairway from the
roof to the lightless hall.
"Hang onto me, Leo!"
He wrapped his arms around her waist as the wave
thundered over them, hurddled them against a wall, and
receded for a few seconds. The building kept
tilting.
The water was knee high, then breast high a moment
later. Men screamed, waved their arms, sank from
sight. Eleanor saw a flood-borne length of
steel cable flick out and touch young Homer Hack's
neck, instantly decapitating him.
The moment was forever seared into her mind: the boy's head
sailing past, mouth and eyes agape. Blood from the
severed neck pattered on her hair, her cheeks-
"Don't let go, Leo," she screamed as the
ceiling collapsed and the walls burst apart, driven
outward and shattered by the water that engulfed the hotel
and everyone inside.

It took ten minutes for the wall of water to rage
through Johnstown, smashing a three-block-wide
path to the point of land where the rivers met. The
flood demolished building after building, tearing them
apart and mingling the debris with that from further uj
greater-than the valley.
In those ten minutes, courage and resourcefulness had
little to do with determining who lived and who died. Some of the
bravest perished; some of the most cowardly lived.
Most of those who did survive the initial disaster
weren't even aware of what happened to them immediately after
the flood crest struck.
That was the case with the Goldmans. When Eleanor
came to her senses, she and Leo were clinging to the top
of a four-drawer bureau which bobbed in fast-moving
water. Rain and Homer Hack's blood were
trickling down her cheeks. The bodice and skirt
of her dress were in shreds. Her shoulders ached from
clutching the bureau, which had. a familiar look.
Hotel furniture, that's what it was. The
flood had evidently swept the Goldmans into their
room or one like it. They must have grabbed hold of the
first solid object they could find. She didn't
remember.
She looked over her shoulder. The hotel was gone,
and-God above-half the downtown as well. In the
water she saw cupolas of houses, roofs of
Pullman cars, the horns of cows, and pieces of
lumber to which men, women and children clung. Some of the
survivors were calm but a great many of them were
screaming.
Hanging onto the other side of the bureau, Leo
gasped:
"Are you all right?"
"I-was She struggled for breath. "I'm alive.
That's more than I expected when the water hit."
He gulped air and bobbed his head in agreement,
trying hard to conceal his terror of the water.
The current spun the bureau around and around. But the
momentum seemed to be slowing. Eleanor heard a
cry of alarm from nearby. Leo pointed past her
left shoulder caret She twisted her head till her
neck ached and saw a man riding a door as if it
were a raft. He cradled an infant in-his
arms. The man had called for help because the
capricious current was rushing the door straight
toward the brick wall of a half-submerged
building.
Eleanor kicked and paddled, clinging to the bureau and
trying to reach the man at the same time. It was no
use.
The man's face drained of color as the brick
wall loomed.
Without warning, the gable of a sunken house rose from the
yellow water like a ship's prow. The steeply
pitched roof pressed upward from beneath the
door, tipped it vertically, and hurled the man and the
child against the brick wall. The gable pressed in from
behind, crushing them.
When the current shifted the section of roof away from
the wall, Eleanor saw a red paste mingled with
scraps of clothing on the bricks. She vomited in
the water.
"Look," Leo exclaimed a moment later,
pointing past the site of horror she'd just witnessed.
"Everything's piling up at the stone bridge.
Creating a dam-was
She turned again, nearly losing her hold on the
bureau. She saw sections of buildings being driven
against the arches of *the railroad bridge by the water
whose height she judged to be fifteen or twenty
feet above the Johnstown streets. More timbers,
portions of houses, and chunks of wreckage
impossible to identify were accumulating behind the
bridge like a great log jam. Here and there the
Gold- mans spied people clinging to the debris, and
calling frantically to others on the hillsides; the
lucky ones who'd reached high ground. But far
worse than the cries of the survivors in the water
were the moans and shrieks of people imprisoned within
partially sunken buildings.
"Leo-was Eleanor kicked as hard as she could,
trying to guide the bureau. Her effort was rewarded.
The bureau turned a hundred and eighty degrees,
then came to rest in a patch of relatively quiet
water. "comwe've got to do something. If we're
carried down to that jam, this bureau will break up like
matchwood."
"Where do you propose that we go? We can't reach the
shore, the current's too strong."
As he gasped the words, he kept blinking. Heavy
spray blew across the surface of the water. Or
perhaps it wasn't spray but rain mingled with smoke;
there was no way to be sure. But it added a murky
distortion to an already unbelievable scene.
And over all of it, unforgettable as the sight of
Homer Hack's decapitated head, there were the
cries:
"Help us. Help us down here!"
"My grandfather's dying and we can't get out
-
his
"We're trapped in the attic with the red shingles. Can
anyone see it? IS ANYONE OUT THERE?"
Before Eleanor could answer Leo's question, her hand
slipped off the bureau a second time.
Terrified, she caught the top, raking her palm
on one of the metal drawer pulls as she did so.
Threads of blood trailed from her wrist into the
water. It was of no importance; the current had
caught the bureau and was moving it swiftly
again-straight toward the pileup of wreckage at the
bridge.
Between the bureau and the bridge, she suddenly saw
something that offered hope. A half-sunken Pullman
car formed a rampart straight ahead of them. The upper
halves of its windows were visible above the water.
Most of the glass was gone, but not all. Sharp
fragments remained in almost every frame-
"We must get on the roof of that car," she shouted.
But Leo saw the same danger she did. A
powerful undercurrent was tugging at them. It might
drag them down and hurl them through one of the shattered
windows. They could be torn apart on the ragged
glass-
Still, the car was their only hope. Leo saw that:
"All right. Let's try."
IV
Vision was difficult because of the spuming water and the
gloom of the day. It couldn't have been much past four,
but the sky was dark and growing darker. Once
more the bureau revolved in-a full circle. As it
turned, Eleanor saw some people struggling across
floating rooftops and jumping yard-wide gaps between
them, thus working their way toward buildings left standing
near solid ground at one side of the main flood
channel. Those people were no more than a half block from
the Goldmans, but because of the current, Eleanor and
Leo had no chance of reaching safety in the same
way.
A glance at her husband's face told her how
frightened he was. This was turbulent, dangerous
water. Deep water. Since Leo couldn't swim
it was up to her to make certain he reached the roof of the
Pullman car.
They were only about fifteen feet from the car now. A
whimsical, current sped them toward it more quickly.
For the moment, Eleanor's side of the bureau was
closest to it.
She could feel the current dragging at her skirt and
undergarments as the bureau hurtled on. She gauged the
narrowing distance carefully. At the critical moment,
she used all her strength to lift herself to the top of the
bureau. She clung there precariously, praying the
bureau wouldn't revolve again. If it did, Leo
would be trapped between the side and the car.
They were lucky. Her side thumped the edge of the
roof. The impact was followed by a prolonged
cracking sound. "It's breaking aparti" Leo cried.
Eleanor was already clambering from the bureau to the more
substantial, if slippery, top of the Pullman
car. She dropped onto her stomach, heedless of the
way the impact hurt'her breasts. She clung to the
edge of the roof with one hand and shot her other one out over
the water. The bureau disintegrated. com8Leost"
He was already sinking. She leaned out. His wet fingers
touched hers, then slipped away.
He kicked frantically, not knowing how to propel
himself toward her. Three inches separated their
outstretched hands.
Then four."
Five
-
"Paddle, Leof Cup your hands and pull them down
to your sides!"
He understood; tried it; made enough headway to reach
her wrist, seize it and pull himself to the car. Once
he'd taken hold of the roof, he was able to kick against
the wall below and throw one knee up and over. She
slid backward to give him room.
Panting, he clambered to safety. Her
arm hurt ferociously because he'd pulled so hard.
That didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered
except the miracle of their survival.
The car seemed buoyant. Or perhaps it was
supported from below by other wreckage. Half a
dozen boards went floating by, borne toward the
debris at the bridge. The rain continued to fall in
the near-darkness. But at least they had a respite;
a few moments in which to draw air into burning lungs,
then crawl toward one another and take comfort in each
other's arms. She buried her cheek against his torn
and sodden shirt.
"My God, Leo," it's beyond belief. It's like
hell without the fires."
But those were soon to come.
They rested five minutes. The screams and
entreaties continued. The rain fell and the remaining
light faded.
The Pullman car had already become part of the jam of
debris building behind the upstream side of the
bridge.
still
Other wreckage was collecting there: gutted
locomotives, twisted rails, uprooted trees.
Some of the debris was literally bound together
by steel cable and barbed wire freakishly tightened by the
flood.
Some open water remained at one end of the car. The
entire upper story of a house floated into the
space. Just as the house bumped gently against the car,
the Goldmans looked at one another:
"Voices?"
"I heard them too," Leo said, scrambling to his
feet and helping her up. In the panic of the last
hour he had not given a thought to his injured leg.
As they rushed toward the house the voices grew quite
distinct. A man's, a woman's, and those of several
children comall pleading for help.
A gable with horizontal siding was jammed against the
end of the car. Leo leaned close to it and called,
"We hear you. We'll get you out of there. Just hold
on."
He began to tear at the siding, but the nails had
been well driven. Eleanor added her effort
to his. Painful though it was, they managed
to squeeze their fingertips beneath one length of siding.
Just then something beneath the house collapsed. The gable
tilted away from the car, and just as abruptly stopped.
If it tilted a few more feet, those inside Would
find it impossible to jump to safety.
Leo's face dripped with sweat and rain. She saw
blood on his fingers where they were wedged beneath the tight-
fitting siding. "Pull, Eleanor!" Together they
heaved backwards. Then again. And a third time.
On the fourth try, nails wrenched with a metallic
screech. The end of the board stood out from the wall about
two inches.
Face close to the gable, Leo shouted, "Listen
to me. Can you see any light?"
The man's voice:
"I can see some between the studding. Not much.**
"Well, push against the plank where you see it. All
of you push. Hurry. Your house may go down any
minute."
The man inside issued rapid orders. Soon a
series of blows "drove the length of siding outward
another four inches. With Leo and Eleanor pulling
at the same time, the plank abruptly cracked in
the middle.
The sudden breaking of the wood sent Eleanor skidding
wildly backwards. In a panic, Leo saw that
if she didn't regain her balance, she'd tumble
into the water. He knew she could swim but that would do
her little good. Behind her, at the spot where she would
fall, floating strands of barbed wire
waited to slash and entangle her.
CHAPTER XIV
Fire in
the Water
THE STRENGTH AND CONTROL required for stage
movement served Leo well. He lunged forward as
if he were Mercutio dueling in front of the
footlights, catching Eleanor an instant before she
pitched into the water.
She rested against him for a moment. He could feel her
heartbeat through his soaked shirt. "Don't worry,"
she gasped, "I'm all right-was Her eyes widened
as she saw something beyond his shoulder.
"The house is going!"
The Goldmans rushed back to the end of the car. The people
inside had battered another board halfway off.
Leo wrenched it loose and flung it into the water.
With frantic pushes and pulls, two more were
removed-enough to create an opening between two studs;
an opening in which the
members of the family could brace themselves before jumping
to the Pullman car.
In the gloom, Eleanor and Leo made out five
people- husband, wife, two small boys, and a girl.
The girl might have been twelve, the youngest
boy seven or eight.
One by one they leaped to safety. Just as the last one,
the smallest boy, prepared to jump, the house gave
another precipitous lurch. The man shouted for his
son to hurry.
The boy jumped, barely clearing the strip of water
that widened suddenly as the house fell away from the
car. The entire upper story quickly sank from sight.
The boy snuggled in his father's arms, frightened but trying
to smile. "Fine catch, Papa."
The father was a stout man with a pasty complexion. Though
short of breath, he managed to say to Leo,
"Rasmussen's the name, Daniel Rasmussen. You
saved our lives. There are no windows in that
attic. How can I possibly express-was
He was interrupted by a heavy clanging sound. It
reverberated across the wreckage and the great expanse
of dammed flood water stretching from hillside
to hillside. Rasmussen's wife, a small,
plain-faced woman, looked upward with a stricken
expression. When the mournful bell rang a
second time, she burst into tears.
"That's our church. The Lutheran church. It's still
standing. Why couldn't the church have gone and Mama's
house been spared? Why, Daniel?"
"Loretta, you don't know that your mother's house is
gone."
"She's dead. I know she's dead. I should have
insisted she move in with us but I didn't and now
she's dead, that's why the bell's ringing-was
Clang!
Echoes of the third note rolled across the valley
of the Conemaugh. There was something jarring about a church
bell striking the hour in the midst of such carnage.
It rang five o'clock quite as if life in Johnstown
was proceeding normally. The bell should have been tolling
for the dead. How many so far? Eleanor wondered.
Hundreds? Thousands, more likely.
She noticed Leo watching her, and understood his
look of concern. Rasmussen's wife was close
to hysteria, and Leo wanted Eleanor to help if
she could. She moved toward the small woman:
"I know how you must feel, Mrs. Rasmussen. But
perhaps your mother is all right, and-was
The woman flung off the arm placed around her
shoulders. "Don't touch me. Mama's dead."
"Even if that's true, it isn't your fault.
It's no one's faul-was
"Yes, it is! It's Daniel's. I pleaded with
him to find a job with another railroad, so
we could leave Johnstown and take Mama with us.
I begged him. He wouldn't do it. He was wedded to the
Pennsylvania, and to this town. For years people have been
saying the dam was weak. Now Mama's dead and it's
his fault."
Loose hair hanging in her eyes, she glared at
her husband. Eleanor was eerily reminded of
Margaret Kent. Bewildered and frightened, the
Rasmussen children watched their mother lurch to the other end
of the car where she stood with her back to them, crying.
ii
M
Eleanor knew she'd better leave the woman
alone for a little while. She was walking back to Leo,
when her expression suddenly brightened.
"Look over toward the bank, Leo. That way."
She pointed in a direction
she
thought was east. "The debris is almost solid from here
to the shore. There are some people crossing it right now."
His eyes followed her outstretched hand as it pointed
upstream about a quarter of a mile. There, two men
and a woman were gingerly stepping from one piece of
floating wreckage to the next. Sometimes a plank
or part of a building sank six or eight
inches beneath them. They were forced to proceed with great
caution. But while the Gold- mans watched, the
three people traveled another hundred feet and one
by one jumped to solid ground. Outstretched hands
helped them up the hillside in the dusk.
Leo turned to Rasmussen. "See how they did
that? I think we should try it."
Rasmussen's nod was emphatic. "I agree.
I don't want to stay out here when it's dark. Not
if we can possibly reach the bank-was For a moment
he'd managed a touch of enthusiasm. It vanished
as his gaze returned to his wife. She
was still standing motionless, head down, at the other end of the
car. "I'm not sure Loretta can make it,
though."
Leo nodded. "We'll wait a little. Perhaps she'll
calm down."
"I'll see what I can do," Rasmussen said.
He put his young son down next to Eleanor and
walked toward his wife.
The level of the water dammed by the wreckage was
falling, Eleanor noticed. Falling very slowly, but
definitely falling. Upstream, another building
toppled with a grinding crash. The noise was becoming
familiar; every few minutes, something
collapsed. The human cries and groans remained
almost constant.
Rasmussen's younger son watched his mother and father,
tears shining in his eyes. Eleanor stepped in front
of the boy to hide the sight of his parents. Then she
slipped her arm around the boy's shoulder and drew him
to her side. The child huddled against her, grateful for the
gentle fingers patting him to soothe away the horror
of this day.
As if that could be done. As if those who had survived
could ever forget the experience. Again her mind showed her
the moment in which Homer Hack's severed head went
sailing past, spouting blood-
Tears came to her eyes. She rubbed them away.
Drove the memory from her mind. She mustn't break
down. Mustn't feel sorry for herself. She and Leo
had survived. Just as important, they were in the
open. Scores of others were still trapped in sunken
houses and buildings, crying for help that might never
come.
Though cold and frightened, she struggled to keep a
positive frame of mind. If they could reach
shore, there'd be plenty of work to be done. She must
be part of it. Only work, movement, activity-the
effort to help others- would stave off the
hysteria lurking at the edge of her mind. She felt
no contempt for Loretta Rasmussen. She
understood exactly how she felt.
Mrs. Rasmussen's overwrought state proved a
formidable obstacle to their plan to set out across the dam
of wreckage. Her husband spent almost half an
hour trying to calm her with words and clumsy
caresses. Each time he touched her, she recoiled
and demanded that he leave her alone. Over and over,
she accused him:
"We should have moved, Daniel. We should have moved
years ago. My mother died because of you."
Defeated, the man finally trudged back to Leo,
who was sitting on the roof, resting.
"No use," Rasmussen said. "She won't
listen, and she won't go."
"Then we'd better force her."
"Force-?"
Leo's mouth had a hard look as he nodded.
"What other choice do we have? It's almost dark.
Before long we won't be able to see our way to-was
There was a sudden boom. A geyser of flame shot
from the water a hundred yards comwest of the car. The
Rasmussen boy burrowed against Eleanor as the
pillar of fire rose skyward, then
spread laterally. The flame reached a floating
tank car, ate through the wooden exterior, heated the
steel inner shell-and the car exploded like a hundred
cannons fired together.
All of them were spattered by drops of scalding water
thrown by the explosion; they felt the fire's intense
heat, too. Eleanor's mind could hardly accept this
latest shock:
"It isn't possible for fire to ignite in
water
-"
"I'm afraid it is, under certain circumstances,"
Rasmussen said. "The Pennsylvania carries a
good many shipments of lime, and lime's combustible when
it's slaked with water. That must have been the first
explosion. I think the tank car contained crude
oil."
Flames shimmered in Leo's dark eyes.
"Well, I don't give a damn about the cause.
I don't propose to stay here and be roasted. Get
your wife."
"Let me get her," Eleanor said, hurrying down
the length of the car. Behind her, she heard the fire
roaring as it spread to floating debris. She glanced
back and saw the upper floor of a house
being consumed. Within the cherry- colored flames,
black stick figures ran to and fro, screaming as
they were incinerated.
Eleanor took Mrs. Rasmussen's arm.
"We've leaving. You must come with us."
"No!"
The sobbing woman clawed Eleanor's wrist and
jerked away. The violent motion nearly toppled
her into the water. But Eleanor caught her. She
slapped the woman's face twice, as hard as she
could.
"Your husband won't leave without you-and we're not
going to
allow three children to die because of you. You're alive.
Be grateful and come along!"
She gave the woman a sharp tug. Together with the
slaps, that seemed to jolt her into a semblance of
self- control. She didn't resist when Eleanor
pushed her toward the others.
Leo was showing Rasmussen a possible route
to shore. It took them away from the spreading fire,
and with luck would bring them to the hillside after they worked
their way between two housetops and across a sizable area
of lumber and steel cable. By ones and twos, people were
carefully crossing that mass of floating
material.
"I'll go first to test the footing," Leo said.
"Each of you take charge of one of the children. Whatever
happens, don't let go of them."
Eleanor wanted to fling her arms around her husband's
neck and kiss him. Fearful as he surely was about
the water they were about to traverse, and despite the
injury to his leg, he was yet willing to take the
lead. And because he was a superb actor, none of the
Rasmussens knew how he felt. In fact he
seemed to exude confidence- a deliberate attempt
to bolster theirs, she was sure.
Leo pushed hair out of his eyes and threw her a
swift look. The others saw the affection in it; she
saw the anxiety. She closed her eyes a moment
to tell
him
she loved him and understood his fear. .
He visually measured the distance to the next roof.
About three and a half feet. In one easy jump
he cleared the flame-reddened water. The roof sank
a few inches but bobbed up immediately.
Leo turned, widened his stance to brace himself, held
out his arms and smiled a dazzling smile:
"Send that first youngster over. Thisll be a
picnic. Well be on dry land in ten minutes."
In that moment, she loved him more than she ever had.
Daniel Rasmussen caught Leo's spirit and did
his best to convey confidence as he swung his daughter
across the water into Leo's strong hands.
  The way was treacherous but they made progress in
spite of it. Leo's prediction wasn't far off
the mark. In ten minutes, all that remained between the
little band and the hillside was about a hundred feet of
lumber and debris entangled with wire, the whole
none too firm, Leo warned as he stepped back
from testing it. On the far side, four other people were
scrambling to shore while a crowd of watchers
called encouragement. To the right, a man was working his
way across the jam on a path that would intersect theirs.
"Ready?" Leo motioned the others forward. They'd
crossed twenty feet of wreckage when Eleanor
caught her breath. The man she'd noticed was just a
few feet from them now. Instantly, she recognized
his huge head. So did Leo.
  The recognition was mutual: "Well, well,
look at this. The sheeny."'* The fat man
didn't seem the least intimidated by the people
accompanying the Goldmans. Scowling, he took a
step toward Leo. His right foot slid off
a wet, tilting plank but he recovered and planted
himself directly in front of Eleanor's husband.
The left side of the man's face was cut open;
he'd bled all over the front of his suit. He
looked less than rational, but that was no wonder,
given his temperament and the events of the last few
hours. Leo spoke as if he were dealing with a vexing
child: "I'd like to settle with you, Kleinerman, if
that's your name. These people are more important. Move
aside and let us pass."
  Something ugly glittered in the protruding eyes.
The man spread his feet, steadying himself on the
plank. "Not just yet, sheeny. Not until I'm good
and ready."
  Leo went rigid. But he was too sensible
to involve himself in a fight. With a disgusted shake of his
head, he Stepped sideways to another board:
  "Then we'll go around, you damn fool." "Not
unless I say so!" Kleinerman fisted his right hand and
shot a weak punch at Leo's stomach. The fat
man's sudden change of position threw him off
balance. He toppled forward, knocking Leo into the
water with a great splash.
Panicked, Eleanor started forward. The
Rasmussens didn't mean to impede her,
but they all seemed to be in her way. And it was
impossible to move quickly on the mud- slimed mass
of wood and wire.
She heard Leo kicking and sputtering. Saw his
head bobbing above the red-lit water. If she -- could
reach him, she could easily pull him out. But her
foot missed a board and slid down into a knot of
steel cable, just as Kleiner- man picked up a
length of dripping two-by-four and swung it hard
against Leo's skull.
She cried his name but the cry was lost as another
building roared down into ruin. Leo sank from sight.
hr
**Oh my God, help him, help the poor
man!" Rasmussen shouted. Eleanor twisted back
and forth, trying to free her leg. The cable's rough
surface ripped her underskirt and raked her calf.
Blood ran into her shoes as she extricated herself
and struggled to the spot where Leo had gone down.
People on shore were shouting loudly; pointing and waving.
Two had even leaped onto the wreckage.
Kleinerman turned and attempted to run. He
slipped and pitched head first into the water, flailing his
arms and wailing like a child:
"Jesus Christ, help me! I can't
swim-**
Eleanor's eyes shone with hate.
"Neither can her
She flung herself to her knees on a big piece of
siding that sank four niches under her weight. A
huge bloodstain showed on her petticoat now.
She thrust her hands into the water up to the wrists, then
to the elbows, crying Leo's name again and again. Tears
began to spill down her face.
It gave her no satisfaction to see
Kleinerman's plight. The harder he kicked, the
faster he sank. His eyes bulged as he'choked and
went down a second time.
Eleanor didn't care whether the man lived or
drowned; she only cared about her husband. Even
half conscious from Kleinerman's blow, he should have
floated to the surface by now. Had he gotten
trapped down there? Had he become too frightened and
somehow entangled himself in the debris? The water
gleaming with firelight returned no answers.
Against her back she felt the heat of the spreading
flames. But her hands were cold as she groped below the
surface. Suddenly she touched something. Human
hair, she thought.
Hope lighting her face, she called her
husband's name again.
She closed her hands-
Nothing'there.
Kleinerman disappeared, the water bubbling for a moment
after it closed over his head. The last bubbles burst.
Someone seized her shoulders from behind. It was
Rasmussen:
"It's too late."
"No."
"Yes, it is, he's gone."
"No."
"I tell you he's gone. You must be careful or
you'll drown too."
She writhed in Rasmussen's grip, screaming at
the water:
"Leo.
Leo!"
Patterns of reflected firelight shone and shifted
at her feet. Suddenly strength drained out of her.
Limp, she leaned against Rasmussen. She'd reached
a point at which it was impossible to feel more shock or
grief, because the load had already become unbearable.
The universe no longer contained any rationality; the
flo caret od denied all rationality, and so did
Leo's death.
He had died because he was hated.
Was hated because he was a Jew.
Was a Jew by accident comof birth-
And he'd died in a country in which accident of birth
supposedly made no difference. Her country's
self-proclaimed idealism was a cruel sham, it
was a-
was a
-
Her overburdened mind went blank, as swiftly as
if a sponge had suddenly been swept across a
slate. She didn't remember being lifted
gently; supported; guided toward shore
by Rasmussen and his younger son. On shore, people were still
yelling encouragement.
She seemed calm as she stepped on comsolid
ground. At Rasmussen's behest, half a dozen
men filed out onto the
T
wreckage to take up the all but hopeless search for the
bodies of the drowned men. Eleanor didn't
notice.
Her wet hair gleamed with red highlights, as did
her cheeks. The dampness there could have been the rain, not
tears. Her face was composed; eerily so.
But memory was coming back.
She stood motionless. Inside, she was in turmoil.
Over and over, she heard accusations. Not accusations
about responsibility for Leo's death. Her mind
chose something else to hurl at her in silent
condemnation:
You never told him why you hurt every time he loved you.
You never had the courage.
He died thinking it was his fault, you bitch, you
worthless bitch.
CHAPTER XV
Confession
A
TEMPORARY AID STATION had been set up in a
large brick house two hundred yards up the
hill from the place where Eleanor and the Rasmussens
had clambered to shore. Candles burned in all the
first floor rooms. The owner's small supply of
blankets had been laid out for shivering survivors
of the flood.
The Rasmussens didn't linger at the house.
Mrs. Rasmussen was still not herself; her husband
wanted to take her to a friend's cottage higher in the
hills. He said he felt bad about leaving,
especially in view of Leo's death, but
Eleanor urged him to go, saying it wasn't necessary for
anyone to keep her company.
"Besides, many people need help far more than I do, Mr.
Rasmussen. I want to keep busy here."
Because if I don't, I'll break down.
She didn't admit that to Rasmussen. After a few
more
words of condolence, sincerely meant but awkwardly
delivered, he shepherded his wife and children into the
darkness.
  Eleanor went straight to the kitchen. There she
helped an elderly black woman prepare and
cook a watery vegetable soup. When the soup was
done, Eleanor filled crockery bowls, pewter
mugs, anything she could find, and served those huddling in
blankets throughout the candle-lit house.
  The survivors were all citizens of
Johnstown-young and elderly; individuals and
entire families. A good many of them cried
unconsolably; now and then one wailed a loved
one's name. The crying helped Eleanor keep her
own emotions under control. Although Leo was dead, and
rage and guilt and sorrow were battering her mind, she
vqwed she wouldn't weep. When she mourned, it would be
in private. Meantime, there was work to be
done.
  The rain fell steadily. Every half hour or so,
Eleanor stepped out on the wide front porch for a
breath of air. Her face was filthy. She wore
an old blouse the gray-haired woman of the house
had given her. The blouse was threadbare, but at least
it covered her arms and breasts. Her skirt showed
three great rips, and bedraggled lace beneath.
  Well back from the dripping eaves, an oil
lamp had been set on a wooden bench. The lamp
cast long, distorted shadows of the tired men who
continued to bring the living and the dead to the house. The
living were taken inside, the dead put on the wet
lawn beyond the end of the porch. Fifteen or twenty
corpses were already laid in rows out there. Eleanor
heard one man say bodies kept surfacing down
at the water's edge. Perhaps she'd find Leo before the
night was over.
  From the porch she could look down on the panorama
of the Conemaugh Valley. The waters hadn't
receded very far. A vast, debris-filled lake
remained behind the stone bridge. Throughout that debris
fires burned. She still found it difficult to accept
the reality of all she saw.
  A few courageous men had located and
launched some rowboats. She could see the boats
moving near half- submerged rooftops as the search
for survivors continued. Many people saved themselves, working
their way ashore as she and the Rasmussens had done.
  The firelight revealed a few buildings still
intact downtown. One was a substantial
structure with three stories vis526
ible above the water. She asked about the building. A
man told her it was called Alma Hall, and was
located on Main Street. From the building's dark
interior, mournful cries drifted through the downpour.
Gradually, those arriving with the injured added small
pieces of information to create a crude mosaic of the
disaster. Johnstown was cut off from the outside world.
The telegraph lines were down. Railroad
tracks had been swept away, though for how great a
distance in either direction, no one could say.
Of more than thirty doctors who practiced in the
city, five to ten couldn't be located; the exact
number depended on who was talking. But it was a
certainty that most of the medical supplies and
blankets in the boroughs along the river had been
swept away.
The police force had ceased to exist. The gas and
electric plants were in ruins, leaving
Johnstown dark except for candlelight or the
light from the burning debris. One man claimed
two or three thousand survivors had gathered on
another hill nearby. But it seemed clear that as
many, or more, had been trapped in the city and drowned.
The valley at which Eleanor gazed was quite literally a
valley of the dead and those who grieved for the dead. The
rain continued to fall. The fires kept burning. The
screaming never stopped.
ii
About three in the morning, she steeled herself to go down
to the side lawn. The rain had let up a little. By the
light of the lamp on the porch, she examined the
bodies covered by pieces of sodden bedding. She
knew the search was almost certainly futile. Yet
she lifted the sheets or comforters one by one, hunting
for Leo.
She didn't find him.
As she turned back toward the house, she felt
something wet and warm on her left leg. She paid little
attention. The sight of so many white, lifeless
faces had unnerved her. Hysteria was threatening her
again.
She fought it; pushed it away as though it were an enemy
with a tangible form. She climbed to the porch.
Another half dozen men arrived. Three carried
children in
their arms. The rest supported exhausted adults.
Eleanor thought she recognized one of the men but he
had gone into the house before she could be sure.
She leaned against a porch pillar. Behind her, through an
open window of the music room, candlelight showed a
toothless old man praying on his knees. Further
back in the house, a woman began to sing "Rock of
Ages" in a weak soprano voice.
The grief and guilt and anger lapped at her mind
like rising water. She rested her forehead against the
pillar; clenched her fist; whispered: "Leo.
Leo-was
She reminded herself that they needed her inside. She
mustn't break down. She
would
not-
She turned sharply, aware that someone had spoken
to her. But her attention was concentrated on the way her
leg felt under layers of damp clothing. Her leg
was wet and all at once she understood why. Tonight,
on top of everything else, her own body had
betrayed her.
"Dear God-not that too," she said
half-aloud, pressing her palms against her skirt
as if to hide any telltale sign. There was none.
No one would have taken much notice if there were. But
to Eleanor it was the final cruelty of whatever
malignant power had arranged the events of the last
twenty-four hours; a cruelty her battered mind
could barely accept.
A shadow bent across her line of sight. The man
who'd spoken. A tall man with mud on his
cheeks. Rain shone in his curly hair. There was
concern in his pale gray eyes as he said:
"Mrs. Goldman? It is you, isn't it? I
thought I recognized you when I brought that youngster into the
house."
The man pulled up the red bandana; wiped his chin and
his mouth. The neckerchief triggered her lagging
memory:
"Mr. Martin-was
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"And your husband-?"
"No." She turned toward the red-lit smoke
billowing in the valley. "I lost him down there."
"My God* How?"
"Drowned. We were crossing to shore and we
met a man
we'd had trouble with the night before. He knocked Leo
into the water."
"Why?"
"Because Leo was a Jew."
"A-?"
"Jew, Mr. Martin. The word is Jew."
"I can't believe one man would kill another just because
he was Jewish."
"Especially not in this wonderful country-is that what
you're trying to say? This country's a mire for
pigs."
Seldom in his life had Rafe Martin heard a
voice so poisoned by bitterness. It hurt him. That
and his tiredness made his shoulders slump.
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Goldman." With
hardly a conscious thought, he took hold of her
forearm gently. "If there's anything at all that I
can do-was
The touch of his hand-a man's hand-was enough to set
memories exploding like long-buried mines,
to shatter her already-weakened defenses:
"Leave me alone!"
She turned and dashed to the end of the porch. She
stepped off without realizing there was a
two-foot drop to the ground. She landed hard on a
sheet-covered mound, unhurt but momentarily stunned.
Her cry had brought people running from the house. Martin
ignored them, just as he ignored her plea to be
left alone. He jumped off the porch to help her.
She was floundering atop the covered body. Somehow her
hand tangled in the wet sheet, pulling it away.
Six inches from her eyes lay the head of a blonde
child; a girl of six or seven whose cheeks had been
horriblv cut before she died. For a moment Eleanor
stared at the deep, crusted wounds". Then she leaped
to her feet and ran up the hill, screaming.

Afterward, Eleanor had only fragmentary memories
of the next few minutes:
The coldness of the rain; harder suddenly and beating against
her face. The feel of the secret flow soiling her;
draining what little of her strength remained. The brick
house, seen from higher on the hill and silhouetted
against the fires of Johnstown-
And the terrifying sight of an unknown man loping after
her. "Mrs. Goldman," he called. "Come
back inside!"
No longer rational, she turned to confront him. She
dropped into a crouch, her hands held in
front of her. She clenched those hands, as if rage
could somehow change what she railed against:
"Why did Leo have to die before I told him? I
never told him-was
The words were shrill; punctuated by her gasps for
breath. Mart*in stopped and stayed motionless while
trying to decide how to deal with her.
Softly, he said, "What do you mean, Mrs.
Goldman? Never told him what?"
She beat the air with her fists to emphasize each
spat-out word:
"That it-wasn't his fault-I couldn't-love him-the
right way-I was-raped in my own house-in New
York-the men-
took turns with me
-"
A flicker of sanity lit the chaos of her thoughts.
Her eyes registered horror as she realized that the
dark door, kept closed at such great cost for so
long, was open.
"Oh-my God-was
The words began to dissolve into sobbing. "My God,
what a-foul mess-I've made of-everything-was
She fell against him, crying uncontrollably and
trying not to think of what she'd confessed to a
stranger.
Martin put his arms around her, supporting her as
best he could. One of his callused hands came up
behind her head. He knew it would afford her no real
protection from the rain. But he wanted to keep it there
because she was so hurt, and because of the way he felt about
her.
In a moment, the abrupt limpness of her body
told him she'd fainted.
He picked her up so that she lay horizontally
across his arms. Her hair trailed down behind her
head; her cheek pressed against his worn jacket.
He could hardly believe what he'd heard her
say. And yet it must have been the truth, because it had
come pouring out with such unmistakable pain.
Martin moved down the hill with steady steps.
Eleanor was no burden at all. But he
experienced guilt because of
the emotions churning inside him. There was sweet
enjoyment in holding her so close.
What a damned, shameful way to feel with her
husband no more than a few hours dead! Yet he
couldn't help himself. He was an incurable
romantic, though he usually tried to hide it because the
world scoffed at romantics, and often
punished them. Nevertheless he'd conceived an
instantaneous passion for Eleanor Goldman when
he'd seen her perform at the Opera House. Now,
despite his conscience, he was glad that chance and the
events of the night had thrown them together.
But could he ever look her in the eye after what she'd
told him? He wondered.
A gray-haired woman with a massive bosom
barred the front door of the brick house:
"Another one? We've no more room." "This is the
lady who's been helping you." The woman bent for a
closer look. "Lord yes-so it is. Put her down
here on the porch. I'll bring some flour sacks
to cover her. What happened?"
"She collapsed. Probably from exhaustion."
," "I heard her cry out, then someone said she'd
run off." "Can't say I blame her," Martin
replied. "Her husband's missing."
A moment later, he carefully laid Eleanor
close to the house, well out of the rain. When the older
woman returned, he covered Eleanor with three
coarse pieces caret of burlap she'd brought.
He knelt beside Eleanor; studied her
dirt-streaked face. Unconsciousness smoothed
away its agony. God, how beautiful
she was.
Of course it was ridiculous, not to say sinful for him
to entertain such a thought at such a time. Yet he was
powerless to deny his feelings; they were too strong.
He rested the fingers of his right hand against her cheek.
What were the exact words she'd used? still
was raped in my own house. The men took turns with
me.
His lips barely moved as he whispered, "Poor
thing. Poor thing."
He jerked his hand back, noticing the gray-haired
woman watching from the front doorway. He stood
up; walked to the steps leading down from the porch. He
told
the woman, "111 come back early tomorrow to see how
she is."
But he never did.
iv
When Eleanor woke, the rain had stopped. A
balrny wind blew against her face. The sun shone
above the dark summits of the hills to the east.
She sat up, drowsy and almost smiling despite the
soreness of her body and the soiled feel of her skin
and clothing. Then, in an instant, memories
returned. Memories of Leo vanishing
in the water. Memories of the man responsible for his
death. Memories of what she'd admitted to that
stranger, Martin.
She could recall few of the circumstances of that
revelation, and none of the words. Yet she knew she'd
opened the secret door and let its horrors spew
forth. Martin knew something known to no other human
being.
For a moment she experienced a sudden, overwhelming
sense of relief. Then a curious longing began
to sweep over her. A longing for Martin to come back;
speak to her; simply be with her. Except for the
Rasmussens, he was the only person she knew in
what was left of Johnstown. She felt guilty
craving his company, yet the craving persisted.
But as she stood on the porch, shielding her eyes and
gazing down at the sunlit smoke and floating
wreckage, shame returned, and the longing was
banished. Martin was a kind and decent man. But how
could she even speak to him again? He
knew.
But no one else would. Ever.
The scene below soon disappeared, replaced by an
image on which she concentrated with an almost crazed
intensity. A new door. Stronger than the
old one; thicker, too. She imagined elaborate
bolts, chains, extra padlocks. It was an
impregnable door; one whose integrity she would guard
and defend with her whole being.
As for Martin-she hoped she never set eyes on the
man again.
Now it was Saturday, and the sun shone. In the
valley of the Conemaugh, a flotilla of small
boats continued to search the smoke-covered water for
survivors. Many of the fires were finally out. The
waters began to recede slowly. Large numbers of
people were visible on the heights. Life was returning.
The first word of the disaster had gone out late Friday,
transmitted in a telegraph message from Sang
Hollow to Pittsburgh. After that, details reaching
the outside world were few, though it was soon known from
coast to coast that a great flood had devastated
Johnstown. By the end of that sunny Saturday, many
people in other parts of the state and nation were making plans
to descend on the town as soon as rail service was
restored. The people included the Pennsylvania
militia, journalists and photographers, and
relief workers from numerous organizations.
Hundreds of ordinary citizens were preparing
to travel to Johnstown, too. Some would
bring food and medicines, some just their morbid
curiosity and greed.
Rafe Martin spent the day doing rescue work. It
was an exhausting job, using a hammer and crowbar
to open jammed doors in order to liberate those
trapped in houses that had been spared. The work had
its infuriating aspects, too. Four times, in
four different attics, Rafe and his fellow workers
came across women who initially refused help because
their torn clothing revealed too much of their bodies.
Rafe quickly developed a technique for dealing with
such women. He'd walk away from the door through which
he'd been speaking to them, making certain they heard his
voice fade:
"All right, ladies-whatever you say. The moment we
locate an all-female rescue group, we'll
send it along. May take a few days, though."
In every case, false modesty was immediately replaced
by pleas that the men break the door down.
The corpses revealed after the waters fell weren't
pretty. The warm sunshine created a fearful stench
from the mud, the smoke, and the putrefying flesh.
Among the men with whom Rafe worked, there was anxious
talk of the possibility of disease, especially
typhoid.
Hour after hour, he thought of returning to the hrick
house to check on Eleanor. But every available man
was needed down in the city, so he delayed. Around
noon he was approached about going to work
professionally.
A Colonel William Connolly of
Pittsburgh sought
him
out. Connolly identified himself as the agent for the
Associated Press in Western Pennsylvania.
He wanted Rafe to help with telegraphy once
three new wires were strung to connect the valley
with the outside world. He said one wire would be used by the
Pennsylvania militia who would soon be policing
the area. Another would link Johnstown with the
capital in Harrisburg. He'd secured the
third wire for exclusive use by the A.p.
Connolly didn't bother to explain how he'd
pulled that off. But the wages he offered Rafe were
handsome. Rafe told him making money had to wait
until his present work was finished. The A.p.
agent urged Rafe to look
him
up as soon as it was.
At twilight Rafe was tramping alone
through the mud of Napoleon Street, near the
downtown. He had a crowbar tilted over his
shoulder. He could hear some of his fellow workers a
block or two behind.
He approached a small house; one of the few
private homes left intact near the main flood
path. All at once he stopped, swallowing down
revulsion. Above the thick mud covering the. front
yard, a flag still drooped at half staff; a
flag raised but never taken down on Memorial
Day. Close to the base of the pole, a single
human hand jutted from the mud like some grotesque
piece of statuary.
A man's hand, he judged. A drowning hand reaching
for help it had never found-
Shaking his head, Rafe crossed the yard.
This will be the last one,
he said to himself as he moved into the heavfly silted
entrance hall.
Then by heaven I'm going back to see her.
He heard a peculiar grunting in the darkness at the
rear of the house. A rat came scurrying toward him
from behind a half-buried umbrella stand. Sensing his
presence, the rat stopped, then ran the other way.
Rafe moved farther down the hall, glanced
into a parlor, and nearly dropped the crowbar. Silt
covered the parlor floor. Just above it, brown eyes
looked at him. The lifeless eyes of a boy of ten
or eleven.
How had he died? There was no way to tell.
Maybe he'd been trapped in the cellar just before the
water rushed in, and had managed to chop a hole in
the floor of the room above, only to drown while he
tried to climb to safety. Just the upper half of the
boy's head showed above the mud. His nose rested in
it.
  "Jesus," Rafe whispered. He heard the
grunting again, and a faint voice:
  "Come on, you old bastard.
Give."
The intruder was in the kitchen, he thought. Who was he?
No one should be in the house except someone trapped
there, or rescue workers. The gruff voice
didn't fit either circumstance.
  Rafe walked forward quickly, making no effort
to conceal his approach; the thick, wet silt made that
virtually impossible anyway. He stepped into the
kitchen and saw an unkempt man struggling to open a
back door jammed shut by the mud.
  Footprints clearly showed the
intruder's path of entry. He'd climbed through an
open window Rafe could see in an adjoining
pantry. On the kitchen floor, partially buried in
mud, a second man lay on his back.
  Near the man's shoulder lay a discarded knife,
the blade smeared reddish-brown. Overlapping
footprints and deep furrows in the mud showed the
body had been moved. A stick held the dead
man's jaws apart. Judging from the slashed and
bloodied gums Rafe glimpsed, the intruder had
been trying to cut gold teeth from the mouth of the
corpse.
  "You fucking ghoul," Rafe said, taking one long
step. He smashed the crowbar down on the intruder's
left shoulder, breaking it.
  The man yelled and staggered. He yanked a
small pistol from his coat. He shoved the pistol
against Rafe's side and fired.
  Before the echo of the shot died, the thief was gone the
way he'd come. Members of Rafe's search party,
two carrying lanterns, soon rushed up the front
walk:
  "Who fired? Where are you, Martin?"
  Rafe hurt too much to answer. He was on his
knees, arms crossed over his belly.
He tried to keep from keeling over. He couldn't.
As lantern light filled the moldy-smelling
kitchen, he fell forward into the mud,
  His last thought was of Eleanor.
"Not Known to Be
Found"
THAT SAME SATURDAY NIGHT, Gideon,
Moultrie Calhoun, two reporters, a
photographer, a sketch artist, and a pair of
telegraphers were riding a special one-car train
chartered by the
Union
for the trip to Johnstown. Gideon had been at the
Fifth Avenue Hotel when he got word of the
disaster. His first act had been to root frantically
through the litter on his desk and locate Eleanor's
itinerary. He let out a long, loud sigh when he
saw she and Leo had been playing Altoona on
Friday.
The one-car special was frequently side-tracked
due to heavy traffic on the Pennsylvania's main
line. At several of these enforced stops, relief
workers came aboard and begged Gideon to permit
extra cars of food and medical supplies to be
coupled on. Much as he hated the delay,
he couldn't bring himself to refuse. Fortunately the
paper was being supplied with copy by the Associated
Press, whose representatives had been the first
newsmen to reach the scene.
Soon the special train consisted of eleven cars.
At the unscheduled stops in various small towns,
Gideon always stepped off to smoke a cigar and ask
for whatever new details had come in on the local
telegraph. All he heard were conflicting
stories, and wildly varying estimates of the death
toll. One man said six thousand were dead; another
said it was eight. When Moultrie Calhoun wrote
a dispatch datelined
Rolling toward Johnstown aboard the Union
Special,
he used the figure twelve thousand in his opening
paragraph. Gideon read it and slashed it out with a
pen:
"We're supposed to report the truth, not merely
sell papers, Moultrie. I appreciate that
we're dealing with the big"
g
"Johnstown's foreign population, particularly a
group of backslash vhiskey-maddened Slavs and
Hungarians, is running amok
dynamiting bank safes, looting private
homes, and relieving pitiable corpses of
jewelry and other valuables. These crazed
Europeans do not understand our way of life, let
alone the simplest rules of human decency. They
have no right to enjoy the privileges of citizenship.
They should be promptly deported, if they are not first
lynched by outraged Americans."
He flung the paper across the car. "Neither
newspaper as yet has a single representative
in Johnstown, for God's sake! And as far as I
know, the A.p. isn't transmitting any
dispatches about crazed Slavs and Hungarians."
"You're correct, sir. They are not."
"Then the paper simply invented the story. Make
sure we don't pick up any items like that and
rewrite 'em just to fill space."
"I will, Mr. Kent."
"And watch that business about the body count. If you
can't print facts, don't print rumors unless you
clearly identify them as such."
Calhoun shrugged. "Very well. I was only trying
to do what every other newsman will be doing. The more
bodies reported, the more papers-sold. I thought
you'd want-was
"You thought incorrectly," Gideon interrupted.
"You don't know me very well yet, Moultrie."
"I'm learning, sir. I'll be happy to omit the
figures. I too dislike compromising editorial
standards for the sake of extra circulation-whether the
advertising department approves or not."
He leaned forward to peer out the window. "What now?
We're slowing again."
"Good God. What town is it this time?" Gideon
spied a

"i
est story since Appomattox. But New York
already has a full quota of irresponsible
reporting."
He picked up two special flood extras
published on Saturday, and flourished one:
"The prestigious
Times
has Johnstown being wiped out by a waterspout. And
this other rag-have you seen what's on the front
page?" He read from the second paper:
T
depot sign in the spring sunshine. "Altoona!"
He reached for the signal cord.
Two sharp tugs brought the train to a standstill.
Gideon easily located the Daly troupe.
They'd announced a special Monday night
performance to benefit the flood victims, and everyone
in town knew where they were staying. But Gideon's
hope of finding Eleanor and Leo was shattered when
he spoke with Regis Pemberton at the troupe's
downtown hotel.
Pemberton explained why the Goldmans hadn't
taken the same eastbound train as the rest of the
company, who had only straggled into Altoona
aboard a work train after the passenger express had
been delayed for hours up in the mountains.
Gideon bolted out of the hotel and ran all the way
back to the depot despite chest pain and shortness of
breath that began before he'd gone a third of the distance.
ii
The train chugged on. Gideon sat brooding.
Pemberton's news had left him shaken and
fearful. This was just another example of the way fate
surprised a man at the very moment things seemed to be
going well. Only Friday, a telegraph
message had informed the Kents that Carter was safe and
well on the Pacific Coast. Julia had
enjoyed her first night of sound sleep in many
months.
As a consequence, so had he. But peace never seemed
to last long any more. His had lasted less than
forty-eight hours.
The train neared Johnstown late Sunday afternoon.
East of the city, the Pennsylvania rails had been
swept away for a distance of almost twenty miles. The
special was forced to come to a halt behind six other
trains lined up at the end of the track. Gideon's
men fanned out to search the countryside. One found a
farmer who would take the
Union
contingent the rest of caret the way in his wagon. The
farmer's price was outrageous but Gideon paid it
without so much as a question.
The wagon jolted up and down precipitous mountain
roads. By the time the
Union
men reached the devastated city, the sun had been down
half an hour. Gideon left the
affairs of the paper in Calhoun's hands and immediately
set out to look for his daughter and son-in-law.
He tramped through the ruins for three hours, searching
everywhere: soup kitchens; the aisles of an
improvised tent hospital; marshaling
stations at which homeless survivors were being assembled
for transportation to emergency shelters in nearby
villages. He even spent half an hour in a
temporary morgue.
He didn't find the Goldmans anywhere.
He asked questions again and again. It was impossible to get
consistent answers. Most every version of the disaster was
different. But one central fact was clear.
Hundreds and hundreds of people had simply disappeared
in the flood crest and its aftermath. He was
increasingly fearful that Eleanor and her husband were
among them.
in
He finally gave up the search and trudged wearily
back to the temporary headquarters members of the
press had established in a half-destroyed
firebrick plant. Inside a large Mln which had
somehow been spared, reporters and artists worked
by lantern light, writing and sketching on top of
whatever they could improvise for desks-everything from
planks to the backs of shovels and the lids of
coffins. There were reporters from most of the New
York, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh papers
on the scene now, and-correspondents on the way from
more distant cities as well as from abroad.
A new telegraph station was already clicking out copy
from a hillside above the stone bridge.
Gideon sank down on a keg and watched
Calhoun pencil a headline:
HORRENDOUS TOLL STILL UNKNOWN
IN DEATH'S VALLEY.
Casualties of the Fearsome Flood
Said to be Ten Thousand or M.
"Said to be," Gideon read, smiling without humor.
"At least you're being honest about your dishonesty."
Calhoun remained imperturbable. "Do we have a
reliable figure yet, sir?"
"We do not. The best guess seems to be somewhere between
twenty-two and twenty-three hundred, but I've
no proof that's correct. I've just heard it more
often than some other estimates."
Calhoun's pencil remained motionless above the sheet
of foolscap. "Shall I change the headline?" An
indifferent wave. "Don't bother." Calhoun
frowned. Gideon's answer told a good deal about
his mental state. Softly, the editor asked:
"Did you find them, sir?"
"No. The damn town's a madhouse.
Militiamen everywhere. Relief workers stumbling
over one another. Some of the townspeople
are starting to set up relic booths." Calhoun's
jaw dropped.
"Relic
booths, Mr. Kent?" "That's right. Any
unbroken plate, tarnished spoon, glass eye,
or hank of hair has suddenly been transformed
into a fabulous souvenir of the flood. The natives
seem to perceive a sizable market, and they're pricing
the items accordingly." He grimaced. "They're
probably smarter than we'd like to think. When people from
the outside arrive in large numbers, I expect
the souvenir trade will boom."
The editor nodded sad agreement. "I never cease
to be astonished by the human appetite for the tasteless
and the macabre."
He stood up; reached for his overcoat. The night
air was growing chilly.
"The other men are off hunting up material, Mr.
Kent. I'll go up and stand in line with this copy. It
will undoubtedly take at least an hour to get it on
the wire."
Shortly after Calhoun left the kiln, a handsome
young man appeared at the entrance. Gideon
recognized him at once. The other reporters were
dressed conventionally at best and poorly at
worst, but the new arrival wore an English
lounge suit, a yellow ulster with green stripes,
and swung a cane from one kid-gloved hand. It was a
standing joke in the profession that Mr. Richard
Harding Davis of the Philadelphia
Press
never removed those gloves to write his copy. Though
only in his mid-twenties, Davis had already
acquired a reputation as the most elegant
newsman on the Eastern seaboard; perhaps in the whole
country.
"They'll be putting up the first casualty lists in
thirty minutes, boys," Davis called to the
others. "Where?" shouted a man from the
World.
"By the main tent. See you there." With a jaunty
wave, he left.
Impatiently, Gideon waited for the half hour
to pass. When it was nearly up, he hurried to the
tent where long strips of crudely inked paper were being
nailed to a board made of pine planks. A
noisy crowd pushed and shoved in order to get a first
look at the columns of names. Gideon was about
to start working his way toward the front when he spied a
grimy face he thought he recognized.
He thrust a reporter out of the way; ignored the
man's scowl; looked again-
"Eleanorl"
iv
Struggling and shoving, he fought toward her. He
called her name a second time. She turned.
What he saw on her face chilled him. There was a
lackluster quality in her eyes; a dead look.
Her cheeks were red, as if she'd been crying.
"Eleanor-child-was Gideon felt tears in his own
eye as he folded her against him. "Thank God
you're alive. I talked to Pemberton in
Altoona. He told me you and Leo had stayed
behind. I've been searching for you ever since I arrived
four hours ago. Is Leo all right?"
"No, Papa. Leo's gone. I came to make
sure they posted his name up there. I told them to be
sure to include it. I told a military officer,
I think. I don't remember that part very clearly."
Gideon was numbed by what she said, and by the remote
way she said it. He'd never seen his daughter so
bedraggled, or acting so strangely. With the utmost
gentleness, he asked:
"What happened to Leo?"
A bitter smile. "He met a man who
never read your Independence Day editorials."
"I don't understand."
She came to life then. Anger stiffened her shoulders
as she said:
"You know, Papa-one of your editorials saying how
splendid it is to be an American. It isn't
splendid if you have an accent or go to the wrong
church. It isn't splendid
if you're a darky or a Jew. You love to write
about the opportunity in this country. I finally understand
what you mean. The opportunity to be hated. The
opportunity to be killed solely because of who you
are."
"Eleanor, you still haven't told me about-was
"Leo
drowned,
Papa. A man pushed him in the water, and you know
he couldn't swim. The man didn't like Jews,
and-and-was
She couldn't sustain the anger. Her eyes grew
dull again. Her shoulders sagged.
"What does it matter? Leo's gone. I've
been searching for him all day. I searched yesterday,
too. There's no trace of him. Finally I told
someone to put his name up there. Do you see
what it says?"
In the light of a windblown torch held aloft so the
reporters and relatives could scan the list,
Gideon read the heading scrawled above the columns
of names:
NOT KNOWN TO BE FOUND
She laughed. "Isn't that a fine turn of
phrase? 'not known to be found." It's like the
pretty talcum the undertaker dusted on Mama's
cheeks after she died. Why don't they say what they
mean? Lost.
Lost."
Then, weeping like a child, she slumped in his arms.
He continued to hold her as a photographer set
off flashlight powder with a whoosh of smoke and a
dazzle of light. The man smiled, pleased at
having recorded the scene for posterity.
Spots danced in Gideon's good eye. Finally his
vision cleared. Staring over his daughter's head, he
hunted among the names beginning with G. At last he
found
Goldman, Leo.
Put there by Eleanor herself-an act that made him
fear for her well-being.
He held her close and let her sob.
He'd always worried about Eleanor and her husband
encountering all-too- prevalent bigotry. But
he'd never imagined bigotry could cost Leo his
life. That it had only made his daughter's
future the more uncertain. For a moment, Gideon
actually feared for her sanity.
More torches were streaming around him. Nearby, a young
man wept; had he lost a wife? A child cried in
his mother's arms; had he lost a father? The dead were not the
only ones lost, Gideon thought, just as another
charge of flashlight powder exploded. The
photographer had set up his camera within three
feet of the grief-stricken young man, taking his
picture while he wept.
When Gideon saw that, he left Eleanor, moved
quickly through the crowd, picked up the photographer's
camera by the tripod and hurled it to the ground. He was
too angry to wonder why the photographer didn't
attempt to stop him.
He stamped on the wooden body of the camera and on
the tripod, breaking all the legs. He twisted the
lens ring, loosened the multiple discs of glass,
and broke them under his heel. Finally, he made
sure the plate was ruined. He flung it at the
photographer's feet:
"For Christ's sake let these people mourn in
privacy!"
"Mr. Kent-was Nervously twisting a corner of his
black camera drape, the incredulous man stammered
out the words. "comdon't-don't you recognize me?
I work for you."
Gideon saw it was true. "Not any more," he said.
"Collect your wages from Calhoun."
He walked back toward his daughter. Eleanor
simply stood waiting, hands at her sides, dirt
and blood all over her skirt, a blank look in
her eyes. A profound despair filled Gideon
as he put his arm around her shoulder.
"Well start for home in the morning," he said.
It took great effort for her to rouse from whatever
reverie had claimed her. Comprehension returned
to her eyes only slowly. At last she said:
"We must tell Leo's father. I'm sure there's
some-ritual of their faith that ought to be carried out."
"I don't know. But we'll stop in New York
before traveling on to Boston. I'll personally find
Efrem Goldman and tell him what happened. I
know words are no good at a time like this, but I want you
to hear this much, Eleanor. You must let Julia and
me care for you in Boston during this terrible
period. That way, perhaps it won't be so long before the
grief passes."
"It won't pass, Papa."
"I know you feel that way now, but-
n
"It won'tea** she cut in, with a savagery that
raised echoes of the past. "I never told him-was
"Told him what?"
After a long moment, she answered, "That I loved
hm.**
Her voice was remote, and the words weren't the ones
she had intended to say, of that he was sure. A mask
had dropped into place. She turned to stare at the
columns of names.
A half minute went by. Very softly, he said:
"Eleanor?"
She didn't answer, or even give any indication
that she'd heard.
vi
Flood relief committees were organized in almost
every American city of any size. Gideon served
on the Boston committee and, because of his business
interests, on that in New York as well.
On the New York committee he worked with men such
as August Belmont, the financier,
Daniel Frohman the theatrical producer,
New York Central president Chauncey
Depew, rival newspaperman Charles Dana,
and former president Cleveland. Together the men
directed the raising of funds and the purchase and
shipment of supplies for the stricken town.
There was also an old friend on the New York
committee:
"I got this at the meeting. Theodore brought it."
Disgust on his face, Gideon laid the souvenir
spoon on a small rosewood table at
Julia's side. It was a sultry afternoon in late
June. Sunlight cast bright patches on the
carpet of the Fifth Avenue Hotel parlor, but
sections of the large room lay in shadow.
The spoon glowed in a sunbeam. Julia leaned
over the left arm of her chair to study it. "How on
earth did he get hold of such a thing?"
"An acquaintance mailed it from Johnstown-along
with a letter of protest. Theodore didn't unwrap the
package until our committee was in session. The
minute he saw this charming item, he went off like a
mortar. He demanded that the jeweler who designed and
sold it be arrested and
sent to jail. On what grounds, he
didn't quite make clear. He shouted that he'd take
the case to Washington if we refused to become
involved."
"Did the committee become involved?"
"No. We persuaded him that there's no way on
God's earth to legislate greed out of existence.
In his calmer moments, Theodore knows that."
Julia picked up the spoon. "By the way, you never
told me whether Theodore made a decision about
Washington. Is he going to take the post with the
Harrison administration?"
Gideon nodded. "The salary's a munificent
thirty-five hundred dollars a year. But he
really feels he can do something worthwhile as a
civil service commissioner. I hope he's right.
God knows the government needs a comprehensive
merit system. Right now, a congressman can get his
favorite nephew a good job even if the boy's
the village idiot."
He noticed Julia moving her thumb back and forth
over the raised designs on the spoon. He
frowned:
"Logic aside, I agree with Theodore about that
thing. The man who's peddling them should be flogged."
"I'm not sure I recognize everything
depicted on it. Do you?"
She handed the spoon to him. He held it up;
pointed to the handle:
"That's the dam that gave way."
His finger slid down the shaft. "This is supposed
to be the Conemaugh River coming down in full flood
upon-was He touched the bottom of the bowl of the spoon.
"The stone bridge." Color in his cheeks, he
flung the spoon back on the table. It made a
loud clacking, and stirred motes in a sunbeam. The
two Kents started at an unexpected voice:
"Please get that thing out of here."
Gideon turned to see Eleanor standing at the
bedroom door. She wore widow's weeds,
unadorned by even a trace of white. That and the deep
shadow surrounding her made it seem as if her pale
hands and face floated in darkness.
With a tone of apology, Gideon began, "I had
no idea you'd returned from your shopping-was
She didn't let him finish: "I shouldn't have gone.
The crowds were frightful. I don't think I'll try
again. I was resting with the door open when I heard you and
Julia
talkiftg. There are enough reminders of Leo's death
as it is, Papa. Get rid of that filthy
thing!"
Her skirt rustled as she glided out of sight.
With a stricken look, he slipped the spoon in his
pocket. "I really thought she was still out. Otherwise
I'd never have shown you the infernal thing."
"I know, darling." Julia gave his forearm a
gentle pat. "I know that. It's a small
mistake. You mustn't feel so guilty."
Gideon's blue eye fixed on the patch of
darkness where his daughter had disappeared. He stood
up suddenly; struck a match and held it to his
cigar. Wreathed in blue smoke, he started
to pace.
backslash
"She's a very strong girl, Julia. But this
unfeeling manner she's adopted since she came
home upsets me. The only time she displays an
iota of emotion is when she tells me how vile this
country is. She's developed an unreasonable
hatred of America-was
"N. so unreasonable," Julia countered. "Think
of the way immigrants are treated. Think of what the
Negroes' lot has been for years. Eleanor's
feelings are completely understandable when you recall
what she went through as Leo's wife.
Large and small humiliations. An attack on his
father. And finally his death. You must see her side of
it."
"I do! But we aren't talking about some sort of-
intellectual posture. We're talking about her
response to the death of her
husband.
She ought to show some sorrow. Weep! She did the
night I found her in Johnstown, but she's held
back ever since."
"Well, she's always been a very private sort of
person. She's never told us what happened to her in
'77, for instance, and we've agreed that she
probably never will. Perhaps Leo's death was the same
kind of shock. Perhaps it hurts too much for her
to mourn him in a conventional way."
"She should let it hurt, so she'll recover.
Bottling everything inside is just no good."
"I'm sure she's acting."
"What!"
"Acting," Julia repeated with a small shrug.
"Playing a role. It may be that she's been
offended by all the howling and breast-beating that sometimes
accompanies the death of a loved one. I suspect
she's picked another role. A more
restrained one. Your daughter's very accomplished at
playing any role she chooses for herself-was
Role.
That was it. Julia had said it without understanding it. Days
ago, he should have realisted what Fl caret anor was
doing. It had nothing to do with a dislike of the hvsteria that
often followed funerals. It was something she'd done
before-something so frightening in its implications that his mind
must have evaded an acknowledgment of it.
"Darling, what's wrong?" Julia said, noting his
stricken look.
"I know why she hides her feelings."
"What's that?"
"I say I know why she hides her feelings! It
just came to me. You used the word role a moment ago.
Don't you see what role Eleanor's playing?
No, I suppose I shouldn't expect that. You
never knew her."
Confused, Julia shook her head:
"Knew Eleanor-?"
"Margaret.
Eleanor's acting like her mother."
"Oh, dear God, Gideon-what are you saying?"
His expression was anguished. "I've caught
glimpses of it before. In the last few
years before Margaret died, she was rigid,
secretive, obsessed with herself. Eleanor's
playing the part to perfection, whether she realizes it
or not. It's to be expected that she'd somewhat
resemble her mother. I suppose most daughters do.
But Leo's death-was He could barely utter the rest.
"Somehow, it's pushing her beyond the bounds of a normal
family resemblance. Eleanor's responding to her
loss just the way Margaret responded to her
problems. By shutting out the world as completely as she
could. To a certain extent, Eleanor did that when
Leo was alive. Now that he's gone, she's still doing
it-but now it's her entire existence."
Silence. Julia pondered, looking as upset as
her husband. Finally she said:
"What a terrifying thought. I fear you may be right.
It explains so many things. She's never impolite
when I speak to her. But neither is she remotely
interested in what I have to say-or in sharing her thoughts
with me."
"Nor with me-except when she reviles the whole
damn country for what one man did." He reached out
to squeeze his wife's hand. "You mustn't take her
behavior as any kind of personal insult-was
"Oh, I don't. But I'm
desperately worried about her."
"With good reason." He pointed to a six-inch stack
of letters and telegrams on a side table. "No
wonder she hasn't replied to any of those
messages of sympathy from her colleagues-or to the
offers of work. She's read a few, but she hasn't
answered a single one. I asked her."
As if trying to disprove Gideon's frightening thesis,
Julia countered, "Well-conventionally speaking, she's
supposed to mourn for a year."
"Julia! When have actresses-or the Kents-ever
worried about convention? She ought to go back to work the
moment she's able. It would help her survive her
grief. But she's no longer interested in the theater.
She isn't interested in anything."
tilde tilde
And neither was her mother after she began her descent
to madness.
Husband and wife were silent then. Another punishing
thought struck Gideon:
Lost is truly the word for this whole family now.
The word had come to mind that night six years ago when
he'd wandered down to the Boston piers, speculating
about the family's future. Much had changed since
then. But nothing had improved. If
anything, the situation was far worse.
Carter was off at the other end of the continent and might
never amount to anything. Will was pursuing his ambition
to be a Society doctor, and was completely
dominated by a girl of questionable reputation. Eleanor
hated and scoffed at everything the Kents stood for-and not
long ago he'd regarded her as the family's only
potential leader.
What a misguided fool he'd been. Not only was
she lost to the family-she might be lost to life itself.
He recalled another fact about Margaret's
descent to madness. Once begun, it had been
unstoppable.
He and Julia stared hopelessly at one another in
the blue- tinted sunshine. Soon she rose,
murmuring:
"I want to see if she's all right."
She walked to Eleanor's door, tapped softly,
received no answer and reached for the knob. Even before she
spoke, Gideon knew what she would say:
"It's locked."
With a sad shake of her head, she disappeared into her
own room. While the disturbed cigar smoke slowly
came to rest again, Gideon at last relaxed his
face and let his discomfort show.
He fought for breath as a spike of pain in the center
of his chest held him in his chair. It was the worst
pain he'd ever experienced. He knew with certainty
that his days were fast running out.
Book Five The Marble
Cottage
Summer
of "dis9
FOR WILL, IT WAS a tense and troubled summer.
He was twenty that year. A difficult age,
Julia teasingly remarked to him once. Too young
to be fully launched in life, and too old to be
at home under the scrutiny of a strong-willed father.
Will's response was a vigorous nod. Relations
between Gideon and his son were polite, but that was all.
Each felt angry with the other, and suppressed it.
As the days passed, it became more and more likely that
some insignificant event would shatter the
artificial calm and let that anger erupt with
disastrous consequences. Some days Will dreaded it; at
other times, he couldn't wait for it to happen. Often
he didn't know how the hell he felt.
He had volunteered as a ward orderly at the
Massachusetts General Hospital. He
preferred working and learning to idling around
Beacon Street while he waited for the end of
July. At that time he planned to spend eight or
ten days with the Fennels at their new summer home in
Newport. Gideon knew about the trip, of
course. It was one of the reasons he was testy with his
son.
Will was eager to visit Newport, but much less
enthusiastic about the trip he was to take immediately
afterward. From Rhode Island he planned to go straight
to New York, to fulfill the promise made that
morning at the Statue of Liberty.
Drew was part of the reason Will felt so unsettled.
For three years, the two friends had studied,
worried, argued, and joked together. Now Drew had
finished his course and graduated. Doctor of
Medicine, 1889. He was already at work in
Manhattan's notorious Sixth Ward, caring for
some of the patients of the doctor whose practice he
shared. His brief letters reminded Will in cheerful but
pointed fashion that he was counting on his friend's
visit.
Will loathed the idea of going into the slums, but he'd
made a promise, and heMore honor it. He told
no one, though. Not his parents, and certainly not
Laura.
Laura. He thought of her often. At night he
lay in the humid darkness and imagined how she would
look stripped of all those layers of silk and
cotton and steel boning that produced the Lillian
Russell figure-tiny waist, swelling bosom-that
young ladies wanted so badly. The waking dreams were
painful for W. He was strong and in good health, and he
hadn't been with a woman since his first and only
visit to Madam Melba's.
One thing did please him, though. Carter was happy
for a change. He was in San Francisco, working
for a politician named Buckley.
"My God, I've read about that rascal,"
Gideon had exclaimed when he first read the news
in a letter. "They say he makes Boss Croker
and the rest of the Tammany thieves look like heavenly
cherubs by comparison. Where the hell is this family
going?"
Carter seemed to have found his niche. He ran errands
and drafted letters for Buckley, who exercised
phenomenal power in the Bay Area. He said he was
enjoying the life, learning a lot, and making
important connections that would favorably influence
his future.
Will hoped all of that was true. Whether it was
or not, he was glad to read cheerful letters from Carter
at long last.
Will was working hard to fulfill his promise to his
stepbrother. In another year, he'd be ready
to establish a practice like that of the very successful
Dr. Vlandingham- whether his father liked it or not.
By doing that, it was also conceivable that he could carry the
famfly one rung higher on a ladder Gideon and
Julia would be forever unable to climb. In fact he
might be able to lift the Kents to the very highest level
of American Society-a goal not entirely
unworthy of a family which prided itself on
achievement, he frequently reminded himself.
And yet, thoughts of Drew's situation sometimes soured
the taste of Will's ambition, generated doubt, and
drove the promise to Carter from his mind.
Gideon frequently made unflattering comments about
the Fennels. And, in a household in which daily
events were the grist for the family business, there was
seldom a meal without some talk of politics. Those
discussions provided additional opportunities for
Will and his father to quarrel.
A storm of social protest was rising in the West
and South that year. Farmers in both regions felt
they were being exploited by the railroads, whose
owners still formed secret combinations to fix freight
rates, and by bankers who did the same for interest
rates. High interest made it almost impossible for
farmers to borrow for expansion, let alone survive
one or more seasons of drought.
Even the government had become the farmer's enemy.
Most politicians were in the pockets of the
capitalist manufacturers comor so the farmers said.
There was certainly some evidence to support the
claim. A high tariff imposed by Congress
reduced the flow of imported goods. Thus farm
families could only buy domestically made
products-but the prices had been set so high, the
farmers couldn't afford them.
Finally, the farmers wanted an increase in the money
supply. They proposed to bring this about by removing the
U.s. from an exclusive gold standard and
supplementing paper money that was backed by gold with
unlimited coinage of silver.
Organizations were formed to fight for farmers" rights and
redress their grievances. Successors to the
Grange of a decade earlier, the new
organizations-the Southern and Northwestern
Alliances-were considerably more militant.
Gideon called them evangelists of an
agrarian revolt, and did so with the enthusiasm of a
man anticipating a championship prize fight.
Will often found himself speaking against the Alliances,
since that was the position taken by Laura's father.
Thur- man Fennel damned the members of the two
Alliances as illiterate immigrants and Southern
traitors who had banded together to promote anarchy.
Will repeated that assertion. But he had no evidence
to support it. Gideon easily demolished his
arguments with facts and sarcasm.
The farmers were allied with the powerful Knights of
Labor, and loomed as a formidable political force
in the decade ahead. Will parrotted Fennel's
view that the Repub-
lican Party had nothing to worry about. Its control
of all branches of the federal government created a
barricade no wild-eyed reformer could ever breach.
Gideon countered with the argument that the party was
essentially powerless, because its majority
in
the House of Representatives was so slim. The
Democrats had the votes to block almost any
legislation. The result would not be a
pro-Democratic Congress, of course, but one which
did nothing.
And yet that summer, the powerful Republican
Speaker of the House, rotund Tom Reed of
Maine-Czar Reed, some called him-was already
predicting that the Fifty-first Congress scheduled
to convene in December would be the first in history
to spend a billion dollars. Only fitting,
Reed declared. America's wealth had reached a
phenomenal level. A billion-dollar country
deserved a billion-dollar Congress.
Meantime, huge sums had been raised for relief
in Johnstown. The city was setting up its
rebuilding program and trying to erase the horror
of the flood from collective memory. That horror
lingered like a ghost in the house on Beacon Street;
Will felt its eerie presence whenever he spent time with
his sister.
Eleanor kept to herself a good deal, and continued to wear
black to honor Leo's memory. Occasionally she
denounced the country in fiery, almost incoherent
language- performances Gideon endured in
red-faced silence-but those outbursts were her only
displays of emotion. She seldom mentioned her
husband's name.
Yet in Eleanor's dark eyes, Will thought he
glimpsed a pain, a memory-an
unmentionable
something
comshe was constantly fighting to suppress. He asked
her about it one Sunday afternoon when he took her for a
walk on the Common.
She assured him there was nothing specific troubling
her, only the general exhaustion and shock that were the
legacies of Johnstown. Her replies were
uncharacteristically sharp, and Will wasn't satisfied she
was telling the truth. But there was no way to prove
otherwise, and he let the
matter rest.
One thing that was emerging plainly was that Eleanor had
no interest in returning to the theater. That became
certain soon after the day a large package arrived
for her.
When Julia asked about the package at dinner,
Eleanor said it contained a script sent by a
producer, Daniel Froh- man's younger brother,
Charles. He wanted her to read it. She said no
more caret
After dinner, Will went to her room in the hope of
getting her to talk about the script. He knocked but
Eleanor didn't open the door. She asked
him
to come back another time because she was sleepy.
She sounded wide awake.
The next day Will found the script on the floor beside
a. wicker chair in the solarium. Gideon had
built the solarium a few years earlier, at the
third story front. It provided a magnificent
view of the State House dome, the rooftops of
Boston, and the leafy Common just across Beacon
Street.
Will sat down and opened the cover of the script; he
found a note tucked inside. With only a slight
feeling of guilt he unfolded the note. Charles
Frohman apologized for intruding on Eleanor's
grief, but did so because he considered the accompanying
script superior in every respect. He hoped she
would read it, and think about taking a role when he
produced the play in September. He was sure it
would be a huge success.
He browsed through the first couple of acts of the hand-
copied manuscript. The play was entitled
Shenandoah.
Its author, Bronson Crocker Howard, had
turned to the Civil War for his theme and setting. It
seemed a dramatic and well-written play; Will
regretted his sister's lack of interest.
He left the script where he found it. Gideon
picked it up in the same place a day later. That
night he brought it into the dinner conversation:
"When I saw your script, Eleanor-was
"Not mine," she interrupted. "Frohman's."
He drew a deep breath and went on, "comI
realized the war was truly over. Playwrights and
novelists only return to a war for subject
matter when the older veterans start dying off, and
it's no longer so painful for the public to recall the
conflict. It certainly took long enough in this
case-twenty-four years. The funny thing is,
sometimes it doesn't seem long at all. Sometimes
it seems like only a moment ago that Jeb Stuart was
leading a troop of the First Virginia up to the
Yankee lines so we could get accustomed to the sound
of cannon. Only a moment-was
A melancholy expression had erased his earlier
pique. He went on matter-offactly:
"You aren't interested in auditioning for the gentleman,
then?"
"For a play about this country?" Eleanor laughed, and
Gideon's cheeks darkened again. "No, I
certainly am not. Besides, Charles Frohman's
never had a success in New York."
"I see," Julia murmured. Scarlet,
Gideon concentrated on his food. He kept
silent with great effort.
That evening, for the first time, Will stopped looking at
Gideon as a parent and considered him as a man
exhibiting symptoms. The result was
unexpectedly alarming. From now on he must keep his
eyes open.
As for Eleanor, Will didn't believe it was only
Leo's death which had caused her cold rejection of the
outside world. Something terrible had happened in
Johnstown. He was positive of it when he came
home late one night from an outing with friends from the
hospital. He passed his sister's door; heard
her tossing and ranting in a nightmare.
He paused in the silent hallway, listening. A
few words were clear:
"comno, you didn't hear me say that. I never said
such a thing.
Never!"
The rest was muffled. But the fright and anger in her
voice spoke eloquently. He shivered. What
had she denied saying? And to whom?
He might never know. Whatever the nature of her
secret, he feared it was destroying her.

Underneath his resentment, Will harbored a deep love
for his father. So, as the summer wore on, he began
to pay more attention to Gideon's physical condition.
What he saw upset him.
Early in June he developed a tentative
diagnosis. Then one boiling afternoon he came into the
downstairs office and discovered Gideon sitting
absolutely still in a chair under old Philip's
portrait. It was hard to tell that he was breathing.
Although Gideon was only forty-six, his beard was
rapidly turning white to match the hair at his
temples. Permanent wrinkles already creased his
face. He would admit to his family that he
suffered from rheumatism, but nothing more; nothing
to explain his pale, sweat-stippled skin, or his
peculiar pose of breathless rigidity.
But Will understood that pose perfectly. It fitted his
diagnosis. It was the classic self-imposed
immobility of the person trying to calm the anguishing
pains of angina.
Will was determined to try to validate that diagnosis,
which at this stage was little more than an informed guess.
Gideon winced and stood up. Will clasped his father's
hand in greeting-something he seldom did.
The action so startled the older man, Will was able
to feel for Gideon's pulse without detection.
He only managed to catch two beats. But they
seemed unusually far apart. A slow, labored
pulse was another symptom of the inappropriately
named angina, which had nothing to do with strangulation, even
though its Latin root,
angere,
suggested otherwise.
That night after dinner, Will commented on the hot weather,
then casually asked Gideon whether the heat was
causing him any discomfort. Any problems with
sleeping or breathing. Any chest pains-
"No!"
Gideon's answer was quick, sharp, and presumably
final. Still, the vehemence of it only served to convince
Will that his father had meant exactly the opposite, and
was deliberately hiding the truth from the family.

To add to the emotional strain in the household,
Gideon's stepmother, Molly Kent, was stricken with
heat prostration down at Long Branch. Molly was
sixty-six. She hadn't been well for the past
eight or nine years.
The news came on the twenty-second of
July; two days before Will's departure for
Newport. Julia was in Scranton, lecturing.
Gideon sent her a telegram. As soon as she
received it, she immediately dispatched two of her own. One
was to the headquarters of her association, canceling the
remaining week and half of her tour of
Pennsylvania and
Ohio. The other was a reply to Gideon, telling
him that she knew he was busy, and assuring him that she
could handle the emergency by herself. She'd send for him
only if it became necessary. She boarded the next
express for Philadelphia, and changed there for
Long Branch.
Just in case he received a sudden summons from
Julia, Gideon that day visited the Boston
shipyard where
Au- vergne
was careened for repairs to her hull. The
yard8superintendent told him the yacht couldn't be
ready for at least four days. That enraged Gideon,
even though he was the one who had ordered the scraping and
painting. When he returned home, he grumbled and
complained-he was becoming an irascible old man, Will
thought sadly. Perhaps a very sick one, too.
At breakfast the next day, Gideon
confessed he'd slept hardly at all. Will knew
he'd better tread lightly. His father seemed
determined not to permit it:
"Still leaving for Newport tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nothing worthwhile on that damned island except
Ma- han and the college."
The installation to which he referred, the Naval War
College, was barely four years old. There the
Navy trained officers for future command
responsibilities. Captain Alfred Mahan,
one of the professors, had recently made a name for
himself with a series of lectures on the influence of
sea power on world history during the years 1600
to 1783. The lectures were soon to be published as
a book. Kent and Son had already purchased the right
to reprint it in a cheap edition.
Mahan was what Gideon called an expansionist;
a man who felt it was the United States' destiny
to extend its influence around the globe, via
warships, just as it had extended itself from the Atlantic
to the Pacific, buying or swallowing up the
territory of others until it became an
ocean-to-ocean country.
Gideon didn't approve of all
Mahan's ideas, but he considered them to have a certain
inevitability. Political thinkers such as Mr.
Roosevelt were fascinated by Mahan's theories-and
that strongly suggested the course America might
follow in the next couple of decades.
At the moment, however, Gideon's reference
to Newport
had a much more personal motivation. Will resisted an
urge to retort, saying instead:
"I'd be happy to offer my services to Molly.
I can easily delay my trip and go to Long
Branch instead."
"No, thank you," Gideon shot back. "I
prefer to have my stepmother attended by a doctor who
takes medicine seriously."
"And I don't?"
"In my opinion, you're in training to treat the
nerves and vapors of debutantes."
Livid, Will rose and flung down his napkin. Before
Gideon could say anything, he walked out of the dining
room.
He only kept his anger in check by reminding himself
that his father was in poor health and undoubtedly worn out
from a night of worrying about Jephtha Kent's
widow. Besides, he'd be on his way
to Newport in a little more than twenty-four hours.
No point in causing a scene before he left. All
the ingredients were certainly present for one. Will
knew he'd better continue to tread lightly.
Events of July 23 conspired to rob Will of
sleep, too. That night he again met a group of
friends from the hospital. They had dinner at a tavern
near the office of the Boston
Globe.
Every few minutes the
Globe
received telegraphic dispatches from a secret site
in Mississippi where Jake Kilrain was meeting
John L. Sullivan for the world's boxing
championship. The men were fighting bare-knuckle
style. That was already illegal in thirty-eight
states, hence the secret location.
The telegraphic reports, summarized on chalk
boards in front of the newspaper, were slow to come in.
It was late when the outcome was posted for a small but
noisy crowd which included Will and his friends. The
Boston Strong Boy had won the $20,000
purse by knocking out the half- dead Kilrain in the
seventy-fifth round.
A cheer went up. Will and his friends decided
it wasn't too late for one more round to celebrate
Sullivan's victory. One round became
several. It was four-thirty in the morning when Will
staggered up Beacon Street, lascivious , thoughts
of Laura chasing through his head and a bedraggled cat
miaowing at his heels.
Will's ears seemed to be buzzing as he lurched up the
front steps. He stumbled; fell against the
projecting metal
key which sounded an inside bell when twisted. He
thought he heard the bell ring. Flung a finger to his
lips:
"Sssh!"
He'd better not go in until he could walk a little
more steadily. He sat down on the steps under the
paling stars and again thought of Laura. She'd never
been carried away to the point of losing control and
letting him do anything he wished. But he suspected
that under the proper circumstances, she might-
Laura Fennel was a shining and wondrous creature;
desirable; altogether perfect. She was also his entree to a
world from which his father would be forever barred.
The wind blew gently, sweet with the smell of the
ocean. The sky began to lighten. At last Will
tottered to his feet and turned to the
front door. A drunken determination surged through
him. He knew Gideon wasn't a healthy man,
but compassion had its limits. If his father refused
to accept Laura as a prospective
daughter-in-law, he could go to hell. Will was old enough
to marry whomever he wanted. And he was ready to say
exactly that-or anything else that became necessary-should
Gideon force the issue.
Later that same day, he did.
CHAPTER II
Quarrel
WILL FOLDED SHIRTS AND piled them in his
valise. It was two in the afternoon. The bedroom was
broiling, the house exceptionally still. His head still ached
from the previous night's binge; every noise was an
irritation, whether it was the buzz of a fly near the
ceiling or the happy shout of a youngster careening down
Beacon on a bicycle. Bicycling had recently
become very popular with children and even with some adventurous
adults.
Will had his mind on pleasure of a different kind. A
let562
ter from Laura had arrived in the morning mail. She
said she couldn't wait to see him.
To protect the next ite.m he packed,
he surrounded it with several pairs of socks. The
object thus protected was a brand-new, box-like
affair with a pebbled black finish; one of George
Eastman's amazing Number One Kodak
Cameras, put on the market just the preceding year.
Eastman was revolutionizing photography;
transforming it from a tool of portrait makers and
journalists to a pastime anyone could enjoy.
Eastman's factory packed and shipped the camera
with roll film already inside. After Will had snapped
all his shots, he'd mail the camera back
to Rochester where the film would be taken out and
processed and the pictures printed and returned together
with the reloaded camera.
He folded a pair of white flannels into the
valise, then pulled out his watch. Soon it would be
time to go. He had a ticket on a four p.m.
train to the little town of Wickford, Rhode Island.
He'd stop overnight at an inn there, and in the
morning board a side-wheel steamer which made daily
runs between Wickford and the flourishing summer colony
at the south end of Aquidneck Island.
The passenger and freight steamer
Eolus
was one of the two favorite means of
transportation of Newport's many warm-weather
tourists, the other being the Fall River boats out of
New York. Of course the rich didn't sully
themselves by taking public transportation to the island-not
even a steamer as opulent as one of those on the Fall
River Line. The elite arrived in private
rail cars, or on personal yachts far larger and
grander than
Auvergne.
It struck Will that his father would probably hull and
sink his own yacht rather than see it docked at
Newport among the boats of people he loathed.
He heard footsteps ascending the hall stairs, out
of sight beyond the open door of the bedroom. Without
listening closely he assumed the steps to be
Gideon's. On hot afternoons the owner of Kent and
Son often came home early.
The last thing he wanted right now was an encounter with his
father. To keep calm, he concentrated on closing and
locking his valise.
The footsteps grew louder. He strode to the window
and looked down at the Common.
"Will? Are you in there?"
He swung toward the door, hearing a second sound
his anxiety had made him miss; the sound
of rustling petticoats.
He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face.
"Yes, Eleanor. Come in."
u
His sister was still shockingly pale, and a good twenty
pounds thinner than she'd been when Gideon brought
her home from Pennsylvania. Will assumed she'd just
returned from Watertown. Once a week she
drove, there with flowers for Leo's empty grave.
She had wanted Leo's monument placed in the
Kent family burying ground despite his father's
wish that it be located in a Jewish cemetery in
Manhattan. Finally Efrem Goldman had
relented.
"I see you're ready to go."
"Almost."
"I just wanted to wish you a happy journey." She
picked
up her black bombazine skirt, rearranging it as
she sat on
the bed with that natural grace which drew and held every
eye when she was on stage.
"Thank you. Did you see the mail I put
outside your door?"
Her nod was listless.
"There was one from Philadelphia. The Arch Street
Theatre -"
"Louisa Drew," she said. "She heard what
happened, and she wants me for a full season.
Leo and I had a wonderful year with Louisa."
"I remember. Don't you think you'd like going back
to work?"
"I couldn't stand it. I couldn't face people. The questions,
the continual talk about Johnstown, and Leo-was
"Well, I see your point. Perhaps if you wait a
little longer, you could go back to Daly's."
She shook her head. "Mr. Daly's been very
kind. But he had to find two replacements immediately.
Otherwise the touring company couldn't have fulfilled
its bookings. I can never go back with him. The
memories would be too immediate. God knows they're
bad enough fiere, where I'm by myself-was
Despite the indications that her temper was short, his
conscience forced him to press his views:
"That's precisely the point, Eleanor. Working
might take your mind off all that's happened."
"I don't
want
to work again, can't you understand that?" His heart almost broke
as she stared at him-and through him-to some
terrible moment in the past. Her voice lost strength:
"All I want to do is keep from losing my mind."
She jolted and frightened him with that last statement, andwiththe
strange look she gave him for a moment. A
supplicant's look; the look of a terrified child
pleading for help. He decided to push ahead:
"Eleanor, if there's anything you'd like to discuss-you
know, on a confidential basis-I have some understanding of
problems of the nerves. I'd be glad to listen to-was
"There is no problem except forgetting
Johnstown- which can't be done. There is nothing
to discuss!" It was as abrupt as a fire curtain
thudding down.
He glanced away and shrugged. "Whatever you say."
Suddenly he heard a noise at the door. He'd
been so preoccupied with the conversation, he'd missed the
approach of other footsteps-
And now, unprepared, he faced the person he least
wanted to see.
in
Gideon had a smoldering cigar in one hand, a
telegraph message in the other. Eleanor gathered
her skirts and stood. Gideon waved the cigar,
leaving a heavy blue tracery in the humid air:
"You needn't leave, Eleanor. You should
both hear this piece of news. Happy news for a
change-though I'm damned
if
we need extra commotion just now."
Gideon's sleeves were rolled above his elbows and a
palm leaf fan was stuck in his back pocket. His
rumpled appearance coupled with his tone of voice
told Will that he needed to be extremely careful not
to antagonize him.
Eleanor pointed to the telegram. "Does that concern
Molly?"
"No." He handed her the paper. She read it, then
gave it to Will and said:
"Mr. Calhoun and Miss Vail plan to be
married."
"It comes as no surprise to me," Gideon said.
Chewing on his cigar, he stalked to the window.
"I just wish to hell they'd wait a while," he
added. "As you can see from Calhoun's message,
they'd like to have the wedding in the suite at the Fifth
Avenue Hotel. That's no problem. But Julia
will undoubtedly want to supervise the reception, and
we'll have to attend as a family. With Molly
ill, I'm not certain we'll be able-was
He stopped, noticing Will's frown. "You
have a comment?"
Will tapped the telegram. "The wedding's to be the first
Saturday in August?"
"That's what it says."
"And you want us all to attend?"
"Yes, I expect you to be present."
That weekend Will would be helping Drew in New
York-secretly. He certainly didn't want
to show up at the Fifth Avenue Hotel and be forced
to explain in the presence of guests, hotel help,
and a clergyman why he was in the city. Laura said the
publisher of
Town Topics
had spies everywhere. And since Will's name had been
associated with hers almost constantly during the past
months, if Colonel Mann found out about his little
vacation in the Mulberry Street slums, he would
surely print something about it. The Fennels wouldn't
like that kind of notoriety. More important, he'd
promised Laura that he'd do no more horse
doctoring, as she called it.
All in all, the situation was extremely tricky;
for that reason he finally said:
"I'm not sure it'll be possible for me to be there,
Papa." His
Gideon jerked the cigar out of his mouth. "Too
busy with that crowd of socialites?"
"Something like that," Will replied in a cold voice.
"I surely wish you'd tell me one thing, sir.
Why the hell are you so antagonistic toward the
Fennels?"
"It's no trick to explain that. In fact I thought
I'd already done so. I despise the way the
Fennels live, and I despise what they
represent. I particularly despise what they
represent."
"Oh? Since when has this family begun scorning
money?"
"Don't be snide, young man. It isn't money
I object to,
it's something else entirely. President
Jefferson identified it best. He said-was
Will raised his hands. "Spare me the history
lesson."
"No, by God. You need it. Jefferson said men are
naturally divided by temperament into two classes.
Those who fear and distrust ordinary people, and want
to concentrate power in the hands of a small, select
elite-and those who trust and cherish ordinary people, and
think of them as the safest, if not always the
wisest repositories of power."
"Papa, I really haven't time to listen to a
lecture on theories of government."
"But a lecture is what you need! The Kents have
always belonged in the second group. Your newfound
friends are entrenched members of the first. They seem to have
enticed you into it as well."
Will flushed. Eleanor stepped between the two men:
"Papa, you have no right to say such things to W. And that
quotation is perfectly ridiculous! It's the
dear, wonderful,
ordinary
people who killed my husband!"
Gideon spun on her, sweaty and red-faced in the
heat:
"I'm sick of hearing that. I respect your grief
but I cannot respect the errors in your thinking."
"Don't take it out on her because I'm going
to Newport," Will exclaimed as Eleanor picked
up her skirts and rushed out. In the hall, her
high-topped shoes drummed on the carpet. The sound
quickly faded.
"Yes, you are going there, aren't you?" Gideon
retorted. "I wouldn't brag about associating with a
pack of self- anointed aristocrats."
Will's temper was almost at the breaking point.
"Why
do you hate them so?"
"Because they're the antithesis of everything this family
stands for! They're a disgrace to the country."
"Christ. They're as American as you!"
Gideon shook his head angrily. "They're
Americans in name only. They may lack
hereditary titles, but they're of a piece with the
rotten nobility old Philip despised and
fought."
"Oh, bull shit! You hate them for one reason.
They don't want any part of an ill-mannered
Southern brawler who-was
"Goddamn
you!" Gideon shouted, his right hand fisting above his
head.
Before Gideon could strike him, Will grabbed his father's
wrist; held it high while Gideon pushed
down-strength against strength. For a moment there was a
stalemate. Then, with a loud exhalation, Gideon
relaxed the pressure, unable to best his son.
Will let go of Gideon's wrist. Disgusted, he
stepped back. "Be decent enough to answer one question."
"What is it?"
"Did your father choose the people you associated with?"
Gideon's good eye shone like a blue flame.
"No. Jeff Davis did."
With an embittered laugh, Will reached for his summer
blazer hanging on the bed post:
"Oh, that's right. You were off to war when you were my age.
The great cavalry hero-how could I possibly
forget? You never permit us to forget. You even grew
a beard like all the G.a.r. veterans, just to be
sure we wouldn't-was
Gideon's face shaded from red to plum, and Will was
afraid he'd goaded his father into a seizure. He
held very still.
Ten seconds passed. Ten more.
The unnatural color drained from Gideon's
face. His breathing grew less stertorous. He
began rubbing his right wrist with his left hand, as if
to eradicate the memory of being defeated by a younger,
stronger man. When he spoke again, his voice was
surprisingly moderate:
"We've gotten far from the subject. I ask you
to think of Moultrie Calhoun's wedding as a
family obligation."
Will shook his head. "I'm sorry, Papa. You're
deliberately making jt an issue.
You're giving the wedding an importance it doesn't
deserve." Gideon's startled look showed he
knew he was guilty of the accusation.
"And if you count on me being there," Will added, "you'll
be disappointed."
A pause. Then Gidfion whispered, 'Those
Fennels will ruin you."
Will snatched up his valise. "I doubt it."
"If you were aware of the questionable business practices of
that girl's father-was
"I'll appreciate it if you make no more
remarks about Laura's family."
"I must. Before you entangle yourself further, it's
important that you realize some of the things they-was
and*ble
"Papa, that's enough!"
Silence. Longer, this time; interrupted eventually by the
drone of a fly coming in the window. Down on Beacon
Street, the bell of an ice wagon clanged.
Looking old and tired, Gideon sank onto the
bed and stared at his son. Softly, he said, "What
the devil is going to become of you, Will?"
For a moment Will actually hated his father. Gideon's
face accused him-as did other faces that abruptly
came to mind. Drew's face.
Roosevelt's-
A few words about your duties.
"Why do you do that?" he cried. "Why do you all act
as if you have to supply me with a conscience?"
"Because yours is missing."
"I don't want or need your kind of conscience!"
Will slammed his straw hat on his head. He stalked
toward the door, valise in one hand, blazer
trailing from the other. He heard his father say:
"No, not among the Fennels. And especially since
you've abdicated your place among the Kents."
You arrogant son of a bitch!
Will shouted-but not aloud. He stormed down the stairs.
Ignored the anxious face of a footman peering from
the dining room. Heard Eleanor call his name from
somewhere but didn't pause. He was going to Newport
tomorrow-to the girl he wanted-and Gideon Kent's
opinions be damned!
As soon as he had discharged his obligation to Drew,
he'd have no more claims on him. He'd be free
to do whatever he wanted with his life. Free of pious
voices forever crying platitudes about duty,
democracy, and God knew what else. He was
beginning to think some of Eleanor's diatribes were
justified.
He stopped at the first corner he reached, struck
by another pang of guilt. During the past few
minutes he had violated a fundamental precept
of medicine: the physician must use every means at
hand to protect and preserve the health of others. He
had done the opposite; by his own anger, he might
well have provoked his father into a fatal paroxysm.
He vowed never to repeat the mistake.
How would it all work out? He didn't know. But he
saw a sad pattern reappearing. Once,
Gideon's eldest child had fled his house. Of
course Eleanor had left thinking her father guilty
of deeds for which poor, demented Margaret
had actually been responsible. Will's case
wasn't quite the same.
But the result could be the same, he thought as he
walked on in the scorching sunlight. If
Gideon's stiff- necked antagonism continued,
Will too would walk out. And although it was sad
to contemplate, he knew that if he ever decided to do
that, the parting would be permanent.
CHAPTER IH
Newport
Flykyns

So she loved not wisely? Sylykyns
-
Yes, it's a case of sin and bear it.
Will shook his head and turned the page.
Winkle
-
You're the last man I'd expect to marry
outside the fashionable set. Binkle
-
Oh, 1 fancied I'd like to have a wife
of my own, don't you know?
He shut the paper, frowning. The jokes in
Town Topics
didn't strike him as funny. The one he'd just
read was especially disagreeable. Laura was a
member of the so-called fashionable set.
He sat on the open deck of
Eolus,
his dark hair tossed by the wind. The steamer was chugging
slowly around the southern tip of Goat Island, on
its way to one of the Newport piers.
The pier extended from a waterfront street which
resembled that of any small New England maritime
town. Will had bought a little guidebook in Boston.
He knew that at one time slave ships
had sailed out of Newport bound for West
Africa. Now the vessels in the harbor were mostly
small sailboats running before the breeze, or
dumpy
were
lobstermen putting out to the offshore banks. In the
main channel of Narragansett Bay, two dozen
crewmen were aloft spreading canvas on a
three-masted yacht. She was a splendid, stately
sight as she glided toward the Atlantic in the
summer sunshine.
Will had never seen so many sailboats moored in one
place. Colonel Mann must have been thinking of
Newport when he wrote a comment Will had just read in
the
Saunterings
column.
The man that does not own a yacht or know a man that
owns a yacht is a poor, despicable creature
indeed,
That kind of condescension pervaded Mann's so-called
Journal of Society,
a tabloid containing articles, short fiction, and
those wretched jokes. But the heart of it was
Saunterings
comten pages of short paragraphs which started on
page one. He guessed that
Saunterings
attracted two groups of readers-ordinary people who
wanted to peep through a journalistic keyhole at the
rich, and the rich themselves, anxious to see whether their
names or escapades were included in the column.
An item on page one was typical. It began,
There is a little comedy, or tragedy, if you like, going
on just now.
Then two paragraphs piously deplored the various
affairs of an unfaithful wife.
The wife was never named. But the street in New
York on which she lived was mentioned twice. Will
supposed that was how Mann made sure his victims
were identified. Obviously the woman or her
cuckolded husband hadn't paid the amount necessary to keep
the item out of print.
Will had lived in a newsman's house long enough
to recognize Mann's moralizing for what it
was-a screen behind which otherwise objectionable
material could be published. Altogether, he found the
paper as distasteful as his father said it was. He
tossed it into a waste can.
At the rail he squeezed between two
heavy-set gentlemen, obviously tourists. A
gust of wind almost lifted his bright-banded straw hat from
his head. He raised his hand to ho

d it in place and, with mounting excitement, scanned
the shore.

"and%
if greater-than and
Behind the busy piers and the straggle of houses and shops
along the main street-Thames Street, if he
recalled the guidebook-small, neat saltbox
houses perched on the side of a moderately steep
hill. Aquidneck was a hilly island, with
outcrops of rock and patches of scrub growth
breaking up its expanses of farmland.
Fifty years earlier, Newport had been a
popular summer retreat of wealthy Southern
planters. The Civil War had driven them home
to stay. Then, a few years ago, the ladies at the
top of Northern Society had rediscovered the
place. It had happened about the time that the prestige
of the New Jersey resorts-Deal Beach,
Elburon, Long Branch- had begun to decline.
Thurman Fennel identified the cause
of that decline as an "infestation of New York
Jews."
Two local land speculators named Joseph
Bailey and Alfred Smith had responded to the
interest in Newport by developing a parcel of a
hundred and forty acres on the island's southeast
side. They offered the land as a kind of private
preserve of the rich. Now more and more of New York's
leading families were buying property and buildings
vacation homes. Earlier in the year, Mrs. Astor
had officially sanctioned Newport as the nation's
premier summer colony when she let it be known that
she would be in residence during July and August.
The Bailey and Smith land had been subdivided
into large lots. The choicest ones were located on the
east side of Bellevue Avenue, overlooking the
public Cliff Walk and the Atlantic. The
Fennels had purchased one of these lots almost three
years earlier. At that time, Laura's mother had
somehow become attuned to the resort's imminent
popularity. She'd persuaded her husband to commission
Richard Morris Hunt to design and supervise
construction of the Fennels" summer residence.
The choice of Hunt turned out to be a remarkable
stroke of foresight. Now that Mrs.
Astor had given her imprimatur, everyone wanted
a cottage at Newport-no matter how large,
the homes were always called cottages-and everyone
wanted Hunt for the architect. The rush had only
started, and the Fennels were already settling into place at
Maison du Soleil. All Newport
cottages were required to have special names, it
seemed. The Wetmore cottage was
Chateau-sur-Mer, that which the Cornelius
Vanderbilts had bought from the Pierre Lorillards,
The Breakers. Mrs. Astor's cottage was
Beechwood.
The Fennel cottage had been finished and furnished
during the spring. Maison du Soleil had
forty-two rooms, and was constructed chiefly of
Siena marble. Laura said it was a copy of a
Northern Italian villa, though she called the
style American Renaissance.
To Will it seemed a gross waste to build such huge
places and move forty or fifty servants all the
way from New York for a season only eight
weeks long. Of course, in the Fennels'
circle, cost was usually the factor of least
importance in any decision. Laura boasted that
marble imported for the cottage had cost
four million dollars just by itself. Will was almost as
anxious to see Maison du Soleil as he was
eager to see Laura.
The pier at which
Eolus
docked was crowded with people, including a good many men with the
robust look of fishermen. Their faces were cheerfully
contemptuous as they eyed the pale vacationers on
board the steamer. The tourists jostled for a position
near the gangway while the vessel was warped in the
last few feet.
There were ordinary townsfolk on the pier, too.
Even a few aristocratic servants who kept
themselves noticeably apart from the rabble. Perhaps the
servants had come to await a freight shipment.
Will searched the crowd for Laura. Slowly his smile
faded. She wasn't there. She'd promised he would
be met, and he'd assumed she would be the one to meet
him.
What had happened?
m
Suddenly, up on Thames Street, people scattered.
There were shouts; curses; fists shaken. A
lacquered victoria came careening into sight from behind
some waterfront houses.
The top-hatted driver whipped the four matched
sorrels, heedless of pedestrians. He didn't
slow down until he had to turn at the head of the
pier. There, too, people were forced
to run. As the victoria came bouncing down the
pier, Will recognized the driver. Marcus
Fennel.
With four sets of reins in his hands and a gleaming
black boot on the brake, Marcus brought the
victoria to a swaying stop. When he jumped down
he was caustically rebuked by a woman who'd
snatched a toddler out of the path of the coach. Marcus
strolled right by, not even glancing at her
to acknowledge her existence.
By then the steamer was snugged to the pier with hawsers. The
gangway thumped down. Passengers started to elbow
and shove one another. Marcus swaggered to the edge of the
pier and put one shining patent leather boot up on a
bollard. He took off his black silk hat and
wiped his forehead with a handkerchief plucked from his
cuff.
His curly hair glistened in the sunshine. He was
wearing an emerald green coaching jacket with gilt
buttons, a yellow waistcoat, spotless white
breeches, and gloves. In his lapel he
sported a yellow flower that matched the four
bouquets decorating the throatlatches of his
horses.
"Marcus! Hello!" Will waved.
"Hello, there!" Laura's brother raised his top
hat, then tilted it in an exaggerated way. A
passing sailor looked at him and spat. The
spittle landed near the toe of Marcus' right boot.
The young man pretended not to see. The sailor
snickered and walked on.
Will struggled down the gangway with his valise. He
was uncomfortably hot in his blazer; Marcus
looked dry and cool despite the obvious heaviness
of his driving clothes.
"Nearly thought I wouldn't get here," Marcus said,
laughing. "I came through the tail end of the noon
coaching parade. Damn near ran over four or
five townies."
His laugh bothered Will, but not as much as Laura's
absence. Perhaps jt wasn't proper for a girl of her
position to meet a beau at a public pier. All
the same, he was disappointed.
"Seems like a year since I last saw you,"
Marcus went on. He relieved Will of his valise
and carried it through the crowd toward the
victoria, which was upholstered in rich maroon.
"Well, it has been six months," he replied.
"How've you been?"
"I manage to survive. Real estate's a boring
business, but then I'm afraid I'd find any
business boring. I'd much
rather be driving or sailing." Since graduating from
Harvard, Marcus had been managing some of the
Fennel properties from the family offices in
New York's financial district.
Marcus flung Will's valise into the open
carriage. "Laura's at the beach with some of her
girl friends. She should be back by the time we reach the
cottage. Maybe you'll even have a glimpse of
her bathing costume."
He winked, and a moment later Will felt himself go
rigid. The words bathing costume had done it.
Contemporary beach fashions showed very little flesh, but
they were still considered quite daring by most people, and flagrantly
unmoral by a few. Hiding his embarrassing reaction
as best he could, he climbed up on the coachman's
seat next to his host.
Marcus pulled the whip from its socket. "The
girls are required to clear the beach by noon. After
that it's reserved for disnude bathing
by gentlemen-was He noticed an older man and
woman who appeared to be having a reunion with a
younger girl directly in front of the horses. The
girl had been on the steamer.
Marcus waved the whip at the man. "Clear the
way, Edmonds!"
Edmonds, a plain-looking sort, turned toward the
elegant young man as if ready to object. Before he
could, Marcus again brandished the whip:
"I said clear the way, you clod."
The starch went out of the man suddenly. He took the
two women by the arm and guided them to the other side of the
pier. Amused, Marcus said to Will, "He'd better
move when I tell him. His son's one of our
gardeners. Edmonds himself needs the cold water
cure. Failing that, he needs his son's wages so
he can buy whiskey."
Now that the man and his family had gotten out of the
way, Marcus was in no hurry to drive on.
Edmonds noticed that, and glowered.
Marcus ignored him. "How was the trip from Wick-
ford?"
"Smooth. I spent most of it reading
Town Topics"
"God almighty. What'd you do with it?"
"I threw it away."
"Good. That rag isn't allowed in our house any
longer."
"Why not? Your family used to read it. Laura said
so."
"We still read it, old boy. We just aren't
permitted to let it lie about the cottage as if we
approve of it. Father skims
Saunterings
once a week at a men's club 111 show you on
the way home. He skims it nervously, I might
add. A year ago I got involved with a Chinese
girl down in the city. Never told you about that, did
I?"
Will shook his head.
"Somehow Mann discovered I was buggering the wench.
He presented Father with the galley of an item on the
subject. No names, of course. But the piece was
written so everyone would know I was the fellow trying
to erase the natural color barriers between the
American and Asian races, as Mann so
delicately put it-was
Marcus shuddered, his smile gone. "It was horrible.
Naturally, Father paid Mann to suppress the story.
But the language of their discussion got
pretty heated. The very next week, to retaliate,
Mann condensed the story to half its original length
and published it anyway. I couldn't show my face
for weeks."
Will was aghast. "How could Mann pull a trick like
that?"
"How could he? Because he's a damned crook. Of
course he kept the letter of his bargain. He'd been
paid to kill the copy he showed father, and he did.
Nothing was said about other versions. He joked about it
afterward. I tell you, Will, everybody on the island is
terrified of the son of a bitch.
"There isn't a first-rank household that isn't
fearful of harboring at least one of the Colonel's
informants on its staff. We think we have two or
three. Trouble is, we don't know who they are and
we can't find out Mann pays them too well."
"You mean servants actually spy on their
employers?"
The naivete of the question made Marcus snicker.
"How else do you suppose the Colonel digs up
all that dirt? Someone else on the island acts as
a clearing house for the information and a conduit for the money.
We can't find out who it is, either. Another of our
footstools, I suspect."
"Footstools?"
"Those of us who come up for the summer call the townies
our footstools. I'm told the term originated with
King Louis the Fourteenth. I like it."
Will said nothing. He was appalled by the remark, and
by all he'd heard in the past few minutes. He'd
seen little of Marcus Fennel during the past year, and
he realized something had changed. Perhaps it was his own
viewpoint. How had he ever been able to consider this
callous young man his friend?
The truth was, he hadn't. As he looked back,
he realized Marcus had impressed him because of his
family name, nothing else. And after he'd met
Laura, he had tended to overlook Marcus'
faults because he was her brother.
The presence of the victoria in the center of the pier was
an inconvenience to pedestrians and cart traffic.
Marcus knew that; it was the reason he'd prolonged
the conversation instead of driving on. No one had had the
nerve to ask him to move.
Now, however, a number of rough-looking fishermen were
gathering and gesturing toward the coach, scowls on their
faces. Marcus sensed that the appropriate moment
for departure had come. He picked up the reins and
quickly separated them.
"Here we go."
He whipped up the horses and started them into a wide
hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. He whipped them
a second time as the carriage rumbled toward the head
of the wharf, picking up speed. He was grinning again.
He clearly assumed that any sailors, fishermen,
or townspeople would remove themselves from his path before
he ran them down.
Remarkably, they did.
CHAPTER IV
The
Shacker
THE HIGH-STEPPING SORRELS drew the
victoria north along Thames Street.
Occasionally Marcus flicked one of the leaders with the
whip. He was an expert driver, Will observed as
Marcus guided the carriage around a corner and up
a sloping brick street.
"How long are you going to be here, Will?"
"A week or a little more. Till Laura gets
bored with my presence."
"Oh, my dear sister has many a devious method
of combating boredom," Marcus replied with a sly
smile. Will found himself disliking that smile, though he
couldn't say why.
Marcus realized he'd annoyed his friend. With a
straight face, he added, "She's awfully
anxious to see you again. I think you two would make a
capital match."
Redness showed in Will's cheeks. "How does she
feel about that?"
"I haven't quizzed her, but I have a feeling she
agrees. I was expressing the opinion of some of the
rest of us-was
He pointed the whip at a small, gray-painted
colonial building on their left. "That's the
Touro Synagogue. Oldest Jew church in
America. Established a good ten years before the
Revolution."
Will held onto his straw hat and turned to look at
the building. Marcus guided the horses down the
middle of the street. A delivery wagon coming from the
other direction was forced to give way.
Sparks shot from the hooves of the sorrels as they
pulled haToday toward the summit of the hill. Over
the noise of iron shoes and wheel rims, Will
shouted, "What do you do for entertainment here?"
"I'll show you when you can tear yourself away from
Laura. The family dinghy's berthed at the local
yacht club. I like sailing even more than
driving, I think. Pierpont Morgan said you can do
business with anyone, but you can only go sailing with a
gentleman. Managing Father's real estate, I
meet a lot of low-class people. You can't imagine
what illiterate grafters I'm forced to deal with.
Some of them come right out of the foulest si-well, never
mind that," he amended, keeping his eye on the
horses.
He turned into another tree-shaded street. This one
headed roughly southeast along the crest of the hill.
"We were discussing recreation caret -You have your
choice of the yacht, polo ponies, this and several
other carriages-you enjoy coaching, as I recall-was
Will nodded. -- "Then you'll be right at home in
Newport. You can also
play tennis, swim, or visit Blanche's and
get royal treatment for your cock."
"What's Blanche's, a whorehouse?"
"A very fine and discreet one. The girls would
object to the use of such a crude term. All our
crowd goes there. Keep it in mind if Laura's
busy." He chuckled and watched the road a moment.
"Seriously, old fellow, she's working very hard on
your behalf these days."
"What do you mean?"
"Ward McAllister summers here, up at
Bayside Farm. He puts on picnics that are
all the rage. Earlier this month Laura attended
one. She flattered and wheedled McAllister until
he was in a good mood and she could bring you into the
conversation. I'm afraid Wardie hasn't forgotten
what your father did. But Laura reminded him your name
is Will Kent, not Gideon. He admitted that was
true. Before she was finished with him, he'd virtually
promised to get you an invitation to Mrs. Aster's
ball next January.""
It was incredibly good news. Why, then, did Will have
trouble summoning any excitement?
He tried: "That's wonderful, Marcus."
"A little more enthusiasm, if you please. Once you
attend Mrs. Astor's winter ball, your
membership in Society is forever certified.
You're recognized as
creme de la crime,
as Wardie likes to put it-was
Promise me you'll be somebody.
And promise me you'll make sure everybody knows
it.
"I
appreciate Laura's effort," he said
with greater animation. "I didn't mean to act as if
I don't. Something else had crossed my mind-was
"What?"
"That servant whose leg I set the first time I
visited Fennel House."
The victoria turned down another broad street.
Through dust raised by the horses, Will saw a marker
identifying the street as Bellevue Avenue.
Marcus looked blank for a moment, then said:
"Jameson-wasn't that the fellow's name?"
"Jackson. Is he still with you?"
"No. I think he married one of our house girls
and went west. Why do you ask?"
"I'd like to know whether the leg healed properly."
"Afraid I can't say. To tell you the truth, I
never inquired. Does it matter?"
"No. It was just my first fling at-well, call it
horse doctoring."

The carriage continued up the street toward a frame
building with a shaded front porch. On the porch
sat several old gentlemen with sizable paunches.
One of them nodded-the only greeting Marcus received.
The rest regarded the victoria and its driver with
disapproval. Will had the feeling the old
gentlemen would have regarded any source of noise or
motion with disapproval.
"Those are some of the august members of The Reading
Room," Marcus told him. "That private club
I mentioned."
"Private?"
"V. But the membership roster includes damn few
readers. Mostly it's a bunch of old rips who
drink and reminisce about chorus girls they've
fucked in private booths in some New York
lobster palace. The club used to be Commodore
Bennett's hangout."
"Gordon Bennett, Junior? The publisher of the
Herald?"
"The same. I always admired his style, but he was
too much for some. A few years ago, he had a
British officer up here as his guest. Chap named
Captain Candy. Bennett challenged Candy to ride
a pony across the Reading Room porch and straight
on inside. Damned if the limey didn't do it.
The stunt didn't set well with some of the old farts
in the club. They slapped the Commodore's wrist.
Sent him an official reprimand. Made him so
mad, he dropped his membership and built the
place just ahead. The Commodore's long
gone but that's his memorial-the Newport Casino."
Marcus pointed his whip at the sprawling structure
on the east side of Bellevue Avenue. The
victoria jolted over shiny tracks in the center of
Bath Road. Down the hill on Bath, Will saw
a trolley climbing from the waterfront. He
noticed overhead wires:
"You really have electric trolleys here? It's a
pretty small island for that-was
"The trolley line's new this year. Some like it. I
don't.
Isn't good for anything but hauling tourists from the
ferry to the beaches-here, I'll stop so you can get a
better look at the Casino. Stanford White
designed it."
He pulled to the right side of the road, at the edge
of a field in which more than twenty vehicles were
parked; everything from a Demi-Daumont to a dog
cart. The drivers and postilions were tending to the
horses or lounging in the shade of nearby trees.
The Casino across the street was a low, rambling
building painted green and heavily decorated with the
wooden scrollwork so popular these days. From where he
sat, Will could look straight through the entrance arch.
On a grass court, two men and two
women wearing white were languidly batting at a
tennis ball. Fashionably dressed couples
watched from parasol-shaded seats at the sidelines.
"The Casino's damned popular," Marcus told
him. "It's always packed at eleven o'clock every
morning. That's when Conrad's Orchestra gives its
daily concert. And unless your family owns
permanent seats in the grandstand, you positively can't
get through the turnstile during Tennis Week in
Aug-was
"Fennel. Hey-Fennel!"
A stocky, dark-haired young man stepped out from the
shadows of the Casino's entrance arch. In one hand he
held a smoldering cigarette.
He stared at Will and Marcus with a derisive
expression. He was about Marcus" age and wore
patched trousers, a sweat-marked red jersey, and a
dirty cap with a broken visor. The shabby clothes
did nothing to detract from his swarthy good looks.
Behind him, two other boys leaned on a railing beside
a turnstile, watching. Both were dressed like their
companion.
Marcus whipped up the horses. But not so quickly that
Will missed what the swarthy young man yelled next:
"Tell your sister that when she gets
another itch, we're all ready to take her on
again."

"Bastards."
Marcus brought the whip down so hard on the left
leader, the animal whinnied.
i caret pa
The victoria veered toward the center of the avenue, the
lead horses on a collision course with those of a
second victoria coming from the opposite direction.
The other driver shouted and swore. His passenger, a
man of about sixty with a Vandyke and a Napoleon
III mustache, recognized Marcus and glared.
By expert driving, Marcus narrowly avoided a
crash. When he'd gotten his victoria back on
the right side of the street, he groaned, "This isn't
my day. That was Wardie."
"McAllister?"
"Right. Jesus! As for that loudmouth-I hope you
didn't pay any attention to what he said."
"I didn't take it seriously, if that's what you
mean. Turn the carriage around."
"Why?"
Will's dust-covered face had a hard look. "Ill
give him a chance to take back his remark
and apologize. If he won't, I'll call him
out."
"Bare knuckle?"
"Anything he chooses!"
Marcus kept driving. He was unenthusiastic about
a fight:
"Listen, that shacker was just spouting hot air. You
don't want to get mixed up with his kind."
"Why'd you call him a shacker? What's that mean?"
"It's the name for ball boys at the Casino.
Townies, every one of them. They delight in harassing
the summer crowd. Every so often the complaints get too
numerous, and the Casino managers fire one or
two. But two more are hired to replace them, so it's
a losing battle."
Marcus turned to look earnestly at his companion
through the dust blowing up behind the horses. Here
Belle- vue Avenue ran in virtually open
country, treeless except for obvious new
plantings which screened a few large houses on either
side of the road. To the left, a break in shrubbery
afforded glimpses of a turreted mansion against a
glinting expanse of the Atlantic.
"Shackers will say the worst possible things about
anyone," Marcus went on. "Tell the
crudest and most outrageous lies. They delight in
it. In a brawl they stick together. Always win. And
Muldoo-was Marcus caught himself. "The one you just
saw is the worst of the lot. That's why I wouldn't go
back and start anything if I were you."
Marcus' cowardice sickened W. How much easier
and safer it was for Laura's brother to demonstrate
his bravery by threatening a miserable, middle-aged
drunk-like that Edmonds. And obviously he didn't
want Will to know the shacker's name, in case Will went
back looking for the boy.
What ingratitude, he thought a moment later.
Marcus Fennel was his host and one day might be his
brother-in- law. He should be on Marcus' side,
not that of a bunch of illiterate oafs who didn't
know how to behave toward their betters.
"Laura's never spoken a friendly word to any of those
wretches," Marcus assured him. "Never. Count
on it."
"I do. I recognize dirty talk for what it
is."
Marcus looked relieved. "I'm glad. Ah-here
we are."
IV
He swung the leaders into a left-hand
turn. The victoria passed through an immense
wrought iron gate onto a long, broad
driveway of crushed marble. The drive was flanked
by closety planted, neatly trimmed hydrangeas.
Ahead, a magnificent house rose. Will hardly
noticed. Marcus had been upset about the shacker's
remark, yet unwilling to do anything about it. To Will it
was puzzling behavior. No, more than that; upsetting.
Marcus should be interested in defending his own sister's
reputation. Why wasn't he?
Will began to think his earlier explanation was wrong.
He wasn't absolutely convinced Marcus was a
coward. But if not, what kept him from fighting? Again
Will had no idea.
He didn't dignify the shacker's taunt
by wondering whether it might be true. He knew it
wasn't. Laura might lose her self-control with
someone she loved, but she'd never sully herself by being
promiscuous. Yet the incident continued to trouble
him. He decided the problem was Marcus.
Reluctantly, he realized he didn't like'
Laura's brother very much.
A bad way to begin a visit,
he thought as the victoria rolled up in front of the
awesome three-story mansion looming against
a backdrop of cliff, ocean, and summer
I
sky. But Laura would help. By her mere presence,
she'd settle his doubts and put everything right again.
He was sure of that much, at least.
CHAPTER V
Maison
du Soleil
SERVANTS MET THE VICTORIA outside the
huge front doors of carved oak. One man
whisked Will's valise away, a second relieved
Marcus of his top hat, two more held the horses
while grooms came running from the stable. At a
touch of Marcus' index finger, one of the tall,
perfectly counterbalanced doors swung open without
a sound.
Delighting in Will's amazed expression, Marcus
led him into the marble-floored entrance hall. "Come
along, now. There's more to see than a doorway that
cost a mere fifty thousand."
So there was-and Mrs. Fennel, small and polite
yet exuding that aura of steely strength, was
determined that Will see it immediately. Laura was still at
the beach. "And Thurman is in New York
attending to business." It had the sound of
an afterthought.
Maison du Soleil had been built by a combination
of local and imported European labor, she said
as they began the tour. The plan of the house devoted
the first floor to rooms for entertaining, the second
to nine family and guest bedrooms, and the third to much
smaller rooms for the servants. The mansion's
focal point was a central hall whose walls rose
two floors to a fresco so realistically painted,
Will had to look closely to be sure he wasn't
staring at the summer sky.
On the east side of the hall, directly
opposite the front entrance, six glass doors
with ornate bronze fittings opened on a wide
loggia. This overlooked a well-tended lawn and
provided a breathtaking view of the sea. As Will
faced the loggia, a sweeping main staircase was on
his left. On his right he saw four closed doors
behind a splashing fountain recessed into the floor. Like
the walls, the floor was marble quarried in Europe.
Mrs. Fennel next led him to the morning room, but
he could no longer absorb or appreciate most of
what she said. His mind was already numbed by the size and
extravagance of the so-called cottage. Still, in
room after room he was forced
backslash o
murmur compliments about wall facings of Campan
marble, inlays of green Spanish leather stamped in
gold, panels of Circassian walnut,
mosaics painstakingly created in Rome. He
spent ten minutes studying a hooded fireplace.
It took that long just to discover all the tiny,
exceedingly realistic human figures in medieval
costume which prnamented the stone chimneypiece.
His hostess was relentless. She showed him gilt
furniture, intricate metalwork, Flemish
tapestries, porphyry vases, grisaille.
She said Richard Hunt had personally supervised
every detail, right down to selection of the furnishings.
"And we still don't know the total cost of the house.
It will be somewhere above ten millions."
Will felt like a guest at a banquet; sick from
too many courses. He could only smile in a
bleary way and murmur, "It's very beautiful,
Mrs. Fennel." Laura's mother nodded happily
to acknowledge the remark-as if it was exactly what
she'd expected to hear.
To his relief, the hostess's tour didn't
extend beyond the first floor. Marcus accompanied him
upstairs. The second floor, in
contrast, was comfortable, and much less ostentatious.
Obviously the largest amount of money had been
spent where the results would show. Now that Will's
astonishment was passing, he decided he didn't like
the house much. It had all the warmth of a museum.
Marcus seemed quite at home, however. He threw
himself down on the bed in Will's quarters-a bedroom with
adjoining tiled bath. A servant was already waiting
when they walked in. The man stood motionless in a
corner.
Marcus pointed through the bathroom door to a
gigantic, claw-footed marble tub with four
faucets of fluted silver:
"Two are plain water collected from the cisterns.
The
others give you salt water, hot or cold, in
case you'd like a romp in the ocean without leaving your
room."
Will couldn't help laughing. "Good Lord-what other
wonders do you have in store?"
"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm the
main decoration in. here-was He indicated a marble
statue on a free-standing Ionic column. The
statue, two feet high, represented a small
boy. He had a lot of curly hair,
wore a classic toga, and was pensively gazing
at a bunch of grapes in his hand.
"They had that done for my fifth birthday," Marcus
added.
"That's you?"
"Of course." He rose and put a hand on his
friend's shoulder, his smile faintly condescending.
"If you mean to be part of thje Fennel family,
old chap, you must get used to this sort of thing.
Take it in stride without letting your jaw drop.
One favor, though-was
He changed position so that his back was toward the
waiting servant. The man's gaze was fixed on the
ceiling frescoes, which featured plump female
personifications of the four seasons.
"Don't say anything about-was He mouthed the rest.
"comthe shacker. Eh?" Another brotherly squeeze,
and he started out. "This gentleman standing so still is named
Ridgely. He will gladly draw a bath or lay
out new linen. Just tell him what you want. We'll
expect you downstairs in a little while."
After Marcus strolled out, Will studied the bedroom more
closely. It had no closets, but there was a large
and elaborate armoire. He said to the servant:
"Unpack my things and put them in there,
if you please."
Instantly, he was ashamed of the arrogance that had
crept into his voice. The man called Ridgely
didn't seem to mind. He evidently expected the
owners of the marble cottage as well as their guests
to behave as if they were superior to everyone else on
earth.
Twenty minutes later, Will went downstairs
carrying his camera. Another servant informed him that
luncheon would be served at two. Meantime, a light
appetizer was available. Local whitefish;
lobster in wine; freshly roasted corn. He
politely turned it down and joined Marcus
outside in the formal garden.
The garden was sunken, laid out in parterre on the south
side of the mansion. Will counted nine gardeners at work
on the Fennel property. Some were planting new pin
oaks out near the avenue, some were trimming the
Japanese maples and Chinese ginkgoes and
African blue cedars closer to the house. Two were
weeding around a row of copper beeches which partially hid
the lot to the south. There, about a hundred bare-chested
workmen sweated with picks and shovels caret digging the
foundation of another cottage. A dozen
horse-drawn tip carts carried off the
excavated dirt. Dust billowed, and almost continuous
swearing counter- pointed the crash of the waves below the
cliff walk.
Will concentrated on composing a snapshot. "A little
to the left, Marcus. By that bench. I want to get a
picture of you while the light is-was
Feminine laughter mingled with the sound of hooves and
iron wheel rims in the driveway. Will turned,
drawing a
quick breath as Laura jumped down from a carriage
comcrowded with six other girls. Laura was the only
one who
hadn't changed her bathing costume before coming home.
The carriage turned around and rattled back toward
the gate. Laura barely waved at her departing
friends; she was looking at him.
Her hair streamed out above her shoulders as she ran
barefoot into the garden. She carried sandals and an
embroidered bag. True to his expectations, the
sight of her bathing costume was almost unbearably
erotic; demure as it was, it revealed far more of
her figure than did her everyday clothes.
It was serge; dark blue, and trimmed with white
pique. It consisted of a snug-fitting, high-necked
dress whose hem reached to mid-thigh, and
matching drawers gathered below the knee. Of course the
bathing costume wasn't damp. Prop587
er young ladies didn't go to the beach to swim or get
a sunburn. They went to meet their friends and
gossip-and always under a sunshade.
Even taking that into consideration, Laura's skin was
abnormally white. Her lack of color disturbed
him. Was she ill?
She rushed straight to him, her breasts bouncing in the
serge bodice. "Oh, W. How delicious to see
you!"
She flung her arm around his neck; pressed her
cheek against his. Will's hand strayed to her waist,
plump and uncorsetted. She let him hold her a
moment, then stepped back, depositing her sandals and
bag on the bench.
She sat down, her hair blown in the wind that made
a hissing sound in nearby clumps of junipers.
"I've been anticipating this moment for days and
days. I couldn't sleep last night just thinking of
it."
"It's grand to be here, Laura. This place is
breathtaking."
She jumped up again, taking his arm and leaning in --
close enough for him to feel her breast against his
forearm. For a moment her gray eyes seemed to convey
frank sexual desire. The reaction of his body
was instantaneous. He didn't dare glance down
to see whether it was noticeable.
"I'm so happy you like it, my dear." She led him
toward the arches of the small south porch. Marcus
followed. "You must learn every nook and cranny of the
cottage. All of us hope you'll spend your
summers here for a long, long time."
Behind them, Marcus laughed. "Damned if that
doesn't sound like a proposal."
Her voice was airy. "Does it?" She
concentrated on a cloud. "Interpret it any way
you wish, gentlemen."
Elated, Will said, "I'm supposed to do any
proposing that's necessary."
She squeezed his arm. "Ah, but you're such a shy
one, I'm forced to be bold."
"It really must be love," Marcus said with good-
humored sarcasm. "Look here, you two."
They turned. He was holding Will's camera in his
left hand, Laura's bag and sandals in the other.
"Have you forgotten your own names, too?" Will laughed.
"Nearly." His father certainly thought so.
They strolled into the house, talking about the
beautiful weather, his trip, her outing at Easton's
Beach. Marcus continued to amble along behind the young
couple, eyeing Will in a thoughtful way. A
satisfied, almost smug expression settled on his
face, exactly as if some prearranged plan was
working to perfection.

What Mrs. Fennel termed "a simple midday
meal" consisted of six courses including poached
salmon, rack of lamb, and
filets de boeuf aux truffes et champignons
- "Mr. McAllister's recipe." There were
numerous side dishes as well, the whole served
by half a dozen footmen in Fennel livery.
The dining room was another of those caverns whose size
and opulence elevated an ordinary human function
to something of a rite. Its ceiling, too, was two
stories high, decorated with murals of dawn and
dusk. From the ceiling hung a pair of mammoth
crystal chandeliers equipped for gas and also wired
for the less dependable electricity. Columns of
red Numidian marble with gilt capitals were ranged
all around the walls. An intricately carved
fireplace trimmed in silver leaf dominated one
end of the room. At the other was a large
window overlooking the Atlantic.
Storm clouds were darkening the horizon out there, Will
noticed. He was hot and a little dizzy from all the red
and white wines served with the various courses. Still the
dutiful guest, he'd taken a glass of each.
The dining table was a square of carved mahogany with
inlays of satinwood. There were five chairs with red
damask upholstery at each side. The table could be
expanded to seat forty, Mrs. Fennel had informed him.
But even in its normal configuration, it dwarfed the
four diners. Marcus was opposite his mother, Will across
from Laura.
She had changed to a fluffy summer organdy and tied
her hair with a lavender ribbon. Despite her odd
pallor, she looked beautiful. But he began
to notice that she occasionally darted worried or questioning
glances at her mother. She was clearly under some strain.
Could it have anything to do with that shacker's remark about-his
No.
He wouldn't even entertain such a thought
During the meal conversation ranged over a variety of
innocuous topics. Mrs. Fennel asked about
Will's studies, but her attention to his answers
struck him as perfunctory at best. She
preferred speaking to listening. Will concluded
that she was chiefly interested in herself and the impression
she made as mistress of Maison du Soleil.
For that reason, anything pertaining to Society
claimed her full attention. -This was brought home
while the dessert ices were being served. Laura
abruptly clapped her hands and said:
"Will-did Marcus remember to tell you about Mrs.
As- tor's ball?"
"That I might get an invitation? Yes, indeed."
Mrs. Fennel beamed. "That's wonderful news,
don't you thinkf
He did his best to show enthusiasm: "Wonderful."
Mrs. Fennel leaned forward, her eyes bright.
"Perhaps Mrs. Astor will even invite the two of you
to her divan for a chat. Every year she favors a few
of her ball guests that way. Should you and Laura be
chosen for that honor, your position would be secure for
life."
How seriously she made the statement. As if such a
thing truly mattered-
Then he wondered what was wrong with his own
attitude. Here he was, on the threshold of
gaining everything he wanted in the way of prestige and
position, and he found himself being cynical about the
whole business.
A cigar in his mouth, Marcus leaned back in his
chair i- and waited for one of the footmen to rush
forward with a match. When he had the cigar going, he
blew out a puff of I smoke and asked in a
slurred voice:
"What are you children planning to do the rest of the bar day?"
Mrs. Fennel coughed and waved her hand in front of
her
face. "The afternoon is occupied, Marcus. You know
that."
He grimaced. "I thought that in view of Will's
arrival,
we could skip the dreary business of exchanging
visiting
cards." To W* "You drive up and down the
Avenue. The
footmen carry the cards inside. No one else ever
leaves the
carriage. Believe me, it's two hours of
absolute torture."
"Nevertheless," said Mrs. Fennel, "it is one of the
New-
ch"port proprieties, and we observe it."
Will didn't intend to argue. But Marcus had put
away a large amount of wine, and he
didn't hesitate:
"Good God, Mama-I'm sure Will would rather take
Laura driving. He's a first-class whip, you
know."
Uninterested in the accomplishments of her guest,
Mrs. Fennel gave her son a withering look. Will
tried to keep the conversation going on a note of
modesty:
"Well, I do enjoy coaching-was
"Have you always liked horses?" Laura asked.
"Yes, as long as I can remember. I got some
fine experience with wild mustangs when I was out west
on Mr. Roosevelt's ranch."
Mrs. Fennel reacted as if he'd uttered a
filthy word. "I believe you mentioned something about that
once before. You're speaking of Mr. Theodore
Roosevelt, are you not?"
"That's correct."
"He's become quite a champion of the unwashed. Most
of us who summer here consider him a traitor to his
class. There is no more serious crime." She
pressed heavily beringed hands on the polished wood.
"Are you still friendly with Roosevelt?"
At first he evaded: "I haven't seen him in a
year or so. He's in Washington, you
know."
Out on the Atlantic, thunder boomed in the depths of
massing clouds. Will was disgusted with himself. Politeness
was one thing, cowardice quite another. His love for
Laura was threatening to turn him into a gutless
sycophant.
Mrs. Fennel responded to his last statement with a
chilling smile:
"No, I don't know. I never keep track of people
who prove themselves unworthy of the trust of their
peers."
It was said quietly, but it was scathing. She'd gone
too far.
"I happen to admire Mr. Roosevelt, Mrs.
Fennel."
Marcus again leaned back in his chair, enjoying the
confrontation. Laura looked upset. Her mother's
smile never wavered. But her hostility was evident.
Will was sure she'd never forgive his remark.
Somehow, he didn't care. He disliked the small,
stiff- necked woman even more than he disliked her
house. With amazement, he recalled how shy she'd
seemed the first time they met. But Laura had warned
him that her manner was deceptive, and he'd seen
evidence the night she humiliated
her husband because he'd told a dirty story. She
continued to stare. Now Mrs. Fennel stared at Will as
if she expected him to cave in too. He
didn't, which made her seethe.
"Young man, I've always believed one should be
charitable, and overlook a few faults in others.
Provided those faults are not too obnoxious."
Her eyes flashed. "I regret to say I find
your defense of Roosevelt very obnoxious indeed."
"Mama, that's rude!" Laura burst out.
"Is it? I'm so sorry."
But she wasn't. The dining room had grown dark.
Storm clouds were racing in from the Atlantic.
Outside, shrubs and trees began to bend, lashed
by wind out of the northeast. Mrs. Fennel continued:
"I was only trying to be candid. If Will wishes
an opportunity to become a part of this family, he
should know what the family expects of him."
Abruptly, she fixed her gaze on him.
"Unacceptable opinions or behavior will not be
tolerated."
Thunder boomed. The large window whined under the buffeting
of the wind. Caps of white water had appeared on the
ocean.
Having spoken her mind, Mrs. Fennel
now changed the subject:
"It will rain soon. I fear the afternoon drive is
ruined."
There was venom in Laura's eyes as she said,
"Along with other things!" She jumped up,
overturning her chair. It fell with a crash before a
servant could catch it. She ran from the room.
"Come back here!" Mrs. Fennel called. The
hollow sound of footsteps on marble was all the
answer she received.
Marcus scowled at the ash of his cigar. Will sat
motionless. There were strange emotional currents
swirling around him. Something was very wrong in the Fennel
house.
T
CHAPTER VI
Whispers
THE RAIN CAME POURING down then. For the next
two hours Marcus and Will shot billiards.
Even a room devoted solely to amusement had
been planned and furnished with spendthrift
magnificence. The billiard room had walls of
gray-green Cippolino marble. Six-foot
bronze candelabra stood in the four corners. The
table was a Baumgarten, of Central
American mahogany.
Marcus" only reference to the tempers on display
in the dining room was a nonchalant one:
"You'll have to excuse Mother and Laura. Both of them
have been extremely upset lately."
"Is it impolite to ask why?"
"Not at all. But I don't think I should answer.
It's a family matter. I believe it's your
shot, old boy."
Presently a servant brought word that both Mrs.
Pennel and Laura were still indisposed. Will received the
news in disappointed silence.
Marcus excused himself, pleading another engagement.
Will roamed the first floor, hoping Laura would
suddenly appear on the staircase. The rain continued
to fall. Night came on and the gas fixtures were
lit. Still no sign of her. Will wandered to the gloomy,
dark-paneled library. Servants looked in from time
to time to see to his needs, but he wanted nothing to eat
or drink. By eight-thirty it was already pitch dark
because of the storm. He gave up and went to his room.
Passing a closed door, he heard female
voices raised. Though he knew he shouldn't, he
stopped to listen.
"comc handle the matter. But not if you're
rude to him!" That was Laura.
"I'm sorry. I lost my temper. You know how
I feel about turncoats like Roosevelt."
Laura's mother. Her next words were muffled. Then
Will heard, "comhas let me down. So many problems
at the same time-was
"Well, you mustn't allow nerves to ruin the solution
we devised for mine. This is one case in which you can't
simply dictate the outcome," Mama. It must be
carefully-was
A thunderclap shook the cottage. Beyond a massive
marble railing to Will's left, a grotesque shadow
grew on the wall of the landing below. A servant must be
coming upstairs.
He hurried on to his room, puzzling about the
curious conversation he'd overheard. He had no
idea what Laura and Mrs. Fennel were talking
about, although an urgent', almost conspiratorial note
had come through quite clearly. Mother and daughter had
obviously patched up their quarrel.
He supposed that was good. But the whole business
bothered him, for reasons he couldn't adequately
explain.

The morning dawned rainless but gray.
Heavy air carried the promise of new storms.
Will was cheered when Laura came down to breakfast in
the morning room. Despite lingering signs of
fatigue, she seemed in much better spirits.
They agreed to go driving in an hour. She whispered
to one of the servants and sent him out of the room. When
Will asked what she was up to, she hugged
him
and said it was a surprise.
When they'd finished eating, she asked him to come with her
to the loggia. Once outside, they walked on across
the damp lawn to the bluff overlooking the serpentine
Cliff Walk. Only then did she tell him
what was on her mind:
"I'm dreadfully sorry yesterday was such a
botch."
"And I'm sorry I made your mother so angry." .
"She isn't any longer. I finally saw her before
breakfast."
Before breakfast? You saw her last night.
But all he said was, "You're sure?"
"Positive."
"That's good news."
"The problem isn't you, it's Papa. For the past
few months he's been-call it
inattentive."
He thought a moment. "I noticed he wasn't around
much this spring."
"It's gotten worse. He invents excuses for
spending all his time in the city. Most Newport men
are absentee husbands. They've grown indifferent
to their wives. But in Papa's case, there's
talk-was
She glanced toward the mansion, as if she feared
eavesdroppers. Remembering
Town Topics,
Will understood why she'd brought him outside. She
went on:
"Talk that he consorts with other women. I mean
women of the very lowest kind. I wouldn't be surprised.
Things have become so strained, he seizes every
opportunity to spite Mother. I shouldn't tell you
this, I suppose. But we're friends, and you
are
training to be a doctor. I presume you're
familiar with the-the symptoms women experience in
mid-life?"
"Yes, of course."
"Mama experienced them in a very acute way. And
although she's too decent to discuss the
particulars, I gather the change only aggravated
her lifelong dislike of-the physical side of
marriage. That's why Papa's never here- and why I
believe the rumors we've heard."
"That's certainly unfortunate."
But eminently understandable.
An image of Mrs. Pennel's autocratic
face had flickered in Will's mind. "I saw that your
father was gone a lot. But I'm embarrassed to say
I wasn't aware of other changes in his relationship
with the family."
"Don't be embarrassed. It all happened very
gradually."
"Marcus did hint at some difficulties, after you
left the dining room yesterday-was
"Our friends in the city are starting to do more than hint.
They tell us Papa's drinking a lot-for him, even
a little is too much. One or two champagne
cocktails and all control disappears. He hardly
knows what he's saying-was
Will remembered. "I'm very sorry to hear all this,
Laura. It makes me doubly unhappy that I
upset your mother yesterday. I hope the problems between
your parents won't lead to-was How to phrase it
politely? "Something more serious."
"You mean divorce? Absolutely not. I
expect Mama would like to be free of Papa, but the
price is too high. In
our set, both parties to a divorce are
ostracized. Mama
is
under great strain, though. For the first time in memory,
Papa's defied her openly. She has
difficulty accepting that. And of course she dreads a
scandal."
But had Laura been referring to Thurman Fennel
when she spoke of "her" problem behind a closed door
last night? He probed for an answer:
"Is that why you're looking so exhausted?" He
touched her chin gently. "It's the doctor's
considered opinion that someone as fine and beautiful as you
shouldn't be worrying every waking moment."
She tried to lighten her tone: "Perhaps if I had a
husband to share the burdens, I wouldn't."
A nod of exaggerated gravity. "Professionally,
I agree." A whisper: "And personally?"
"Yes, there too. Are you searching for a husband, may
I ask?"
" She linked her arm in his. "Yes, doctor,
I am. Quite diligently, in fact."
"And has your search been rewarded?" "No." A
slow, almost smoldering nicker of her eyes. "But
I'm hopeful it may be soon."
He faced her. The wind blew her straw-colored
hair- against his cheek. It had the feel of a
disembodied hand caressing him. Nervousness made him
hoarse:
"Teasing aside, you know how I feel about you. The
search can end any time you say."
"How sweet you are. How very sweet-was With another
swift look toward the house, she raised herself on
tiptoe and brushed her lips against his face, the
swell of her soft breasts pushing against his jacket.
He reached for her. She eluded him; started toward the
loggia: "But you mustn't press me, W. I
haven't made up my mind. Not yet. I like you very
much. But the trouble between Mother and Papa reminds me
how cautious we must . be. Marriage is such an
important step-was
Suddenly she pirouetted to face him, her gray
eyes wide with emotion. "It's a lifetime
promise. I'm just not completely sure, even
though-was Her voice dropped lower, the very sound of the
whisper exciting him. "comeven though I want you more
than I dare admit. I admire my
mother.
But I'm not like her
in
every way. I won't be-cold to my
husband."
Stunned by her candor* he held out his hand.
"Laura-was
"We'd better get ready to go driving."
She whirled away and hurried toward the house. He
followed her, his emotions in turmoil because of what
she'd confessed.
still
won't be cold to my husband.
I comwant you more than I dare admit.
He was skeptical of her statements about being
unsure of her own feelings. Laura's character was
complex, but that complexity didn't include being
indecisive. She always knew what she wanted; in
that way she was exactly like her mother.
He felt traitorous for questioning something she'd said, but
he couldn't help it. He also couldn't understand why
she'd put him off, unless it was a feminine tactic
designed to make him want her all the more.
If that was her aim, she'd succeeded. The thought of her
eyes, her mouth, the light touch of her hand
and her body filled him with aching expectation as he
raced to catch up with her beneath the ominous sky.
in
The Fennel carriages were housed in an enormous
twenty-stall stable on Coggeshall Avenue, which
ran parallel to Bellevue and one block west.
In the stable, Will and Laura found the sorrels already
hitched to a splendid landau with a two-section folding
top that permitted it to be converted to a half-head
barouche or a fully open carriage, or to be
kept completely closed as it was this morning.
Will felt nervous about driving unfamiliar horses,
just as he felt self-conscious about his outfit-a
duplicate of the one Marcus had worn to meet him.
It was the surprise Laura had mentioned. She'd
ordered it from a fashionable gentlemen's shop, just for
his visit.
The four sets of reins were exactly where they were
supposed to be-hitched behind the tug strap supporting
the trace buckle and pad of the off-side wheel
horse. Will took the reins in his left hand and
carefully let out the proper amount of slack on the
two sets belonging to the offside horses.
.he put the reins in his right hand and mounted the wheel
to the coachman's seat. Then he
transferred the reins back to his driving hand so that
they were in the right order: the near-leader's rein between
thumb and forefinger; those of the off-leader and near-wheeler
between the next two; and the off-wheeler's rein lowest of
all, between the middle and third fingers. The feel of the
reins had become part of him long ago. Without
conscious thought, he could tell whether the four sets were
correctly arranged. That was essential. On the
road there was no time for conscious selection and
manipulation. You had to know where each rein was, how
to get hold of it without looking at it, and how to handle
it without disturbing the other three. Will knew of several
careless beginners who'd been killed because they
mistook one rein for another.
He grasped the whip in his right hand, then shortened
rein until he could feel just a slight tension of the
bits against the mouths of the two leaders. Laura sat
close to him on the box seat; one of the grooms had
helped her climb up on the other side.
WilFgrinned at her:
"Ready?" She nodded. "Here we go."
They set out southward along Coggeshall, turning
right where it intersected a muddy, deserted road
Laura identified as Ocean Avenue. She
clung to his right arm as the landau lurched
in and out of several ruts.
Ocean Avenue switchbacked along the shore. He
had trouble keeping the horses under perfect control
on the sharp turns. But Laura complimented and
encouraged him, and once he'd discarded his top hat
and stopped worrying about mud splashing up from the
road, his driving improved. He accustomed himself
to the size and weight of the landau and began to feel the
mouths of the sorrels a little more positively. The
horses were well schooled, responsive
animals, and soon he had them clipping along
briskly.
"Marcus was right, you're a first-class whip,"
Laura exclaimed as the landau bounced and swayed
around a curve. Will was showing off a bit; turning so
that the right wheels lifted away from the road for a moment
or so.
She gasped delightedly as they came down again.
To the left, fans of white spray rose above
boulders lining the shore. Ocean Avenue was low and
close to the water at this
point. The waves were noisy; Laura had to shout
to be heard:
"What does it take to be a good driver?" 'Two
of the same qualities it takes to be a
good doctor. Patience and practice. Plus the
money to maintain a fine outfit like this." "And what
else?"
"Strong wrists. Strong forearms. Above all, you
need what they call good hands. That's a kind of
instinctive feel for the reins. Expert drivers
develop it, poor ones never do."
They were rolling along a straight, fairly smooth
stretch of road parallel to the rock-strewn shore.
He shook the whip in his right hand. "You also have to be
able to touch the whip to any one of those four horses and
miss the other three. If you can't do that and do it
perfectly every time, you're not a true four-in-hand
man."
A quarter of a mile further on, the racing horses
rounded another bend. Will pulled them frantically to the
right to keep from running down two men and a shabbily
dressed girl who'd emerged from the damp underbrush
on the left side of the road. Laura lost her
last trace of color: "It's those creatures from the
Casino-was Will recognized the shacker who had
accosted Marcus. The shacker recognized him in
turn, just as the lead horses flashed by the trio. The
slatternly girl's clothing was disarrayed, leaving little
doubt as to what she and the boys had been
doing this warm, windy morning.
Behind him, Will heard the boy shout. He was about to ask
Laura about the shacker when something sharp struck the
back of his neck with enough force to draw blood.
He twisted around, scowling. The shacker flung
another rock. This one hit the near wheel horse
on the left flank.
The impact frightened the animal. It whinnied and
lunged forward, throwing the other three off stride. In
a moment the smoothly running quartet became four
fright- -- ened runaways. Will sawed and hauled on
the reins in a desperate effort to stop the landau from
overturning in a ninety-degree turn just ahead.
Love and Honor
"HANG ON!" WILL SHOUTED.
Laura ducked her head. He leaned back, tugging
frantically. The lead horses plunged into the
turn.
On the far side of the road, the shoulder dropped
steeply to a natural ditch. The lead horses
raced straight toward it for a moment more. Finally they
responded to the reins and made the turn. So did the
wheel horses.
But the four runaways exerted a tremendous
whiplashing force on the carriage, skidding
it sideways toward the ditch. Will feared one or
both axles might snap.
There was a terrifying instant in which he felt the right
wheels slide onto the shoulder and slip downward.
If the landau tipped and crashed into the standing water,
Laura could be injured or killed-
The near wheels rose from, the road.
"Will, it's going over!"
Without conscious thought, he fed slack into all four
sets of reins, keeping only minimal pressure
on the bits as he stroked the off-leader with the
whip-"Hah!"-then the near-leader-
"Hah!"
The response was a sudden forward surge of the
horses down a short straightaway-enough to arrest the
landau's sideways skid and settle its near
wheels on the road with a jolt.
Will's gut hurt. His mouth felt dry as he
pulled on the reins again, tightening up on the bits.
Badly frightened, the horses didn't respond.
He shortened rein again, trying not to dwell on the
fact that by now the bits would be tearing at the mouths of the
sorrels.
In a moment the horses began to slow down. By the time
the landau bumped into the next turn they were
down to a walk, snorting and bobbing their heads in
response to the
pain of the bits. Will hated hurting them; he'd had
no choice.
He slacked off on the reins and pushed his boot
against the brake lever. The landau came to a stop.
His shoulders slumped from the sudden release of tension.
After two deep breaths, he turned to Laura
expecting to see a bleached look of fear. To his
astonishment, she was flushed with exhilaration.
Her gray eyes fastened on his, communicating a
message he could hardly believe. She ran the
tip of her tongue over her lower lip and brushed at
the hair blowing past her cheek. She gripped his
forearm with her left hand, kneading his flesh through the
green coat. Her voice was husky as she said: --
"That was splendidly done. You were very brave."
He shook his head. "No bravery involved. I just
drove and hoped we didn't upset. If we had,
it could have been
serious."
"You were brave, W. Don't deny it."
Breathing almost as loudly as he was, she leaned
toward him, opening her lips.
My God,
he thought, aroused.
The. danger
excited
her.
"So brave," she murmured as her mouth came against
"his, all moist and soft. He tasted her tongue;
felt her hand glide across his leg. He thought of the
shackers and the girl; what had become of them? Was
anyone else driving on Ocean Avenue today? This
was
a public road-
Southward above the Atlantic, the sky was solid
gray. On a nearby hillside, a collie ran
back and forth along the skyline, barking at a farmer
carrying a milk can. Laura's breathing was rapid
now; as if she were no longer in control of herself. She
kissed him more ardently, and moaned. Her hand
tightened. The pressure between his legs was almost more
than he could bear.
One by one he forgot the things that had been worrying
him. There was no sign of the two boys from the
Casino. The road remained empty. The man with the
milk can was gone; the collie silent; the heavens
dark as evening.
A fissure of white lightning split the
sky in the south. Laura's other hand moved in his
hair. She teased his tongue with hers; whispered:
"Let's go down to the shore. Please, W."
"What if someone comes along and finds the
carriage?"
"They won't find us. Tie the horses! I can't
help myself. I can't wait any longer. I've
waited and wanted you too long as it is-was
"All right, just a minute."
Awkwardly, he disentangled himself and climbed to the
ground. The only tree close by was a low,
stunted evergreen at the roadside. By reaching
under-scratching his face in the bargain-he was able to tie
the sweating horses securely. They seemed content
to stand, spent from their run.
As he stood again, he used his cuff to wipe dirt
from his cheek, then rubbed at the blood on the back of
his neck. He extended his other hand to Laura. She
clasped it and led him into the wet underbrush separating
the road and the shore.
Their passage raised miniature rain showers when
they disturbed branches still wet from last Jiight's
storm. "Laura, you're getting soaked. Your
clothes will be ruined."
"I don't care. It's warm and we can
lie on your coat. Please, Will-hurry. Unless
you don't want-?"
He squeezed her hand. "You know I do."

They found a patch of sand in the shelter of some
seaside rocks. The sand was damp but level and
smooth. The tide was running out, leaving bits of
driftwood and small, jelly- like creatures behind.
Will kicked a piece of wood from the spot he'd
chosen. Standing, he looked back toward the road.
He could just see the roof of the landau over the top of the
largest rock. Lying down, they should be invisible
to anyone up there. Unless, of course, someone grew
curious about the abandoned carriage and came searching-
"Will, your coat!"
Her voice was so urgent, it made him
apprehensive about his ability to please her. The
surf thundered as he flung the green garment on the
sand. Lightning gashed the dark sky. Side by side,
they dropped down on the coat, their arms going around
one another.
He put a hand on her breast. She cried out in
delight.
Her fingers strayed to his neck and came away
faintly red. That seemed to excite her
even more.
He got his breeches off, then everything else. She
bared her body without embarrassment, pleading for him with
almost shocking intensity. He brought himself over her and
her entreaties became a roar in his ears. His mouth
savored her damp hair, her sandy cheeks-all of
it sweeter than anything he'd ever experienced. The
hasty, almost frantic coupling climaxed when they
rolled off the green coat onto the sand, he below,
she above, arms and legs locking them into a heaving
convulsion-
Seconds later, the rhythmic noise of the sea
began to lessen. Or so he thought. Gentle
lassitude filled him. Despite the forbidding
day-darker by the moment-he was content.
The wind intensified; it smelled of salt and of vast
reaches of open water stretching into the distance. They
savored their intimacy and their nakedness a moment
longer. Then, cooling, they separated. They put on
their wrinkled and sandy clothes, all the while
murmuring endearments.
He maneuvered her toward a rock, so that she sat
with her back partially against it, partially against dishis
side. His arm was behind her, cradling her. She rested
her forehead against his cheek. Eyes
closed, she murmured:
"You were too much for me, darling."
"What do you mean?"
"I lost control. I couldn't stop."
"Neither could I."
"It was bliss-was
He touched her nose. "Because of you."
"I knew it would be," she finished.
He was proud and happy. How lucky he was to have such
a girl, so fine and soft and white. He remembered
the feel of her waist naked under his hands and shivered with
pleasure.
Abruptly, a little stick-legged shore bird rushed
from behind a rock and stopped to peck at the damp sand.
The bird sensed intruders; turned to regard them with a
bright eye as distant lightning flashed again.
Undisturbed by their presence, the bird marched on,
pecking at the sand; pecking-
The omens for the future were fine, he thought.
They clung to one another in silence, both of them with
relaxed, almost dreamy smiles on their faces.
After about ten minutes had passed, conscience compelled
him to say:
"We should start back."
"Soon." She snuggled discloser. "Do
you know you're the first lover I've ever had?"
Reassured, he said, "I'm glad."
"I'll confess something else. When I met you, I
set out to trap you. Now I've succeeded. Once a
girl's done what I just did, honor demands that
her suitor marry her."
She spoke in a teasing way, yet he thought he
detected a serious undertone. It was heady to realize
what her words promised. He laughed softly.
"Yes, I've been told that's the way things work.
But don't say you set a trap. Traps are for the
unwary. I've wanted to marry you since the day
Marcus introduced us. So if your parents will have
me-was
She kissed his cheek. "They'll have you. If I
say I want you, it's settled." Another quick
peck. "Now I admit a physician in the
family may not be quite as grand as a European
duke. But dukes are becoming common. All the
girls in my set want a title along with a wedding
ring."
"And what do you want?"
Her hand dropped down, caressing:
"Need you ask?"
Then she looked at him, her gaze
steady; almost without emotion. The bantering tone was
gone:
"I'll tell you the truth, W. Until this morning
I
thought I
wanted to marry you, but I wasn't sure. Now I
am."
"Then I'm delighted that roughneck from the Casino
threw the rock. He seemed to know you-was
She pulled away sharply, crossing her forearms
over her breasts, and rubbing her upper arms. She
avoided his eyes, staring instead at the mountainous
waves.
"At the start of the season, Marcus and I went to the
Casino nearly every day. We went to hear the concerts,
or to watch Dickie Sears play tennis. But the
shackers soon changed all that. They make it a
point to push themselves on nearly every female visitor
under fifty. Some of the more jaded members find that
amusing, but I don't. Once, just as I was leaving,
the boy with the scar accosted me. Marcus threatened
to thrash him, then other people stepped in to prevent the
fight. But before I left I gave that
boy a piece of my mind. We tried to get him
discharged, but we failed. He's someone's
relative. That's the whole story."
Will nodded. "I figured it was something like that." Her
story certainly explained the shacker's behavior.
The boy was getting back at her. Just one thing in the
account troubled W; Marcus" purported eagerness
to fight. That didn't jibe with his reaction when Will
suggested the same thing. What had been different the
first time? Had there been a crowd present? People
Marcus felt he must impress? Undoubtedly that
was it. ,
"Island filth, that's all those shackers are,"
Laura said. "Because of them, I can't go back to the
Casino. I haven't been there since the day I had
the trouble."
That's one more score I must settle. I knew the
bastard was spreading lies about her.
"Oh, but we shouldn't waste time talking about some
dirty Irish ball boy. Do you plan to speak
to Fathet-about an engagement?"
"Yes. The moment I can get an appointment with him
in New York."
She sighed. "I wish we could be married tomorrow. I
xlread the rigmarole if Mama insists on a
huge church wedding. Wouldn't it be grand if we could
just slip away and surprise everyone
afterward?" "You mean elope? Could we?"
She grew thoughtful. "It's a very exciting idea.
We can certainly think about it."
The sky erupted at last, spilling fat
raindrops on the sand with loud plopping sounds. Will
scrambled up. "Right now . we'd better think about
running for the carriage. This looks like a
cloudburst."
So it proved. By the time they reached the landau they were
drenched. Neither minded very much. And while most girls
would have wanted to ride inside, Laura insisted on
sitting beside him. Will took that as another fine omen.
They laughed and talked all the way back
to Coggeshall Avenue. He drove the carriage
into the fragrant stable, imaginary scenes of an
elopement vivid in his mind.
Quite suddenly, the swarthy face of his stepbrother was
there too, equally vivid. Will laughed loudly.
Laura brushed at her wet hair, ignoring the
grooms, waiting to help her down. "What's
funny?"
He fibbed:
"I was thinking of how ridiculous we must look."
He told the lie because he was fearful she'd
misunderstand the truth. He wasn't sure
he could clearly explain one of the reasons he was so
happy. She might misinterpret his words if he
said,
What happened this past hour will help me keep a
promise.
in
That night, Will had trouble sleeping. One minute he
was consumed with excitement at the prospect of marrying
Laura; the next, his mind churned with thoughts of
repaying the shacker. He planned to do that tomorrow.
Will had never been prone to settle anything by fighting.
But this case was an exception. He knew what
Roosevelt would have done in similar circumstances,
and that helped him make up his mind. He didn't
intend to tell Laura of his plans, though.
If Laura wanted to elope, he'd have to contact
Drew right away; tell him that he couldn't come
to New York just now. So much to think about-
Despite his wakeful night, he was in a fine
mood when he went down to breakfast. His euphoria
soon disappeared. He found Laura looking paler
than ever. She was cross with the servants, and with him.
After they finished their coffee, they walked out on the
loggia. With a smile, he asked whether she'd had
any further thoughts about an elopement.
She reacted as if she'd been stung:
"I know we discussed that. But I hope you didn't
take me seriously."
He stiffened. "I beg your pardon. Am I
talking to the same young lady with whom I spent the
morning yesterday? Or have I met some disagreeable
twin sister she never mentioned?"
Her irritable look faded. She sighed and offered a
lame smile:
"I know it must seem that way. I apologize.
Today all of a sudden, I just feel-oh-blue. It
happens to women periodically, you know."
She gave him a significant look before she
turned away.
So that's her trouble,
he thought. At least she wouldn't become pregnant
as a result of their hour on the beach.
Laura leaned on the balustrade, gazing out to sea.
The gray clouds were beginning to fragment along the
horizon, revealing swatches of blue beyond. It
might turn out to be a splendid day.
At length she said, "I'm sorry you took my
remarks about eloping too literally."
"Yes, I did. I honestly thought you disliked the
idea of a church wedding."
"I dislike the idea of being disinherited even more."
"All right," he said equably. "We've settled
the misunderstanding. I'll speak to your father soon."
"There's no hurry."
It took him a moment to recover from the shock of
hearing that.
"Laura-if you didn't mean any of what you said
yesterday -"
"I meant it, darling. I love you. I want to many
you. You'll make a fine, distinguished husband. But
we-we needn't rush things. A long engagement is
ever so much more fun than a short one. There'll be
lots more parties for us to enjoy-you'll see."
Baffled by her abrupt reversal, he was still anxious
to please her:
"We'll do it any way you wish. The marriage-our
life together-that's what counts."
A footman opened one of the great glass doors from
the central hall just as Laura patted his hand: "I
knew you'd be understanding."
"Miss Fennel?" the servant said. "Your mother
wishes to remind you that her guest will be arriving at
one."
Laura dismissed the man with a brusque nod.
"What guest?" Will asked.
"Mamie Fish. Stuyvesant Fish's wife."
"I've heard of him. Wasn't his father Grant's
secretary of state?"
"That's right. He's president of the Illinois
Central. His wife's a perfectly dreadful
person. Barely able to spell or read a
newspaper. But socially, she's nearly as
important as Mrs. Astor. I forgot to tell you
she'd be dining with us this afternoon. She and Mama are
planning a ball at the Casino."
the word reminded him of his obligation.
"I hope you and your mother will excuse me if I
don't ,oin you. I have an errand."
"Can't it wait?"
"It could, but I'd prefer that it didn't."
"At least have the courtesy to tell me where you're
going."
He grinned. "I gave in to you on korse
doctoring. Youll have to give in to me on this. I'll
tell you afterward."
He walked toward her, intending to give her a
kiss. She stepped quickly to one side and stalked
into the mansion.
IV
Will began to pace the loggia, hands in the
pockets of his jacket. She was confusing
him
mightily-and angering
him
in the bargain.
It was possible to understand her quarrelsome mood, but not
her abrupt reversals on important matters.
Could her behavior be ascribed solely to the fact
that she was suffering a familiar feminine complaint?
He knew some women went through torment every month,
year after year; Laura night be one of those. The
explanation didn't satisfy him, greater-than ut
he could find no other.
Ah, well. He'd always been told women were
difficult to jnderstand, and that romance never proceeded
smoothly. If Laura was to be the mercurial
half of the family, he supposed it would behoove
him to be the calm, steady, forgiving half. Most of the
tune his disposition inclined him in that direction
anyway. He could play the role if it would help
him get what he wanted.
Or comwhat you've convinced yourself that you want.
"Damn!" Elbows on the balustrade and a scowl
on his face, he stared at the whitecapped
Atlantic. Where did these traitorous
thoughts keep coming from? He didn't know-any more than
he knew why he was unable to get rid of them.
Accusation
MRS. STUYVESANT FISH HAD brilliant
black eyes, an ugly face, and a surprising
lack of pretension. Laura and her mother were nervous and
almost sickeningly obsequious in her presence, Will
observed when he made his brief courtesy call
on the ladies.
The Fennel women and their guest were seated in the
morning room. Mrs. Fennel performed the
introductions. Mrs. Fish knew Gideon
by reputation, and immediately told Will how much her husband
disliked the
Union's
editorial positions.
He silently shrugged off the familiar
criticism, determined to be polite. He asked
Mrs. Fish where her summer cottage was located.
Just down Bellevue Avenue, she replied. He
asked how large it was. Instantly, she said:
"Why, my sweet lamb, I can't tell you. It
swells at night."
She tossed her head back and uttered a loud,
raucous laugh; she sounded very much like a
cackling parrot.
Will laughed too. He found her remark
funny-probably because it was so outlandish, and she'd
said it with a perfectly straight face. The Fennel
ladies were not amused, however. Mrs. Fennel
tried to smile, but the best she could manage was an
insincere moue. Laura stared at her lap to hide
her disapproval.
When Will offered an apology for leaving so soon,
Laura didn't hesitate to show her annoyance.
In spite of it, Will bowed and walked out. She'd
get over her pique. And he wouldn't feel comfortable
until he'd done something about the shacker.
Marcus caught him as he was crossing the main
hall:
"Not staying to keep the old bat company?"
"Mrs. Fish isn't so old. I like her sense of
humor. But the answer's no."
"That explains why the dear girls are acting miffed.
I'm afraid they've dragooned me to take your
place. Being a house guest, you can get away with
doing whatever you please. Once or twice,
anyway," he added. "Going anyplace interesting?
Blanche's maybe?"
"I have an errand at the Casino," Will said
as he left
"The
Casino-
?"
When Marcus recovered from his shock, he dashed to the
front door and peeked out. He thought about chasing
Will, who was already halfway down the drive. He
didn't for two reasons. First, his mother expected
him to help entertain her guest. Second, and more
important, the ladies were in charge of this little
affair involving W; he had no intention of making
decisions on their behalf. He'd just keep quiet
and hope Will learned nothing.
That conclusion reached, he turned around and pro8ceeded
toward the morning room with a worried look on his
face.
ii
Early that same afternoon, in the house on Beacon
Street, Gideon lost his temper with his daughter.
A visitor provoked the outburst. A visitor,
and the tension he'd felt ever since he grew aware
of the emerging pattern in Eleanor's behavior.
To be sure, Eleanor still showed flashes of her former
personality. But the changes were unmistakable.
Consider the matter of her refusal to work.
In Philadelphia, she'd have been among friends, and
busy. But she had said no to Louisa Drew's
offer.
So despite the chaos in the household-Molly's
illness, the trouble with his son-Gideon knew something
had to be done, and soon. The question then became-was
he the one to do it? Did he have the ability to arrest the
transformation taking place within his daughter. He
didn't know. The mind was a far, dark country only
just now beginning to surrender its secrets to the first
explorations by doctors specializing in mental
disorders.
Gideon had used the resources of the
Union
to turn up
the name of the best alienist on the Eastern seaboard-but
he had not yet raised the subject of medical
help with Eleanor. He continued to feel that her
problem was first and foremost a family problem.
His
problem. And when he was in one of his confident moods,
he believed he had a real chance to help her-if
only he had the courage to try. What held him
back was fear of a mistake, and of doing even more
damage.
Today, Eleanor's behavior had canceled all those
nice concerns, and plunged him into a rage. Harsh
words spilled out almost without his being aware of it:
"You insulted him! You insulted him so badly, he
didn't even finish his meal. While Julia's
down in Long Branch looking after Molly, you're
supposed to make my guests welcome, not drive
them away!"
The first floor office was hot and still. Eleanor
struggled to open the window as she said. "But that man's
a buffoon. A hypocritical fraud."
"In your opinion! Levi Morton is also vice
president of the United States. He agreed to come
here and share the president's thinking on a voting rights
bill that will come up in the next Congress.
Morton's only in town for two days, and when
he's willing to give up part of that tune to come here,
it's my duty to treat him courteously."
"You feel you must treat
him
courteously when he spouts homilies?"
"Politicians are
allowed
a certain amount of rhetoric." "Well, kindly
don't subject me to it." "Then why the
hell did you agree to help me entertain?" She
covered her eyes. "I don't know. I shouldn't
have." "That's quite right. You shouldn't have!" Abruptly,
a melancholy feeling replaced the anger that reddened
his face and made breathing difficult. Eleanor
sensed the momentary lessening of tension; she spoke more
calmly:
"I apologize, Papa. I just couldn't tolerate
Morton's pious cant about-was She lowered her
voice, imitating the visitor.
"Our
-
great
-
country."
"So you ridiculed it. In effect, you ridiculed
him." "T--"
"Eleanor, I want to say something you'll no doubt
receive with as little enthusiasm as your brother receives my
warnings about the Pennels."
"Papa, I'm tired." She rubbed her palms on
her black skirt. "Another time-was
"Now!"
His fist struck the mantel so hard, the tea
bottle jumped. "I don't want
to add to your unhappiness, but what I'm going to say
is long overdue."
"Papa, I beg you-no platitudes. I
hate-was
"I know you hate this country," he broke in. "You
say it constantly. Theodore Roosevelt has a
name for people who talk the way you do. Fireside
moralists."
His bitterness astonished her; even frightened her a
little. On Beacon Street, two ladies carrying
sunshades clucked at the unseemly noises
issuing from the open window of the office.
Gideon knew he was on treacherous ground, but his
patience was exhausted. "Fireside moralists,"
he repeated. "I regret to say you've become an
accomplished member of that group."
Her voice was small suddenly. "I don't
understand."
"Oh, I believe you do. We argued about the same
thing before you and Leo got married. I'm sure I
can't convince you any better now than I could then.
But by God, your attitude compels me to try."
She sank into a chair, chin resting on her palm.
He tried to lower his voice but found it difficult:
"I am not arguing that this country is
peopled by saints, Eleanor. Any sane man
knows better. But neither is it populated
exclusively by devils, as you so blithely imply.
The one thing you fail to comprehend about America is that
it's malleable. It is nothing more or less than
what we make of it by our action- or inaction. Most
of the Kents have understood that, and acted accordingly. You,
however, bemoan a lack of national virtue while
refusing to lift a finger to promote that virtue. You
prefer to sit by the fire, utter your condemnations, and
let others improve things-if they're so inclined.
I realize you have good reason to be bitter. A
vicious man killed your husband. But you're blaming
too many of the wrong people."
"Oh? Just whom should I blame?"
"You might try blaming yourself." A
whisper-deliberate; theatrical; stinging: "Do me the
courtesy of explaining what you mean!" How much like
Margaret she sounded then, he thought. He blunted the
attack with a curt laugh:
"I expected you to be insulted. But it's true-you
do bear responsibility for what happened to Leo.
You did nothing to prevent the spread of the hatred that was
Kleinerman's stock in trade. Whenever you encountered
it, you attempted to convince yourself it
didn't exist. And by ignoring it, you permitted it
to grow. Stop blaming this country for Leo's death.
The fact is, America's given you far more than
you've ever given to it. Stop blaming the kind of
bigots you encouraged by your silence. Start placing
some of the blame where it belongs. At your own feet
v
The Kents have been a lot of things, good and bad, but
I can't think of one of them who's been a fireside
moralist. I'm sorry for you, but I'm sick of
hearing your self-righteous proclamations. From now on
kindly keep them to yourself!"
Tears appeared in her eyes. Furious tears or
hurt ones, he couldn't decide which. Some reaction
was better than none, he told himself. His anger
cooled; the forgiving parent replaced the stern one. His
expression softened. She failed to notice.
He realized he'd reached a critical point; a
point at which he could and perhaps should pull back, leaving
the truth only half uttered. Speaking the truth,
he'd learned long ago, was a difficult and
dangerous business. People did not welcome it.
Gently, he took her hands in his. "Eleanor-was
She jerked away. Discouraging; but to be expected.
He would press on. The two of them had
effected a reconciliation, and become reasonably
close again, after she had come to understand Margaret's
warped thinking. And Eleanor was still a rational human
being. It was on those two facts that he was basing his
gamble:
"There is one other thing I must say to you. The most
hurtful thing of all, perhaps. I don't know whether you
realize it-I doubt it-but I think there is a
reason why you're behaving as you are. Scorning the
whole world. Turning away from involvement with it-was
He drew a breath. "You're hiding from more hurt in
a way you learned long ago. Your mother did the same
thing, remember? You're starting to act just like her."
There. It was said. The fearful words-the most terrible
accusation he could possibly have made-
said.
He felt drained.
He expected a torrent of abuse in return.
Instead, she
gazed at him as if he were a simpleton. She
began to laugh: "That-Papa, that's-preposterous."
"I don't think so." "It is the most ludicrous,
insane-was
"Look at yourself!"
he shouted. The wild smile left her
face, replaced by a sick, stunned expression.
"Your mother closed herself off from the world, and that's
exactly what you're doing. She wanted nothing to do
with her home, her family-you want nothing further
to do with your profes caret not. Or with us, if we
ask for anything more than polite conversation. She
locked all her pitiable secrets behind the door of
her room-a habit I notice you are beginning
to imitate-was
At that, Eleanor's eyes flew wide. Her
expression was so shocked, he wondered why the mention
of the locked door had such special significance.
Obviously it did.
Then her face changed again, showing outrage. Something
seemed to break within her. Without warning, she ran at
him, fists flying:
"You cruel
bastard-It ISN'T TRUE!" caret
He seized her wrists and shouted, "It is!" He
shook her, hard. "Don't hide from the truth. You
know
what she did to herself!" He felt the tension leave
her body suddenly. Her forearms relaxed; she
stopped struggling. His breathing slowed. There was
remorse-even grief-in his voice:
"I don't want the same thing to happen to you.
Sometimes lately, you even sound like her."
"Oh, my God," she wept, turning away;
burying her face in her hands.
Cruel bastard doesn't begin to say it. You should be
horsewhipped for speaking to her that way.
And yet he'd said what needed saying. He might have
chosen the wrong time, but the words were right.
The trouble was, he couldn't tell whether the words had
helped, or only made things worse. From the
savagery of her sobs, he suspected the latter.
He shook his head, worn out. He stepped to her
side; cautiously put his arm around her. He was
afraid she'd pull away. She didn't, but neither
did she look at him. He pitched his voice low:
"I'm sorry I shouted at you. I know you don't
believe a syllable of what I said-expecially the
part about your mother. But I think about it constantly. I
don't want you
destroyed the same way she was. So you think about it
too, Eleanor-please. I beg you. I'd do
anything if you would just think about it. I'd cut off my
arm-lay down my life- if you would-was
Slowly, he turned her; lifted her chin; looked
into her red, stunned eyes.
"I'm your father. I want you to live, not die a
slow death in a darkened room for the next thirty
years. You have too much to give the world-was
A sharp knock turned him toward the doors.
"Yes? What is it?"
A servant entered. Eleanor chose that moment to rush
out of the room, skirts held high. As she vanished
and a feeling of defeat overpowered him, the servant
held out a piece of yellow paper:
"Telegraph message, Mr. Kent. I'm
afraid it's bad news."
CHAPTER IX
Summons
THE CLOUDS BLEW AWAY and sunshine
flooded Bellevue Avenue by the time Will reached his
destination. He was breathing hard from the fast walk. But
he barely broke stride as he turned in beneath the
entrance arch, walked halfway down the dim tunnel
leading into the Casino, and stopped at the turnstile.
One of the four men on the tennis court directly
ahead scored with a powerful backhand return. There was
loud applause. A guard seated on a stool near
the turnstile held up his hand as Will started through.
"I'm sorry, sir. Members only."
Will frowned. Should he attempt to force his
way? No, that would only create a worse scene.
The one he was planning would probably be bad enough.
"I'm a guest of a member. Marcus Fennel. I
just want to
speak to one of your employees. He's a ball
boy. Muldoon, I think his name is."
The guard was less hostile now that the Fennel name
had been invoked. "That would be Donny Muldoon."
"I guess so. He nearly caused a serious
accident on Ocean Avenue yesterday. I'd
appreciate it if you'd get
him
out here right away."
Will's obvious impatience prodded the guard off the
stool. "Very well, Mr.-?" "Kent."
"Just a moment."
The man shuffled away and disappeared to the left of the
inside arch.
Will leaned against the green-painted wall near the
turnstile, thinking of what he was about to do. A good
many . people would consider him a brawler and no
gentleman, merely for contemplating it. Others,
anxious to look out for themselves, would call him an
idiot for fighting over a girl's honor. None of
that mattered very much.
The turnstile guard reappeared, the shacker a step
behind. Will stepped away from the wall, his pulse
quickening. His eyes widened when he saw two other
ball boys slouch into sight. They stopped by the
inside arch, but it was clear they'd come along in case
their friend needed help.
Muldoon strolled up to the turnstile, smiling in
a smarmy way. His heavy, closely-razored
beard had a sweaty glint. Black stains showed at
the armpits of his jersey.
He took hold of the turnstile and whirled it. One
of the other shackers put his hand into the pocket of his
grimy knickerbockers. Reaching for a weapon?
More applause from the grandstand. The four players
acknowledged it and left the court. Muldoon leaned
on the rail separating him from Will and fiddled with the
broken visor of his cap. The guard finally realized
what was about to happen. He raised frail hands:
"There'll be no fighting on these premises. If
that's your intention, step across to the field."
"Me fight? Shit, Harry-was Muldoon shrugged.
"You know I'm a peaceable fellow. Can't speak for
this howlin' swell, though." He walked through the
turnstile, his dark eyes fixed on W. "Let's
see what he has in mind."
One of his friends called, "Want a hand, Donny?"
Contemptuous, Muldoon gauged Will's size and
strength. "Nah, he's nothin' but a college
boy."
Will fumed. Muldoon went on, "Truth is, I
didn't expect to see you again."
"You very nearly didn't. When you threw those rocks,
we damn near overturned."
An expression of feigned innocence: "That a
fact! Sorry to hear it, college. We were just
havin" a lark. Didn't mean any harm."
"I don't believe that for a minute. But that isn't
the issue. Miss Fennel could have been maimed or
killed because of what you did."
"Miss Fennel, is it." The shacker strolled
past Will, chuckling. When he reached the sidewalk
and the sunshine, he turned. Wfll was only a step
behind. "My, my-sounds like she's got you
bamboozled. Got you believin' she's a proper
lady, that
Miss Fennel"
He exaggerated her name, snatching off his cap and
touching the ground with it as he bowed. "Ffl tell you
what she really is, college-a swell actress.
And I'll tell you what she really
fancies. It isn't the likes of you. Me an'
my friends know. We've all taken turns with her."
Will grabbed the shacker's jersey with both hands.
"What pleasure do you get from telling lies about
her?"
"Lies?" Muldoon laughed. "You ask
Miss Fennel
whether I'm lyin'." He reconsidered. "No,
I "spose she wouldn't tell you the truth. Now,
college-was
Slowly, he reached up and across with his left hand.
He tapped Will's right arm. Smiling, he said
softly:
"Take your hands off me or I'll rip your
balls out and stuff 'em into your asshole."
"You foul-mouthed son of a bitch
-" The shacker reacted by driving his fist toward
Will's stomach. Will dodged and threw a punch,
clumsy but with plenty of force behind it. It struck the
point of Muldoon's chin and slammed his mouth shut.
Muldoon's upper teeth tore into his lower lip.
Blood spewed. Muldoon grabbed his red chin,
sputtering. Will punched the shacker's stomach.
Muldoon staggered.
Will knew his advantage wouldn't last.
He made the most of it, knocking off the shacker's
cap and grabbing his
oiled hair as he started to sag. He held
Muldoon's hair with one hand andwiththe other battered his
face three times, taking only one ineffectual
punch in return.
But Muldoon's two friends were coming. They dodged
around the guard and jammed through the turnstile as
Muldoon shuffled from side to side, groping for Will
who had backed off. The shacker looked ghastly.
One of Will's blows had opened a cut above his right
eyebrow. Blood leaked down through his brow, streaking
his cheek and mingling with mucus and blood from a battered
nose and chewed lip.
"Fucker," he said, blowing out spit and blood between
his teeth. "College fucker!"
He charged. Will jumped sideways, avoiding a
flailing fist. The other shackers were close now.
One did indeed have a weapon; sharp knuckle
dusters glinted on his right hand.
Will lunged to one side, then the other. Muldoon's
clenched hand missed him only narrowly each time.
He was barely aware of all the coachmen running from
the field to see the fight, or of a carriage pulling
up at the curb behind him. Someone called
his name.
He paid no attention, breathing hard and watching
Muldoon. The shacker swung wildly again. Will
dodged, then ducked under the outstretched arm and pushed
with all his strength. Muldoon yelled and went
tumbling into his friends.
They flung him aside, harder than they intended.
He crashed into the wall and the impact finished him.
As he slid down, his bloody face left a
broad wet stripe on the green paint.
The boy with the knuckle dusters rammed them toward
Will's face. From behind Will's left shoulder, a whip
popped. Something blurred past the corner of his left
eye.
The shacker with the knuckle dusters pulled his punch and
shrieked. Blood spurted from a cut under his right
eye or from the eye itself-Will couldn't tell which. At the
sight of the damage done by the whip, the third shacker
lost interest in the quarrel.
A hand seized Will's shoulder; whirled him around-
"Marcus!"
"Get in the carriage, you damn fool."
Spectators from the tennis match were pouring out of the
r
Casino.
Marcus shoved Will around a small crowd of coachmen
to the victoria, to which a pair of lean grays were
hitched in tandem. "God," he fumed as he pushed
Will into one of the passenger seats. "Mother'll have
apoplexy when she hears about this."
Will was still breathing hard. The complaint infuriated him:
"That's too bad! The shacker was spreading lies about
Laura. He had it coming. Why'd you follow me?"
Marcus yanked a crumpled paper from his pocket as
he settled himself on the driver's seat. He reached
back to give Will the paper-it was a telegram-then
whipped up the horses and sent them into a wide
turn. "That was delivered ten minutes after you
left," he shouted.
The carriage sped south along Bellevue
Avenue. Will tried to unfold the telegram.
Suddenly the wind snatched it from his fingers. He
swore.
Marcus twisted his head and saw Will watching the paper
tumble in the dust behind the carriage. Will cupped his
hands around his mouth:
"I didn't get a chance to read it. Who's it from?"
"Your father. He wants you in Boston right away."
"I'll be damned if I'll leave till I'm
good and ready!" "You'll have to go," Marcus
called back, "if only to spare us further trouble
with Muldoon's bunch. Besides, it's an emergency.
Your father's stepmother has died down in New
Jersey."

Marcus took him into the cottage by a servant's
entrance, and showed him a secondary stairway to the
upper floor. Will was able to reach his room without
encountering anyone.
He cleaned himself up so there'd be no sign that he'd
been fighting. The others would find out soon enough
anyway, Marcus had gloomily predicted.
"They don't yet know where you went. I said I thought
you'd gone out shopping for a house gift. I'll have
to tell them it was sheer luck that I found you so
quickly."
Will packed in ten minutes. Downstairs, he said his
formal goodbye to the family. Mrs. Fennel
expressed synipa-
T
thy but the words were perfunctory. Marcus took her
arm and the two of them disappeared into the music room.
Will and Laura stepped into an alcove under the main
staircase for a moment of privacy. He told her
that as soon as the funeral was over, he'd
be spending a week in New York; an obligation,
he said.
She wanted to know the nature of the obligation.
"It's too complicated to explain, Laura. It's
just a piece of business I have to get out of the way.
The moment I do, I'll be back. We must make
plans-was
She kissed him and smiled, but he felt she
wasn't entirely teasing when she said:
"Indeed we must. I'm counting on you to make an
honest woman of me."
m
The second-class day coach which took him south on
the mainland was airless and sooty. It made little
difference to W; he was uninterested in his surroundings
or in the other passengers. He could only think of
what had happened with Laura.
He wanted to be pleased about the consequences of that
hour on the shore. But something was wrong. He finally
realized the cause of the feeling. Her remark just before
he left.
She had meant it.
Like it or not, a new element of coercion had entered
their romance. Before his visit to Maison du
Soleil he'd had a choice. Now he
had none.
It wasn't even a matter of pregnancy. That
worry had been removed just one day after they'd been
together. It was a matter of honor. He'd made
love to her, therefore he had to marry her. His mother had
always been insistent about that. Never mind that Carter
called the idea ludicrous. This was one instance in which
his stepbrother was wrong. Carter had never
associated with girls like Laura Fennel. He
had no understanding of the rules that governed behavior
among her class of people.
If Will did the honorable thing, as he knew he
must, he'd achieve his highest ambition. An
alliance with the Fennels
would bring him absolutely everything he wanted. So
why the hell wasn't he as happy as he'd been
yesterday?
He knew. The answer lay in the imperative way
Laura had spoken to him. As if he weren't her
lover but her-
Her property.
He spent the rest of the trip trying to forget that one
remark. He couldn't.
CHAPTER X
Parting
"THEN SAID MARTHA unto Jesus, Lord, if
thou hadst been here, my brother had not died."
While the vicar read the Bible, mourners fidgeted.
Summer heat made an oven of Christ Church in the
North End of Boston.
The Kents were seated together in the high-sided box pew
that had belonged to the family for almost a hundred
years. The pew was situated directly across the
aisle from that belonging to the Revere family.
Will sat nearest the aisle, sweating in his black
alpaca suit. He hadn't worshiped in the church
for a long time. Gideon belonged to the congregation, but his
participation consisted of writing a very large check
once a year.
Directly ahead of Will hung a painting of Christ
at the Last Supper. The picture was flanked
by panels on which the Ten Commandments, the Lord's
Prayer, and the Apostle's Creed had been lettered in
gilt. From above the central painting, summer light
flooded through a clear window. Stained glass had
been avoided in order to make hymnals and prayer
books easy to read.
Eleanor sat at Will's left, then Julia, and
finally his father. Gideon looked more exhausted and
irritable than ever. He and Eleanor were
barely speaking-for reasons no one would explain
to W. As yet, Will hadn't told Gideon
T
that he planned to marry Laura Fennel. Because of his
father's mood, he was now thinking of waiting until he
got back from his week in New York. He'd
telegraphed Drew to expect him in a couple of
days.
"Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise
again
-" * Not counting the family, only about a dozen people
sat in the tiny sanctuary. They included
Moultrie Calhoun and his new wife; one of the
sons of the former
Union
editor, Theo Payne; and a representative of the
Rothman Bank. Molly's body was already in a
hearse outside. The coffin had been surrounded
by blocks of ice because of the heat.
It was Friday. The funeral had been delayed two
days to allow for the arrival of the three mourners seated
immediately behind the Kents. Michael Boyle had been
especially close to Molly's husband Jephtha.
The Irishman had come all the way from Cheyenne
together with his wife, Hanna, and their son.
Nineteen-year-old Lincoln Boyle was a tall,
red-faced young man with a deceptively mild manner
and his father's pale, gold eyes. Just a few
minutes" conversation told Will that the Boyles' son
was bright and, for his age, extremely well read.
There was an immediate kinship between Will and Line, as everyone
called him. The reason had become clear the night
before, during the Boyles' first meal at the Kent
table. Michael had been critical of some books
his son had brought along on the trip. "Radical
rot," was the way he characterized them. Line had defied
his father by offering a cheerful correction to Will:
"The truth is, they're just books I borrowed from
one of the free libraries run by the Farmers'
Alliance. Universal literacy only gets lip
service in the Boyle house. Hand a man a book
and the next thing you know, he's smart enough to realize
he's being victimized."
Michael reddened but held his tongue. After the meal,
Will discovered Line in the first floor office.
Books were piled on a table at his elbow. Will
asked him what Michael found so objectionable about
them.
The sunburned young man leaned back, a homespun
sort of figure in his corduroy
traveling suit, faded blue shirt and scuffed
knee boots-a wardrobe ideal for the cool nights
of summer on the high plains, he'd said earlier, but
unbearable in sweltering Boston.
"They're all keystones of the agrarian movement."
Line tapped book spines one by one.
"Bellamy's
Looking Backward. Caesar's Column
by Ignatius Donnelly. William Harvey's
Coin's Financial School.
Henry George's book on the tariff. The
Alliance makes these titles and a lot more available
to farm families who can't afford books. Of
course-was
He drew out a tobacco pouch; filled a
long-stemmed clay pipe. "Pa would just as lief
burn every one. As far as he's concerned, anything which
doesn't champion the tariff, the trusts, and the
gold standard is unpatriotic and dangerous."
Voices drifted through the open doors of the office.
Across the hall in the parlor, Gideon and Michael
sat with their chairs close together. Though they'd been
hostile to one another in the past, tonight they were acting like
old cronies. Michael handed his host a small
wooden box with brass corners.
Gideon accepted it with a strange, almost reverent
expression.
"So you and your father are at odds?" Will asked. . "Very
much so, I'm afraid." Line exhaled pipe
smoke. "I've been courting the daughter of a man
who makes his living raising hay and alfalfa.
It's through my girl's family that I got interested
in the farmers' movement. Pa hates the movement because
that's the attitude required of all good
Republicans. Pa's an admirable man in many
ways. He accomplished a lot in his time. Fought
for the Union. Helped build the Union
Pacific. Made a few millions in general
merchandise and cattle. But he's sixty now. You
know what a bad combination age and a little money can be.
Not only does he think like a plutocrat, he
despises anyone who doesn't. It's a hell
of a situation," he finished, melancholy for a moment.
Line's candor made it easy for Will to speak:
"I'm in the same spot, only in my case the
political poles are reversed. My father can't stand
the parents of the girl I'm seeing. They're somewhat
like your father. Rich and conservative. It causes a
lot of trouble."
He walked to the marble hearth; stared into the
cold fireplace. Only half joking, he added,
"Since we both seem to be up against the same
problem, maybe between us we can figure out an
answer." "How about trading fathers?" Will laughed.
"Not a bad idea. Think it'd work?"
"I
"I wish it would. I'll tell you the conclusion I
reached a couple of years ago, when Pa and I
started having really jdderocious battles. I
decided that my only course was to go right ahead-do
what I believe is right-and at the same time try
to keep differences from splitting the family for good."
"Does it work?"
"Certainly-provided I'm willing to sit like a
stump and never express an opinion," Line said
glumly.
"You aren't, are you?"
"Of course not. The truth is, my solution
doesn't work. Not often, anyway. Trouble is, I
can't find another that's any better. Things would
smooth out if I backed down. But there I take a
lesson from Pa. He never backed down. So, hard
as it is, I just go right ahead and keep hoping for the
best."
"What if the worst happens?" "You
mean what if Pa disowns me? Something like that?"
"Yes."
Line laid a hard brown hand on the top book of the
stack. "That's a risk I'm willing to bear. I
love Pa. And I owe him a certain respect because
fee's my father. But I won't change what I
believe just to please him. Slavery in the house of a
benevolent master is still slavery." He gestured
to Philip's portrait. "The old fellow who
started this family knew that, I'm told. But fathers
have an infuriating way of forgetting."
"You're right," Will said. Across the hall, he saw
an astonishing sight. Gideon embracing the
Irishman like a lost brother.
"comabsolutely right."
And there's no point in delaying the discussion of
marriage. "Go right ahead," Line said. It's the
only comway. I'll tell my father about the engagement
before I leave.
He'd do it as kindly and tactfully as he could. But
he wouldn't let Gideon's opinions change a
thing.
"com
Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection,
and the life. He that believeth in me, though
he were dead, yet shall he live."
Will came out of his reverie. The vicar's voice
rose in ringing affirmation:
r
"And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never
die."
He closed the lecturn Bible. "Let us pray.
Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we
commit you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord
make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto
you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give
you peace, both now and evermore. Amen."
His hand slowly traced the cross in the air.
Will had the feeling someone was watching him. He turned
slightly to the left; saw Gideon leaning forward and
looking at him, as if he'd sensed Will's defiant
thoughts.
Will looked away and bowed his head.
ii
There was grief in the Kent family that day, but it was
acceptable grief. Molly had lived a good, full
life.
Gideon held back tears as the coffin was lowered
into the dry ground at Watertown. He and Julia
had agreed that they wanted no long faces
in the house that night. The kitchen was already at work
preparing a big meal which would be served with plenty of
wine.
Before supper, the Boyles went upstairs to pack.
They were scheduled to leave in the morning. Gideon
knocked at the door of his son's room and asked
him to come to the office:
"I have something splendid to show you."
Apprehensive, Will followed his father downstairs.
Gideon seemed in good spirits; especially good
considering what had taken place today. It might be a
propitious moment to mention Laura.
Looking pleased, Gideon swung around beside the
mantel in the office; pointed to the small
brass-cornered box:
"See what Michael brought us?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what it is."
"It's his most treasured possession." Gideon
lifted the box from its place beside the partially filled
green bottle. He opened the lid. Inside, Will
saw a small mound of ordinary dirt. Gideon's
face fairly glowed:
"Michael collected this just before he left the
Union Pacific. It's earth from the roadbed he
worked on. He
is
a
Kent by adoption. He wants the box kept with the
other mementoes, so people will know someone in the family had
a hand in that incredible achievement-was
Gideon closed and replaced the box. "Michael
and I didn't always see things the same way.
Frankly, I was the one at fault. For a long time
I considered him a fortune hunter. I was wrong.
We still disagree on most political questions, but on
the importance of the traditions of this family, we are
in perfect agreement."
He paused, then walked past his son. He shut the
double doors and turned around before resuming:
"But I've been anxious to ask about your trip
to Newport."
Although the office windows were open, the room was
oppressively hot all at once. The curtains
hung motionless in the heavy humidity. Outside, a
damp gray dusk blurred the trees and footpaths
of the Common. A strolling couple moved slowly, like
sleepwalkers.
"I'd like to know what happened up there," Gideon
went on. "I'd also like to know the current state of
your feelings toward Miss Fennel."
Will didn't warit to anger his father. Not today. But
Gideon was making restraint difficult; he leaned
against the double doors as if he intended to guard them
until he got answers.
He's acting as if this is Jeb Stuart's
cavalry, and I'm some enlisted man to be ordered
about anyway Major Kent pleases!
He thought of Line Boyle's simple, if risky
advice.
"Go right ahead."
If his father wanted to force the issue on the day
Molly Kent had been buried, so be it.
Will took a chair, crossed his legs, and said,
"My feelings toward Laura aren't hard
to explain. I'm going to marry her."

After a moment, Gideon shook his head.
"Surely you're joking."
"No, sir. I know you don't care for the Fennels
or their politics. But I see no reason why that
should affect-was
"I had no notion it had gone this far," Gideon
broke in. "Julia kept warning me, but I
didn't believe her. It's more
important than ever that you listen to me.
Thurman Fennel is a jackal. A profiteer
without conscience or scruple!"
Will covered his eyes a moment; tried to suppress
mounting anger:
"Why the hell must we go over and over the same
ground? We argued before I went to Newport, and I
see no point in repeating that scene. First of all,
I'm marrying Laura Fennel, not her father.
Furthermore, I'm old enough to marry whomever I
please. If you can't accept that, it's pointless
to talk, and pointless for me to stay here. I'll pack
my bag and go."
Gideon leaped on that:
"Go? Where?"
"I'm taking another trip. I thought I'd mentioned
it."
"You most certainly did not."
A resigned shrug. "Well, perhaps not."
Or perhaps it slipped your mind. They say it
happens to old men.
"Things have been confused lately. It's natural that
one of us might forget-was
"I forgot
nothing.
You failed to inform me you would be leaving again.
Kindly do me the courtesy of telling me where you're
going."
He's tired,
Will thought.
Think of comwhat he's been through today.
But his father's arrogance overrode charitable
impulses. Gideon made things worse by prodding:
"I said you will do me the courtesy of telling me
where-was
"The hell I will."
"What?"
"I believe you heard me."
Gideon's face began to redden. Will cautioned himself
not to repeat the mistake he had made last time.
He mustn't push his father to the brink of a seizure.
In a tight voice, Gideon said, "What I
hear is your defiance. Your absolute contempt for
all the values which have sustained and enriched this
family. Even Michael Boyle, who isn't a
Kent by birth, understands them better than you."
"Oh God, Papa. Don't start with that kind of-was
Gideon ignored him:
"I don't need your answer. I know where you're
going. Back to that crowd of thieves and poseurs.
Back to Newport! That's it, isn't
it?"
you think so little of me, what's the point in telling you
the truth?
"That's it, isn't it, Will?"
Silence. Will stared at his father with fury in his eyes.
Gideon pivoted away:
"I thought so."
Gideon lifted one of the curtains and stared into the
humid
dusk. He was breathing loudly. His right hand moved
I. out of sight in front of his chest, as if he'd
experienced a sharp pain.
Tell him where you're going!
But if he did that, it would lead to a full
explanation. And when Gideon learned he had no
intention of joining Drew in his practice in the
slums, he'd think even less of
H him-
"Papa-was he began. Gideon spun, the very
movement
intimidating.
Bungler,
said a remote, superior voice Will hadn't heard
in some time.
He knew why he heard it now; he was
making a botch of
every response. Instead of speaking his mind with patience
I and reason, he was acting like his father; losing his
temper. I He forced a calm tone:
"You obviously have little respect for me, or what
I'm doing-was
Gideon yelled: "I don't respect anyone
whose chief amblea
bition is to curry the favor of people like the Fennels!
They was represent everything that's wrong with this
country!"
"You're so quick to sit in judgment. You might be a
I little more understanding of-was
"Nonsense! The evidence against the Fennels became
conclusive long ago! They are dangerous people.
Amoral exploiters of the poor. And you seem as
obedient to their wishes as a tame puppy."
Livid, Will said, "If you feel that way, perhaps I
i shouldn't merely take a trip. Perhaps I should
move out."
"Perhaps you should! First, however, I have one more
i thing to say. You evidently are unaware of
certain-
*tilde
statements widely made about the young lady
you say you
plan to marry."
Will came up from his chair as if a branding iron had
touched him.
"Statements?
What kind of statements?"
r
"Concerning Miss Fennel's character. It's been
charged-was
His voice ominously low, Will interrupted:
"Be quiet, Papa. I've listened to the rest of
your fulminations, but I refuse to hear one word about
Laura. If anyone's to criticize her, it'll
be me."
"I only mention it in an effort to protect-was
"Goddamn it, I'm not
interested
in your protection! I am a grown man. I am
capable of doing my own thinking and making my own
decisions!"
For a moment, rage robbed Will's thoughts of coherence.
Then a measure of reason returned.
Don't prolong this. No matter what he's done,
don't be the one to bring on an attack. You owe him
that much as a doctor, if not as a son
-
Will fought back tears that unexpectedly sprang
into his eyes. He walked past his father and said one
word- "Goodbye"-before he slammed the door behind him.
IV
Twenty minutes later, he slipped down the rear
stairs and out the back way. Not once during the
twenty minutes had he heard the office door
open. Gideon didn't attempt to stop him;
didn't care enough to try.
Very well, he thought as he walked into the summer
darkness. He'd never step inside the Beacon
Street house caret again.
To stave off the moment when he'd be alone with his
thoughts, Gideon pulled a book from one of the office
bookcases. He sat down and opened the book with
trembling hands.
It was a political tract called
The Chains of Slavery,
originally published in England in 1774. The
author was Jean-Paul Marat, the Frenchman who
ultimately led the most extreme faction of the
Revolution, and who was stabbed to death in his bathtub
by Charlotte Corday. Years
before the Revolution, Marat had offered a
pessimistic view of its outcome:
Liberty shares the fate of all human affairs;
it yields to time, comwh destroys all; to ignorance,
which confuses all; to vice, which corrupts all; and
to force, which crushes all.
...
Try as he would, Gideon couldn't get beyond those
words. He didn't have to stretch them far to find them
applying to contemporary America-or the family's
own situation.
Time had destroyed whatever principles Carter
might once have believed in. Ignorance had confused
Will, and made him prey to the subtle but
ultimately cancerous vice of ambition. Force had
crushed whatever idealism Eleanor had possessed
before Leo's death, as well as whatever chance for
happiness she once might have had. Since their fiery
scene, she'd said little to him, and his one attempt
to suggest that she see an alienist had met with an
instantaneous rebuff. He knew he'd failed.
And because of all that, there was no one left to shepherd the
family through its next generation, no one who gave a
damn about the cornerstone of the family's strength-the
liberty for which old Philip had first borne arms;
the liberty of which Marat wrote with such
disillusionment. Gideon shared that disillusionment now.
Suddenly, though, he saw what he was doing. The
same thing Eleanor had done. He was placing the
blame everywhere but upon the shoulders of the one person
to whom it rightly belonged. Gideon Kent.
Time passed while he pondered his alternatives.
Carter was beyond help, Eleanor almost so. But Will,
now. That was another matter entirely.
He threw Marat's treatise on the floor and
hurried out of the office. He would apologize to his
son. Try to smother his own frustrations and make
amends. Try to substitute fatherly affection and
reason for the anger of an exhausted, spent man-
It was too late. Will's closet had been
emptied. He was nowhere to be found.
T
VI
At two in the morning, there was a brief shower. Then
the sky cleared. The moon shone. Gideon stared out
the window of his bedroom, ostensibly speaking
to Julia in the darkness behind him, but in truth speaking
mostly to himself:
"What's happened to him? Ridiculous question. He's
caught the fever of the age. The fever for wealth. The
fever for position-was
Despairing, he leaned on the sill and shook his
head. Then he turned to face the darkened room, a
bent silhouette against the moon.
"What's wrong with the people in this country, Julia? Are
we nothing but a nation of self-indulgent snobs whose
only concerns are the size of a house and the cost of the
furnishings? Have we gotten so greedy and indolent,
we're satisfied to stand for nothing except a bank
balance while we're alive-amount to nothing but an
estate when we're dead? Did old Philip go
to the Concord bridge solely to secure the right to have
a family pedigree approved by some simpering
eunuch? By God I don't think so. But I see
precious little evidence to support my point of
view. In fact, my views have alienated my
daughter, and now they've driven my son away."
"Gideon-was she began from the shadows where she lay.
"He's gone, Julia. Gone to that worthless
crowd."
For the first tune that day, he cried.
vu
After a moment, she whispered, "Gideon, come
to bed." She held him in her arms for a quarter of an
hour, listening to him score himself for Eleanor's
disaffection and Will's sudden departure. He
no longer held them responsible for the disintegration of the
family. And though he didn't retract a word of
what he'd said about the country or the Fennels, he
couldn't hold others responsible either. The blame,
he said, was his alone.
Finally he was silent; motionless. She kept him
close, his
chest crushing the thin night dress against her right
breast,
her right arm curved around him so that she could stroke
his temple gently. In a flat voice, he
asked: "Do you suppose we'll ever see him again?"
"He's a man. We've been guilty of forgetting
that." "I know. He said so. But do you think-?"
"That's what I'm trying to say, dearest. He's a
grown
man. It's entirely up to him."
"Then the answer's no. He's gone for good."
Her silence was devastating agreement.
."
Book Six The
Education Of Will Kent
The Bend
"CHE COS A? NON HO SENTITO do che
hai detto"
The speaker was an old Italian with a black clay
pipe and the wheezy voice of someone suffering a lung
disorder. He was the fourth person Will had asked for
directions. The old man didn't understand Will any
better than the others had. He made that clear
by raising his hands, his shoulders, and his eyebrows in a
gesture of bewilderment.
The din on Mulberry Street this Saturday afternoon
was incredible. Men, women, and youngsters packed the
sidewalks, bargaining or socializing. Other people
leaned out the windows of the four- and five-story
tenements lining both sides of the street. Will had
stopped on the west side of Mulberry, at the
point where it made a slight change of direction-the
bend for which the neighborhood was named.
Two ragged boys scrambled after pennies they'd
been pitching on the sidewalk. One penny had landed
near the valise Will had put down. In the act of
retrieving the coin, one of the boys made a grab
for the valise. Will kicked it six inches to the right, just
out of the boy's reach. The urchins ran off, laughing.
The old man laughed too.
Will didn't find much to laugh about. He was soaked with
sweat and worn out from the all-night train trip. The
pitiless August sunlight was giving him
a headache. He felt terrible about the circumstances
of his departure from Beacon Street.
A permanent separation from his family had been
inevitable; a long time coming, but inevitable. That was the
conclusion he'd reached during his sleepless night on
the local from Boston. The last hope of a good
relationship had been
destroyed when Gideon resorted to innuendoes about
Laura's character in order to discourage his interest. Still,
the parting hurt.
Now, on top of everything, this old man couldn't or
wouldn't help him.
Will had his coat slung over his shoulder and his vest
open, but even so, he was obviously dressed too
well for the neighborhood. The quality and newness of
his clothing would have branded him an outsider even if his
language hadn't.
The old man started to turn away. "Wait," Will
said. "Surely somebody around here has heard of
Bayard Court."
He showed the old man the note Drew had sent
several weeks ago. Unfortunately Will's friend had
provided no directions, merely an address.
"Bayard Court," he repeated, emphasizing each
word. "Number four and a half. Bayard
-Court."
"Oh, e quello cid die vuoi?"
the man said with dawning comprehension. Then Will heard
an accented version of something familiar: "Bay-ard
Court-?"
"Yes. That's it." Will nodded several times.
Slowly, the old man pivoted until he was facing
north. Then Will was again forced to wait while the man
acknowledged a friend; a younger man pushing a
two-wheeled cart along the sidewalk. On the cart
sat one of the barrels which could be seen on the
curbstones at half-block intervals, overflowing
with ashes and cinders. The barrel on the cart was
empty, and a pert little girl in a ragged dress was
balanced precariously on the front rim. She was
obviously enjoying the ride.
The old man beamed.
"Buona giornata a te, Pasqual. E
buona giornata al tuo bellissima
bambina"
"Buona giornata, Chiro."
The younger man indicated W.
"Chi e il tuo amico pallido?"
That too was incomprehensible, but not the suspicion with
which it was said. In answer to the question, the old
man shrugged in an expressive way. The young father
gave Will another suspicious stare, then went on.
"Bay-ard Court?" the old man repeated at
last.
"Yes, that's what I want. Where do I find it?"
The old man pointed north to the next intersection;
rattled off directions which he supplemented with
gestures.
Will gathered that he was supposed to proceed to the
corner, turn left, then right again. Precisely
how far he went before he made the right turn, it was
impossible to say. But at least he had a start.
He thanked the old man, who simply stared until
he picked up his valise and moved on. Other people
watched him too. Only a few smiled. He
felt more and more uncomfortable with every step he took.

tilde backslash
The Mulberry Street Bend was just a few blocks
from the New York
Union
and the solid, relatively uncluttered commercial
area surrounding City Hall Park. The Bend,
by contrast, was a colorful neighborhood, but a
crowded and abysmally poor one. A
slum.
Drew had written that the neighborhood population
was chiefly Italian with some Irish sprinkled in.
Most of the Italians were recent arrivals. They
eked out a subsistence by picking rags, or by working at
the municipal dumps where garbage was loaded onto
scows for disposal at sea.
Years ago, Italian newcomers had begun
to gravitate toward the dumps for reasons no one
could adequately explain. It wasn't an
elegant way to earn a living, but a few of the more
unscrupulous had discovered ways to make it pay,
and pay handsomely. Today, those men were powerful. They were
addressed by the respectful title padrone. They
controlled the dumps. With one hand they bribed
municipal officials in order to maintain their
exclusive rights to do all the work and all the hiring.
With the other they held out jobs to their fellow
Italians.
The padrones employed the immigrants but paid them
a pittance, and in addition deducted a weekly
percentage- only fair, they said, since they had
generously extended themselves and taken a chance on
inexperienced workers. To the trusting newcomer, the
padrones were benefactors. To those less
naive they were merely businessmen doing business in the
American way. It was a sad introduction to the
new homeland, Drew said.
The whole of Mulberry Street for several blocks
had turned into an outdoor market this sultry
Saturday afternoon. On the curbstone to Will's right sat
women ranging
in age from thirteen to ninety. Their heads were wrapped
in red or yellow bandanas. Their tongues were busy
with the day's gossip. Beyond them, in the street, was a
row of pushcarts. A similar row ran along the far
curb, which was equally crowded with women.
The two lines of carts in the street were supplemented
by two more on the sidewalks near the buildings.
-Displayed on the carts Will saw sticks of stove
kindling; cabbages and carrots blackened by mold;
long loaves of bread already stale and crumbly;
big fish with phosphorescent scales; thick,
bloody-looking sausages; small mountains of
snails.
Behind the sidewalk pushcarts were grubby shops which
advertised themselves in Italian and English as
banks, steamship agencies, or employment
bureaus. Each shop and cart had its gilded
religious plaque or its painted
plaster image of a benevolent-looking saint. Most
of the saints cast their eyes up to heaven, no doubt
because their earthly surroundings were so grim.
Will passed a pushcart from which a toothless old woman
was offering what appeared to be secondhand stockings and
undergarments; Beyond the pushcart, a couple of
dark-eyed, rough-looking men sat talking on a
crumbling cement stoop. They noticed W. Their
interest increased when they saw the obviously
expensive gold watch chain hanging between the
pockets of his open vest.
The interest of the two men didn't strike Will as
precisely innocent. One squinted at him through the
blue smoke of a cheroot; he was younger than his
companion, and wearing a derby. He grinned at Will
and pointed to the gold chain:
"Ehi, amico. Porti una bella catena
d*oro. Hai un bell'orologio appeso
alia fine?"
Will kept walking. When he'd gone about six steps
beyond the stoop, the two men exchanged sly looks,
stood up and fell in step behind him.

his
His neck prickled. He didn't turn
but he knew they were following him. He worked his way
through the crowd, the pounding in his head growing worse.
He wasn't overly surprised at the unwelcome
attention
he was receiving. Drew had written that a certain few
in every one of New York's many racial and ethnic
groups were totally unwilling to better themselves by honest
means. Hence every slum had its gangs. There were
Irish gangs on the West Side; Chinese
gangs on Mott Street; Negro gangs in
enclaves along Seventh and Eighth Avenues;
Greek gangs, Polish gangs, Bohemian
gangs-even a gang in the small Arabian
community down near the Battery. The gangs preyed
on outsiders who ventured in, and when there were no
outsiders, on their own neighbors. The slums
guaranteed every man the opportunity to become
embittered and desperate, Drew had said in one
particularly caustic letter.
Will passed a saloon. From its open doorway
came lusty singing, and laughter. Two elderly men
stood still as statues in the entrance, smoking those
ubiquitous clay pipes. The men's eyes slid
from Will's face to a spot somewhere behind him. Then the men
glanced at one another. Those small
signs told Will the two roughnecks were still stalking
him.
Ahead, the sidewalk was drenched with spray from an
open hydrant. A crowd of small boys
frolicked and splashed. Will walked right through the
spray, not minding the soaking he got. The water
felt cool on his aching head. A genial, mustached
man in a fine, thigh-length coat of black
alpaca leaned against the front of a shop identified
as a bank. The man was peeling notes from a thick
bundle. He handed the money to an eager customer
who babbled thanks in Italian. Both banker and
customer noticed the men following W. The banker
reacted with cynical amusement; the customer's
look was one of pity.
On both sides of Mulberry Street, tilted
telephone and telegraph poles angled toward the
hot August sky. The lower sections of the poles
bore marks of frequent battering by wheeled
vehicles. Wagons stood hub to hub between the
pushcarts. Just across the street, a hearse had its
rear doors open to receive two children's coffins of
unpainted wood, each carried by men in dark suits.
Will tried to listen for footsteps behind him. The noise
made it difficult. Preoccupied, he
stumbled against the outstretched arm of a butcher skinning a
kid. The dead animal hung from a metal hook
on a kind of gallows attached to the butcher's cart.
The butcher's hairy forearm was wet with blood. The
blood spattered Will's vest when the two collided.
Will apologized in English, the butcher in
Italian. Then the butcher looked over Will's
shoulder, blinked and bobbed his head-a clear warning of
pursuit. Will nodded his thanks, then walked on to the
corner-the intersection of Mulberry and Bayard
Streets, according to a sign.
To his left alone Bavard Street, tenements
faced one another across a thoroughfare even m.crowded
and noisy than Mulberry. Portions of the cross
street lay in heavy shadow. If he went on,
he'd have to pass through those dark sections. He
decided that would be foolish with the two men still on his
trail. He had a better chance of dealing with them here
in the sunlight.
Heart beating fast, he rounded the corner, stopped and
dropped his valise. With his foot he pushed it into the
shade near the building. His head was pounding as he
turned to confront the pursuers.
CHAPTER II
Unexpected Help
THE TWO MEN WERE taken by surprise when they
rounded the corner and discovered Will standing there. But they
recovered quickly enough, swaggering up to him while
passersby hurried around without a second look.
One stout man did perceive that something was wrong, but his
thin-lipped wife refused to let him stop.
The two roughnecks closed in on Will from either side.
The one on his right, the older of the two, reached for
Will's vest and started to finger the material. Will jerked
his fist up and batted the hand aside.
The younger man instantly reached under his soiled shirt
and produced a clasp knife. He opened the
knife one- handed, without so much as a downward glance.
"Hey, my friend-was The young Italian's
English-was heavily accented but clear. Beneath the
brim of his derby, his eyes glittered. "That's no
way to treat my pal. You come wandering into the Bend in
your fancy suit, you have to pay visitor's tax."
The other man guffawed. "That's good, "Sep.
Visitor's tax. That's rich."
"Get the hell away from me," Will said. The men
weren't impressed. "Sure, sure," said the older
one. "Soon as we collect that visitor's
tax-huh, 'Sep?"
The young man in the derby grinned, nodded,
and put the point of his knife against Will's vest:
"We'll take the tax or we'll take your
gizzard. In your case the tax is this good-looking
chain-was He flicked the knife upward, touching the
gold links. "comand whatever's on the end. Hand it
over and you can go along."
Will didn't move. The knife moved lazily
away from the gold chain and rose to a spot just below his
collar. The point was perhaps half an inch from his
throat.
"Did you hear what I said, friend? We want the
tax and we want it
now"
The young man's other hand shot toward the chain. Will
jerked backwards, ramming his fist at the young man's
face.
The young man was quick and agile. He easily
sidestepped the punch. His companion swore and
grabbed for Will, but he too missed as Will ducked
away from the slashing knife. It whispered past his
left side. The point raked the brick wall and
left a trail of sparks.
Will slammed his left fist against the young man's
outstretched arm, driving it against the wall. He
yelled and dropped the knife. Will bashed
the older man's throat with his elbow. He was
desperate-and enraged at being robbed in broad
daylight. On the corner, a small crowd had
gathered to watch. No one moved to help him.
"Ti sistemero io, bastardo!"
the young man snarled as he crouched to retrieve his
knife. Will kicked it out of his reach, at the same
time using both hands to hold off the other thief.
The young man groped for the knife. Over his bent
back Will saw the crowd stir. Suddenly a woman
bellowed, "You mean to say you'll stand by and let those
two loafers attack a visitor to our
neighborhood?
Feccia indolente!"
The crowd parted as she shoved through, a stout, dark-
haired woman with a baby bouncing on her sizable
bosom. The baby rode in a kind of sling hanging
from her neck.
The woman ran up behind Will's assailants.
Folding both arms to shield her howling infant, she
lifted her right knee. "Get out of here,
low-life!" She rammed her knee into the buttocks
of the young man groping for the knife.
The man's derby fell off. He crashed head first
into the brick wall.
"Preziosissimo sangue di Gesii il
Salvatore!"
The young man clutched his scalp. His fingers came
away red. "You've killed me, woman."
"No," she said with a shake of her head. Her
English was only slightly better than his. "But
I will if you don't take yourself out of my sight. I
know who you are, Giuseppe Corso. I know your
mother, your poor abused wife, and half your kin from
Naples. I see them all at Sunday mass.
But I never see you because you're busy swilling wine
and congratulating yourself on your manhood after robbing
some helpless stranger."
Protecting the yelling baby with her left arm, she
used her other hand to shove the young man's shoulder.
"But you never commit a crime alone, do you? You
prefer two or three against one. By yourself it would be
too chancy."
Her brown eyes flashing, she swung to the older
man. Will had released him, but he was too
thunderstruck to move.
"I recognize you also, Rocco Amato. Your
wife hangs her laundry in the court behind Baxter
Street."
The man blushed and grabbed his companion's
arm, pleading with him in Italian. The younger man
fingered his bloody head. Then he fixed Will with a
vengeful stare; raised his right hand; bit the tip of his
thumb. He spilled out a stream of furious
Italian:
"Ti rivedro, bastardo! Ci puoi contare!"
Still shouting, he let the older man pull him around the
corner out of sight.
Will shivered. "What the devil was he saying?"
Unsmiling, the woman looked at him.
"It's better you don't know."
A moment later, she began to croon, "Now, now,
baby. Hush, little one." She began rocking her child
to soothe it.
Soon the baby stopped crying and gurgled. Then the
gurgling stopped too. The child was falling asleep
again. The woman turned her attention to Will, who had
dusted himself off and was picking up his valise.
His benefactor was a powerfully built woman,
heavy, and quite short. Her eyes were on a level with
his upper arm. She had the blackest hair he'd ever
seen, wound into a big bun. There was some gray in it,
although she couldn't have been more than thirty-five.
He studied her more closely. Wrinkles, weight,
and a downy black mustache increased the
impression of age. But they did nothing to diminish
an impression of strength tempered by a good
disposition.
"If you're ready, young man, I'll conduct you
wherever it is you're going."
"Thanks very much," Will said. "I'm grateful for the
help you gave me with those two. But I'm a little
embarrassed too."
"Why?" she shot back. "You'd better not say
it's because I'm a woman. You needed help caret and
you wouldn't have gotten any from those gutless loafers."
She gave a withering look to the small crowd of
spectators just breaking up. "I don't
recognize any of them. That means they don't
live in this neighborhood. You mustn't judge
Mulberry Street by their behavior-or by that of men like
'Sep and Rocco either. 'Sep-the young one with the
knife-he's totally worthless. But Rocco Amato
is just weak. He's a working man. He supports
a wife, a father, a mother-in-law, and four wee
ones. When a man earns only seven dollars a
month trimming the scows and must spend five to rent
one filthy room with no air except that which comes up
the shaft and no water except the foul stuff from the
community sink-well, it's easy for a man
like that to grow bitter and disregard his conscience. That
doesn't excuse what Rocco did. But perhaps it
explains it, eh?"
The woman's brusque pronouncements made Will
smile.
He began to relax a little. "Yes, it does."
He draped his coat over his arm. "I'm looking for
Bayard Court."
"You are? Fancy thatl Grimaldi's there right this
minute."
"Who's Grimaldi?"
"The father of this little beauty-was As they began walking,
she patted the infant's head. Will could see the
anterior fontanel beneath a fuzz of dark hair; a
newborn, then. "Little Miranda. Plus eight more.
I don't doubt he'll want to plant another one
the moment I permit him close to me again.
Grimaldi's a regular bull. I'm not
complaining, you understand. Many of my friends are envious.
But sometimes I do crave a night's rest. Ah
well-that's life, hah?"
Again he smiled. "You're Mrs. Grimaldi,
then-was
Her plump cheeks grew pink and her mustache
quivered. "Who else would I be? Do
I look like some slut who'd bear nine children out of
wedlock? Is that what you think?"
"No, no, I didn't mean to imply that."
"Good."
"I apologize."
"I accept." She studied his obviously
expensive summer suit. "What are you doing in the
Bend, Signer-?"
"Kent. Will Kent."
"I'm happy to know your name, but that isn't the information
I requested."
fe He chuckled. "I'm looking for a friend. A
doctor who

practices at number four and a half Bayard
Court."
"Imagine! That's exactly where Grimaldi
is-number four and a half."
"Is that a fact?"
Again the thunderous brow: "Of course it's a fact.
Why else would I say it? Do I strike you as a
frivolous woman who makes idle jokes? Is
that what you mean to say?"
He quickly raised his free hand. "No.
Absolutely not."
"Good. I don't want to think I made a
mistake about you."
"Is your husband seeing one of the doctors?"
"Yes. He's having a cough looked after."
"What a coincidence. Our meeting, I mean."
"Coincidence? It's proof of God's guiding hand
in hu- * man affairs. Tell me, Signor
Kent. Do you know the doctors?"
"I know one of them. He's a good friend of mine."
"They are both good men. One is newer to the
neighborhood than the other, but they are both
Christians. They know that those of us who live here have
little or no money, but they also know we have a need, so
they never demand that we pay. And they never force us
to sign anything, as the bankers do. Good men," she
repeated with a nod that said she'd brook no other
opinion. "Which doctor is your friend? The old one
or the round one?"
"The round-his Yes, that one."
"Come on, then. Let's move a little faster. You
wouldn't have found Bayard Court by yourself. Mind your
step and hold your nose and we'll be there before you know
it."

Mrs. Grimaldi was right. He couldn't
have located Bayard Court alone. When she turned
into a narrow passage between two tenements, he was
sure he would have missed the passage completely.
They walked in semi-darkness, between windowless walls.
Over her shoulder she said, "I've lived in the
Bend five years and I still don't know all the
alleys and courtyards. Of course the property
owners and rental agents keep adding onto the
buildings and putting up new ones to further confuse
matters-be careful! Don't fall over the
garbage."
There was more than garbage littering the lightless
passage. Will's shoes stank of offal. Mrs.
Grimaldi marched right through it with her skirt hiked
up in both hands. The stench didn't bother little
Miranda, who was still sleeping in the sling.
Just short of the spot where the passage opened into a
gloomy courtyard, Mrs. Grimaldi stopped,
gazed down, and said softly:
"Madonna Santissima.
Look at that. Another one left to die."
Will moved up beside her. On the ground he saw the
feebly moving hands of a dirt-erusted baby no more
than four or five weeks old. The child was swaddled
in greasy rags. A fat fly walked
on its face.
Will couldn't hide his astonishment. "You mean people
just-discard their children?"
The question saddened her. "You honestly don't know what
it's like to live in a district like this, do you?"
He thought of Maison du Soleil; of the comfortable
house in Boston that he'd never see again. He said
softly:
"No. I don't."
"When people cannot feed the extra mouth God has seen
s
fit to give them, they grow desperate. Several children
are abandoned in this section every week. Some are found
dead of exposure but some have been suffocated before being
abandoned. I suppose their misguided parents
believe that to be an act of mercy."
She bent with a grace surprising in a person
so'heavy. With great care she picked up the filthy
bundle. The small, squashed face looked
lifeless. The tiny hands made only the feeblest of
waving motions.
"This one's almost gone. Til see whether I can
give the poor thing a fighting chance. Grimaldi
won't like me bringing it home, but he'll have to humor
me if he wants his marital
privileges. Come along, Signer Kent.
We're only a few steps from the splendors of
Bayard Court."
The court was bounded on the Bayard Street side
by the two buildings which the passage separated, and on
the other three sides by the backs of five-story
tenements. Each building had at least one fire
escape. The fire escapes were crowded with wash
tubs, broken chairs, sofas with ripped cushions,
and other pieces of useless furniture.
Shabbily dressed men and women relaxed on the old
furniture. The people filled every bit of usable space
on the fire escapes-the verandas of the poor, Will
thought with dismay. Mrs. Grimaldi greeted some of the
residents with a wave and a few words in Italian,
all the while carrying Miranda on her breast and
cradling the abandoned baby in her left arm. The
mud of the courtyard was strewn with bales of rags, as
well as more garbage and dung, human and animal.
The stink was overpowering.
Directly overhead, a maze of pulley-lines
crisscrossed the open space. The lines were strung
from every floor. Each was laden with laundry, some of it
no better than rags. Thick smoke twisted between
the hanging clothes. The source was a
cooking brazier on a third floor fire
escape.
The combination of the tall buildings, the smoke, and
the hanging laundry kept the courtyard dark. In
fact, the only scrap of summer sky visible to Will
was so beclouded by smoke, it looked stormy. He could
hardly believe the sun was shining up there.
Mrs. Grimaldi noticed him gazing upward; she
clucked her tongue. "That, I believe, is what
the priests call
cielo.
Heaven. It's no wonder that even in a good
Catholic neighborhood, the churches are half
empty-was
Suddenly she grew more animated:
"Grimaldi! Here I am!"
She marched toward the dark door of the tenement
directly opposite the passageway by which they'd
entered. Will took a final look at the faces on
the fire escapes, vaguely ashamed of where he'd
come from, and very much ashamed of What he wanted from
life. What did the residents of the Bend want?
He suspected the answer was a simple and
fundamental one. They wanted to survive-not easy
to do down here where there was so much dirt and
poverty and violence.
"Grimaldi, get a move on!" the stout woman
called to a man with curly gray hah* and a pie
of a face. His leather vest couldn't hide his huge
paunch. He'd just come out of the tenement clutching a
small bottle of reddish-brown liquid. Behind, in
the hall, a woman was saying:
"coma spoonful of that elixir whenever the cough bothers
you, Signer Grimaldi. And don't forget to come
back next Saturday and let the doctor see
whether you've improved."
Curious,
Will thought.
That voice sounds familiar.
"Thank you, thank you very much, signorina,"
Grimaldi said. His wife thumped his ear with her
index finger:
"Don't flirt with the nurse. Turn around and see
what I have for you. A little surprise."
But Will was the one who was most surprised when the
nurse emerged into the dim light. He recognized
her red- gold hair, and full mouth. As for the
rest-it was new; a product of her passage into young
womanhood.
Gone were the skinny limbs and the sharp
angles of adolescence. Instead, he saw a hint
of a rounded hip under her plain skirt; breasts beneath a
vertically striped shirtwaist and white surgeon's
apron.
"Miss Hastings? Is that you?"
"Certainly, Mr. Kent. We've been expecting
you since noon," Jo Hastings said.
"One Notch
Move Heir
WILL WAS ASTONISHED AT the difference three
years lhade. When Drew's younger sister had
visited Boston, she'd been a child; now she was a
young woman, and a handsome one. That was true despite
the freckles still visible on her cheeks, and the nose
that remained a fraction too large.
Mrs. Grimaldi called a goodbye as she left
the court. Her husband followed a pace behind. Will
waved, then said to Jo:
"What in the world are you doing here?"
She used the hem of her apron to wipe her hands.
With a nod toward the fire escapes, she said, "This
was my birthday present to myself."
"What? The slums?"
His skepticism kindled wrath in her blue-green
eyes. "A chance to help Drew for a few
weeks! A chance to learn nursing by being a nurse.
I had no money for a Nightingale school."
"Yes, I remember. I didn't mean to make
fun of you. I apologize."
She smiled. "You're forgiven. This is what I've
wanted to do all my life. Last winter I took
a second job in addition to the one at the family
store. Every week I put forty cents of that extra
money into a jar. When I had enough, I gave
it to my father so he could pay a boy to take my
place at the store this summer." Defiance glinted
in those eyes he found oddly fascinating all at
once. "But to be perfectly truthful, Mr.
Kent, I'm not sure I can ever go back to Hartford
or that store."
"Please-was He extended his hand. "I'd like you
to call me WilLike"
With a grave expression she shook his hand. Her
palm was cool and firm. He imagined her fingers
would be surpassingly gentle with a patient.
"Very well. It's Will from now on. And you must call
me Jo. When I was a little girl, I hoped we'd
be on a first name basis someday."
The directness of her gaze made him nervous. Was
he crazy, or was her expression more than
merely cordial? Surely her adolescent crush
was a thing of the past-
She surprised him by asking, "Do you know the meaning
of the name Jo?" He shook his head. "It's a
Scots word. Very old." Teasing him with her eyes,
she added, "Look it up some time."
"I surely will. Meantime, may I ask you a
question?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"Do you think an environment like this is good for someone like
you?"
Her eyes blazed. "What do you mean-someone like
me?"
He dodged an empty tomato can that came whizzing
down from a rooftop. Several boys were leaning over a
crumbling cornice. One dropped a second can.
It hit a mongrel defecating in the middle of the
courtyard. Yelping, the dog ran off.
Will couldn't decide whether he liked or disliked
Jo's forthright, challenging manner; a little of both,
probably. He tried to explain himself tactfully:
"The Bend isn't exactly a resort-was
"Drew mentioned your familiarity with resorts," she
said with a tart smile. That told him she knew about the
Fennels, and undoubtedly about Laura,
too. "Are you trying to say I shouldn't be here because
I'm a girl?"
"Well-was His hesitation was an admission.
"That's utter nonsense. The idea that women are
too delicate for some kinds of work is a fiction
perpetuated by men. The same kind of men who claim
that all female diseases have one cause-women
deviating from their ordained function. If a girl
tries to educate herself instead of letting her womb
function, she'll get sick!"
"Jo, that's widely accepted medical theory."
"I'm not surprised, considering the sex of most
doctors. Men are determined to keep women in their
place." As he started to object, she gave him a
radiant smile.
"Oh, those aren't my words. I heard them used by a
suffragist who lectured in Hartford. I spent
twenty-five cents of my savings for a gallery seat
and I'm glad I did. She was a fine, inspiring
speaker. Her name was Julia Kent."
He turned red. "Oh good God."
Jo's smile was sweet. "I beg your pardon?
What did you say?"
He knew he was beaten. "Nothing," he muttered.
"Not a thing."
u
Inside the tenement, a pump handle began to squeak
rhythmically. Contentious voices were raised in the
lightless hall. Jo went on:
"If Miss Nightingale could go to the Crimea
by herself, and Dorothea Dix could venture
into madhouses, I can certainly help my own
brother here. You have no idea how desperately these
people need us."
"I'm beginning to," he told her with an eye on
the filthy courtyard.
"How long do you plan to stay? Drew hasn't
said."
He wanted to tell her that the Bend so depressed
him, he'd have left immediately if his conscience would have
allowed it. Instead, he said:
"I'll be here about a week."
"Oh, no longer than that?"
The faint tone of disapproval irked him. Before he
could say anything else, there was an interruption:
He recognized Drew's voice. The familiar
round face appeared in the tenement door. "Will!
You're finally here!"
Will hurried toward the doorway, both to greet his
friend and to escape the curiously unsettling
gaze of Drew's sister. Why the devil did he
have to justify his opinions and his behavior to an
adolescent girl? The question nagged at him as he
clapped Drew in a bear hug and exclaimed without
thinking:
"It's wonderful to see you, Deacon."
Drew laughed. "Deacon, eh?"
Will's face reddened again. He started to offer an
apology. Drew held up a hand:
"Don't look so stricken. I've heard that name
before, though I assume most of my classmates
thought otherwise. I just never heard it from you. I
guess it fits. You've met our nurse, I
see-was
"I have-indeed."
Drew bobbed his head at the gray and greasy-looking
bricks of the tenement. "What do you think of our little
medical missionary station."
"Want me to be honest? It's appalling."
"I agree."
"I never imagined that you'd practice in a
tenement," Will said as he walked back to pick up his
valise.
"Neither did I. Dr. Clem says Bayard
Court is just one notch above hell, and
sometimes I think that's stretching it. But we've found
it's the best place for us. Come on, I want you
to meet my partner."
He led Will into a dark, dismal hallway. A few
old floor tiles remained, but most had been
torn up, leaving a spongy sub-floor that reeked
of urine. Huge holes had been punched in walls
whose paint had long ago been overlaid with dirt and
deposits of airborne grease. The steady
squeak-squee
of the pump handle came from an old sink at the rear
of the hall. Despite hard pumping, only a
trickle issued from the spout. Half a dozen
women and youngsters were lined up waiting their turn with
cans and bottles.
"That's the building's source of water," Drew
told him.
"Not the only one, surely."
"Yes. This isn't Newport. Every morning Dr.
Clem and I pump a couple of gallons and boil
it."
"Even more reason for not having your office in a
place like this."
Drew stopped at an open door. "Dr. Clem
used to have a store-front office on
Mulberry. He practiced there until he
discovered that a lot of neighborhood people thought the
office was too fancy. It scared 'em off. I
didn't believe that the first time I heard it, but it's
true. Our patients are
afraid of all American doctors, but they're
less afraid of ones who practice in the kind of
building the patients live in themselves."
"Do you live here too?"
"No, I'm afraid we aren't that idealistic.
I've got fairly decent lodgings a few
blocks east of Bayard Street. In the section people
call Jewtown. Jo's staying there, and I've
rented a room for you. Our landlord's an energetic
Russian Jew named Nevsky. He's a
sweater."
"A what?"
"He operates a sweat shop in his flat. He's
doing well. Last month he took over the entire
top floor of the tenement. Some of the older children in this
neighborhood work for him."
"If he's doing so well, why does he have to rent
out rooms?"
"It's a way of life in his neighborhood. He
told me a lodger fulfills the same
function for a Jewish family that a cow does for an
Irishman. It puts a few extra pennies in the
cookie jar."
Drew conversed while leaning against the frame of the open
door in a relaxed way. Jo had stepped down the
hall and was examining a cut on the cheek of a boy in
a line near the sink. She was talking to the boy in
what sounded like a pidgin Italian. It was hard
to say who looked more nervous, the boy or his mother. A
couple of the women watched Jo as if she were a
sorceress.
Will looked in the door and inspected the reception
room-a windowless chamber about ten feet by six, lit
by kerosene lamps that added noticeably to the heat.
On a collection of old chairs and boxes, five
patients sat waiting: two elderly men, a handsome
black-hatred youth, a nondescript middle-aged
woman, a mother with twin babies in her arms. There was
a burlap rug on the floor and an uneven coat
of whitewash on the walls. Yet in spite of the
imperfections, the room had an air of cleanliness
and order completely at odds with the filthy hall just a
step away.
Will spent a moment studying the expressions of the people
waiting. Frightened expressions, every one of
them. Drew noticed his interest and said:
"Like a lot of immigrants, the Italians want
to live among their own kind." Will was surprised that his
friend would speak within earshot of his patients. "This
country's
so new and strange, they need the reassurance of
familiar customs-a familiar language. Trouble
is, by hanging onto the old ways, they're slow
to adopt new ones. Many of them never even learn
English. That plays right into the hands of the padrones
who pose as their friends."
Now Will understood Drew's candor. "But there must be
exceptions. Walking over here, I met a woman
named Mrs. Grimaldi. Her husband's a
patient of yours. She knew English."
Drew laughed. "Signora Grimaldi's got a
spine like a ramrod and a will as strong as my dear
sister's. Now that she's in America, she's
determined to become an American. But a lot of
these people are just too timid or too ground down
by poverty. It's the same in every slum. A few
strong ones fight their way out. There are thousands more
who can't-but I'm chattering too much. Trying to tell
you everything in ten minutes. My partner'll be
wondering what happened to me."
"I know his name's Clem. But your letters never said
whether that's his first name or his last."
"It's his nickname. His real name's Vlandingham."
Will blinked.
"Vlandingham?"
"That's right. Clement Chase Vlandingham. Do you know
him?"
Will's thoughts turned back to the interview at
Sherry's Restaurant. The fat society
doctor had mentioned an older brother whose
altruism-and whose slum practice-he regarded with
contempt. Surely this must be the same man-
"No, I don't know him. But I'm anxious
to meet him."
Drew led him toward a closed door on the far
side of the reception room. "Then come on."
*
*v
I
CHAPTER
IV
Warning
THE WHITEWASHED SURGERY was
three times the size of the waiting room. On four
homemade shelves on the wall to Will's
left stood twelve kerosene lamps. To provide
light for surgical procedures, he supposed.
At the moment only two of the lamps were lit.
The current patient was a middle-aged man,
stooped and sallow. He stood beside an old
examination table, fastening the buttons of his trousers.
He turned red and whirled away as Jo entered the
room a step behind the two young men.
On a stool beside the examination table sat Drew's
partner, a stringy fellow with a stern air. He was in his
mid- sixties at the very least. His cold gray
eyes briefly examined Will before returning to the
embarrassed patient:
"Signor Abruzzo, you come back and see me
Tuesday, all right?"
Another nervous glance at Jo. Then the old man
nodded.
"Martedi. Si, dottore."
"Meantime-was The white-haired doctor picked up
a small cardboard box which he handed to Signor
Abruzzo. "comuse one of these whenever you have bad
pain. I've explained what you're supposed to do with
them. You understand, don't you?"
"I understand,
dottore"
Eyeing the box apprehensively, the old man
shuffled out.
When the door clicked, the white-haired man said
to Drew, "He'll throw them out. I don't know how
I'm going caret to persuade him to go up
to Bellevue for surgery. His wife practically
had to put a knife to his throat just to get him here.
Actually, I think it's too late for an operation
to do much good."
Drew grimaced. "Is it what you thought? Rectal
cancer?"
The white-haired man nodded: "Goddamn it."
Jo looked close to tears as she walked toward the
wall on Will's right. There, curtains of cheap red
gingham hung between a pair of ancient equipment
cabinets. The curtains decorated what at first
appeared to be a regular window opening onto an
airshaft. A second look showed the window to be
merely a ragged hole knocked through plaster, lath and
brick. Between the curtains a pot of crimson
geraniums was visible. The pot rested on a sill
improvised from a piece of rough lumber.
Drew's partner rubbed his eyes a moment, then stood
up. He looked at Will again. His apology for his
profanity was a terse, "Sorry." He
extended his hand, firm and brown. "Clem
Vlandingham." His voice was that of a born New
Englander.
"Will Kent, sir."
Vlandingham's next remark caught him off guard:
"I know something about your background, but I don't
know why you're here."
It was Drew who answered:
"I invited him, Dr. Clem. Will graduates from
Harvard next year. I thought he might be interested
in seeing the need for doctors in this part of New
York. Maybe he'll be interested in joining our
practice."
Will was irritated with his friend for presenting him under
false colors. "Drew-was he began, but
Vlandingham cut in:
"Well, we certainly have a lot to offer, Kent.
We treat two entirely different and distinct
populations here. The first is the permanent one. People
who live in these firetraps, renting rooms for
seven to ten dollars a month- twice what it costs
for decent quarters in a good neighborhood. Then
there's our transient population. That consists
chiefly of tramps who live in the streets and
alleys. They survive by stealing. Neither
group can afford to pay us a red cent, though a few people
try. And they suffer all the maladies ever conceived
by God and perpetuated by man. On top of that, we
work amid the constant presence of typhoid and
smallpox, and the constant fear of cholera. We make
house calls in rooms where a thermometer registers
a hundred and fifteen degrees this time of year."
He gestured to the furnishings. "Most of our
equipment was donated and, as you can see, it's old.
We save what little we earn in fees and use it for
supplies. Lately, income's been lean. We
have to buy drugs soon. That will take all the money
that's left. In every respect, we offer a splendid
opportunity-was
Once more the gray eyes raked him. Vlandingham's
contempt angered Will, as did his next remark:
"I'd say you're the type who wouldn't be interested.
Maybe I should send you to my younger brother who
practices uptown."
In a level voice, Will said, "That's where I
intend to practice."
"Then what the devil are you doing in the Bend?"
"Honoring a promise I made to Drew."
"What kind of promise? A promise to come down
here and sneer at our primitive
methods?"
With a sympathetic glance at Will, Jo tried
to intervene:
"Dr. Clem, people are still waiting-was
"Let them wait," Will said. "Why are you so angry
with me, Doctor? I wasn't aware that I'd
sneered at anyone or anything. I certainly
don't know what the hell I've done to offend you.
But I'll be damned if I. have to stand here and be
insulted."
Will's words produced a look of grudging respect
from Vlandingham. He put his palms on the cracked
leather top of the examination table and leaned forward,
obviously tired.
"You've done nothing, Kent. I apologize for my
bad
3 manners. I'm taking my anger out on you because
I'm powerless to save the life of that poor old man
who was just here-and yet I have to keep trying. We'll
be glad to have you spend a week with us. We'll
happily accept what-
's
I ever help you can offer.
That was all the time he gave to making amends. He
turned to Jo:
"Let's have the next one. It's Saturday, after
all, and it might be nice to get out of here by six or
seven o'clock."
"I'll walk Will over to his room, then come right
back," Drew said. Vlandingham's answer was no more
than a mutter. Passing Will on her way to the
reception room, Jo accidentally brushed against him.
The curve of her
breast touched his forearm, reminding him again of how much
she'd grown and changed.
But there was no excitement in the brief contact. He
was still too upset with his friend.

"Deacon Drew!" he finally exploded when they were
by themselves. "Reforming the world and everyone in it! What
gave you the right even to suggest I might want
to practice down here?"
They were moving east on Bayard Street, a block
past the Bowery. Signs in Hebrew hung on the
telegraph poles, and Hebrew characters were painted in
gilt on the windows of shops closed for the Jewish
Sabbath.
Hands in the pockets of his white duck trousers,
Drew kept his eyes on the ground as he replied,
"I don't think the idea's so
ridiculous. I don't believe you really want
to spend the rest of your life prescribing headache
powders up and down Fifth Avenue."
"You seem to know a hell of a lot about me!"
His friend gave him a penetrating stare. "More than you
know about yourself, maybe. Look-was He faced Will on
a corner. Two bearded men in long black twill
coats and broad-brimmed hats passed them,
speaking an unfamiliar language. "comI realize
I haven't much chance of weaning you away from the
future you've planned so meticulously. But
Clem Vlandingham's sixty-four. Thinking of
retiring. You can't blame me if I'd like to have my
best friend come in as my partner. You can't blame me
if I try to persuade you."
Less angry, Will said, "No, I guess I
can't." He even managed a smile. "Given your
missionary temperament."
"I'll ignore that. I'm not the only one pleased
that you're here. Jo is, too. She's still quite enamored
of you, or didn't you notice?"
He evaded by shaking his head and saying, "I was too
busy noticing that she's grown up."
"Grown up and still rebellious. I'm afraid she
won't stay at the store in Hartford
forever. She means to have a career as a nurse. By the
way-I've told her all about the Fennels. She
knows you're taken."
Will didn't smile. Presently Drew asked,
"How is Laura these days?"
"Fine. We hope to be married by this time next
summer."
"I see. Are congratulations officially in order?"
"Not until I've spoken to her father." An image
of Jo's eyes drifted into his thoughts. For no very
clear reason, he added, "I wish you wouldn't mention
an engagement just yet."
"Whatever you say. We should clear up one thing,
though. As Dr. Clem said, we'll be grateful for
your help at the office. But it's voluntary. You
don't have to earn your keep. You're here as a
guest."
"And possible convert."
"Don't sound so cynical. You could do worse."
Will didn't voice his doubt of that. Drew went
on:
"In any case, I want to show you around the
neighborhood. By day and at night too. I'll
introduce you to a couple of interesting acquaintances
I've made. One is a police
sergeant named Banks. He's an expert on the
Bend, and so is his friend Jake Riis. Riis
does police reporting for the
Evening Sun.
He's going to have a book published soon, about the
tenement districts. He prowls around after dark taking
flashlight pictures of them."
"Sounds like it could be dangerous."
A wry laugh. "On occasion-though the danger
isn't always the sort you'd expect. Once Jake
arranged a picture in a room occupied by some blind
beggars. The quarters were just too crowded. Jake
almost set himself and the whole tenement on fire with his
flash powder."
Will looked dubious. "I don't know whether I
need any slum tours, Drew. I've already met
my quota of unsavory types."
"What do you mean? Have you had some trouble?"
"Yes, on the way to your sumptuous office. That's
how I met Mrs. Grimaldi,"
"What happened?"
"A couple of the local unemployed tried
to relieve me of this." He touched his watch chain.
"Mrs. Grimaldi came along and helped me
get rid of them. She knew them both."
"Did you hear their names?" Drew said, stopping at
the
foot of a cement stoop so well scrubbed and swept,
it fairly shone.
Will was struck by the note of concern in his friend's
voice. "Why? Is it important?"
"Might be. There are some bad actors in the
Bend."
Will thought a moment. "One of the men was named Amato."
"Rocco Amato?"
"Yes, that's it."
"He's harmless."
"The other was Giuseppe Corso."
"He isn't. He holds grudges. Last week
we treated his wife for cuts and contusions. She said
he beat her because she didn't buy a bottle of
Fiano for him to drink with supper. Of course he
hadn't brought any money home. But
she
got the beating. Tells you what sort he is, eh?
Might be better if you didn't walk around the
Bend by yourself too much."
"You're exaggerating."
"No. I've worked here a month and a half. You
start hearing things in a fraction of that time.
The Bend may be grim, but it's still a
neighborhood, and a small neighborhood at that.
The people seem pretty much like people everywhere. Some of them
scoundrels, most of them decent- and a few, like
Mrs. Grimaldi, nothing short of wonderful. And
everyone's acquainted with everyone else. That's how
I know Corso's no good. I've heard he does
roughneck work for a couple of the padrones who control
the trimming of the garbage scows-not to mention a fair
amount of crime in the area. While you're here, you'd
be wise to keep your eyes open and your wits about
you," was Drew's final, unsettling opinion on the
matter.
T
CHAPTER V
The Policeman
THE BAYARD COURT MEDICAL office was open
seven days a week, from eight in the morning until
six at night; later if the case load made it
necessary. Unless there was an emergency, the hour from noon
till one was set aside for the main meal of the day.
On the Sunday following Will's arrival, Drew,
Jo, and Will took that meal in a small restaurant
near the corner of Bayard and the Bowery. They paid
thirteen cents apiece for beef soup,
beef stew, fresh bread, peach pie, and a big bowl
of pickles. The price also included a small
schooner of beer. The two men drained theirs and
split Jo's.
The restaurant was crowded with cheerful, gregarious
Jews. The neighborhood had come back to life
after the Jewish Sabbath. Pushcharts lined both
sides of Bayard Street, and peddlers shouted their
wares. Outdoors or in, most of the men wore
black silk skull caps.
Many of those eating in the restaurant had brought their
work with them. They carried bundles of unfinished
pieces that would be stitched together in a tenement
sweatshop. A few had stacks of finished
garments-mainly boys" jackets, gentlemen's
cloaks, and knickerbockers-or knee pants, as
Drew said they were called.
Fascinated, Will watched the men laughing and gossiping
in Yiddish, their hands moving frequently to the
pickle bowls or the bread baskets. "Did you
notice all the bakeries close by?" Drew
asked. "The Jews have a passion for fresh bread.
It's good for you, and it's cheap-was He drank some
beer, flicked foam from his upper lip and smiled.
"You look like you don't quite believe all
this is real."
"I don't," Will admitted. "I've been to New
York dozens of times, but I've never seen this part
of the city. It might
as well be a thousand miles from the Fifth Avenue
Hotel." Jo's blue-green eyes fixed on
him. "Or Newport?" Drew frowned, making
sure his sister saw. Will didn't notice; he was
recalling the studied ostentation of the cottages along
Bellevue Avenue; the museum-like formality so
different from the noisy, hectic yet somehow vital
spirit of the lower East Side.
"You're right," he said to her presently. "It's
hard to believe Newport and this neighborhood are
both part of America."
"But which part's yours?" she asked. Drew drained his
beer. He was only half joking when he said,
"I've tried to discover that for years." He thumped
his schooner on the tablecloth. "It's time we got
back."
That ended the conversation-for which Will was grateful.
ii
They strolled back to Bayard Court in the hot
summer sunshine. When they'd gone half a block,
they came upon two boys of fifteen or
sixteen punching one another while a small crowd
looked on. Will stopped to watch, but Drew motioned
him away:
"Those two belong to the same neighborhood gang.
They aren't mad. They stage a fight like that every few
days."
"Stage a fight? Why?"
Drew pointed, and Will saw what he hadn't
noticed before comother boys, about the same age as the
fighters, standing behind the adults in the crowd. One of the
boys slipped his hand under the coattails of a
well-dressed man in front of him. The man was
obviously not a resident of the area. A moment
later, Will saw the boy bide a fat wallet under
his shirt.
"You mean it's just a diversion so the others in the gang
can pick pockets?" he asked.
Drew nodded. "That's what it is." Will laughed,
shook his head, and the three walked on.
Soon they crossed Mulberry Street. Will felt
a prickle on the back of his neck. He glanced
to the right; saw nothing suspicious. He looked the
other way, and stiffened-
A few doors down, a man on a brownstone
stoop was watching him.
The man stood motionless among cronies with whom
he'd been talking. Even though the brim of a derby
kept his face shadowed, Will recognized him. It was
Giuseppe Corso.
A shiver chased down.will's back.
Fortunately Drew was talking to his sister; neither
noticed.
Once across Mulberry Street, Will didn't
look back. But he felt Corso's eyes
following him until the three of them were out of sight
on Bayard Street. Drew began to explain some
things about the practice:
"We've worked the schedule out so that Dr. Clem
always takes Sunday off to relax and attend
to personal business. He also takes every other
Saturday. I take Tuesdays. We plan
to add a third person, though that isn't
absolutely definite yet."
"He means me," Jo said. "If I can't pay for
nursing school, I can at least learn by apprenticing
myself to a couple of exceptional doctors. I've
decided to tell Father I won't stay in Hartford
past the end of this year."
That confirmed a prediction Drew had made only
yesterday. "How will your father take it?" Will
asked.
Drew laughed in a humorless way. "He'll
squeal like a gored bull."
"But my mind's made up," Jo added.
"Ultimately, Pa will give in," Drew went
on. "He won't like the decision, but hell understand
it."
She sighed. "I hope you're right. Still-was She
glanced at the tenements simmering in the sunshine.
"I'd come work here even if he didn't. Life's
very short. I refuse to squander mine standing behind a
counter when there are so many people who need what little help
I can give."
By God, they're still trying to convert me!
Will thought. But he didn't utter a protest.
Jo's dedication, like Drew's, had a strong appeal
to a certain part of his nature. So all he did was
smile and say:
"Spoken like a true disciple of Julia Kent."
Jo laughed. "Right you are, sir." Without
embarrassment, she linked her arm with his. Drew
looked a bit unhappy about his sister's forward
behavior, but Jo ignored him. She and Will
strolled arm in arm for half a block. A most
enjoyable half block, Will thought as they
separated
to walk single file through the passage leading
to Bayard Court.
"I'm co@fused about one thing, Drew," he said.
"What's that?"
"The place we're going. Which is it, your office
or the free clinic?"
Drew laughed again. "All depends. If a
patient can pay us a few cents, it's the office.
If he can't, it's the clinic. You don't imagine
we earn enough to cover two rents, do you? Now I'll
ask you something. Supposing we get busy this afternoon.
May I put you to work?"
"I wish you would."
He didn't expect the office would receive many
patients the rest of the day. There had been none during
the morning, as the Bend had come slowly to life while
church bells rang the summons to mass at
regular intervals. But two young men were already waiting
outside the tenement. Both looked groggy; both were
covered with blood that attracted a great many big
black flies.
The men were brothers, explained the one who knew a
little English. After church, he went on, they had
retired to their fire escape and started
drinking and playing cards. There'd been an argument;
knives were drawn. Each brother suffered a wound-
An embarrassed shrug ended the story. With no
warning, the brother who'd been speaking fell forward
against Will, his eyes rolling up into his head.
"Get 'em inside," Drew ordered. After a
brief examination of the unconscious man, Will
dragged him through the waiting room to the surgery,
covering himself with blood in the process. That was the
start of work that didn't let up until after five.
Will soon came to appreciate why Drew derived
such satisfaction from his work. The people who came to the
office didn't come with trivial complaints. It
took pain, and attendant fear, to overcome their
natural unwillingness to visit a doctor. The
language barrier compounded their difficulties. When
they walked into the surgery, they were in need, and
terrified.
Will's first patient was a weeping mother with a four-
year-old girl in her arms. Three rat bites
marked the child's legs. In broken English, the mother
explained The youngster had been playing in the alley
when she was bitten. The explanation brought on more
sobbing. Will managed to calm the woman, who was far more
upset than her child. The little girl bore
the experience stoically, as if rats were an accepted
part of life in the Bend. He cleaned the wounds and
told the woman to bring the girl back if fever or
other symptoms developed.
Next Jo brought him a burly young man who was
weak and in severe pain. Will diagnosed acute
enteritis, administered opium, then turned the
patient over to Jo for fomentation.
The young man stretched out on the examination table,
blushing as she applied the warm water poultices
to his belly. When he left, he took along a
little vial of opium tincture. Will hoped the
patient had understood the directions Drew had
given in slow, halting Italian. The young man
probably couldn't do what would be most beneficial
for his condition-stick to a bland diet. People in the Bend
didn't have the luxury of choosing the foods they
ate. Most of their energy was consumed in an effort
to find any food at all. He felt helpless when
he realized that; helpless and not a little angry.
He experienced the same sense of helplessness with a
seventy-year-old woman suffering from subacute
rheumatisffl made
even
more painful by the humidity. How could he
tell her of the remedies enumerated in his
textbooks? How could he urge her to eat better
food? Get more rest? Move to a milder, drier
climate? The thought was ludicrous. All he could do
was spoon out some tincture of guaiacum mixed with
sarsaparilla and ask Jo to prepare a tepid
alkaline bath behind a folding screen.
After much balking, the woman was persuaded to step behind
the screen where Jo helped her bathe. All this went
on while Drew examined a portly,
well-dressed padrone with a rasping cough. The
padrone accepted a bottle of medicine and paid
nothing.
After her bath, the rheumatic woman smiled and
acted a bit more spry. She shook Jo's hand,
pressed a dime into Will's, and impulsively
kissed his cheek.
r
Will thought a moment, then handed the dime back. Drew
didn't object.
The final patient Will saw that afternoon raised a ghost
that had troubled him only once in recent months-the
night of his last quarrel with his father. He'd begun
to think he was finally free of the past. With a jolt, he
discovered how dangerously wrong that
assumption was.
The patient was a middle-aged man suffering acute
pleuritis. It was obvious that fluid had to be
drained from the left side of the chest cavity. Will
prepared the trocar. For the first time all day, he
started to perspire.
Soon his hand was trembling. Drew noticed. Will
fought the trembling; brought it under control. But by that time
the patient had noticed too.
Will's reassuring smile did nothing to ease the
man's anxiety. He stood up, obviously
ready to leave. Drew stepped to Will's side and
held out his hand for the trocar. Reluctantly Will
surrendered it. Drew got the patient seated again,
then performed the procedure with no difficulty.
Jo took charge of the cannula and the basin to catch the
discharge. Will pulled Drew out to the reception room-
empty at last-and attempted to apologize:
"I'm sorry you felt you had to take over. I've
never done an aspiration before."
"That was evident. Trouble is-was A nod toward the
surgery. "comy let the patient see it too."
"Damn it, Drew, the Harvard faculty
doesn't offer a course in confidence!"
Instantly, Will regretted the outburst.
It brought a scowl to his friend's face. "No," he
said, almost curt. "You have to learn that on your own."
He went back into the surgery. Will leaned against the
whitewashed wall, one fist clenched. He saw his
mother vividly.
Laughing at him.
IV
Just as they were closing the office, a florid man in
a white suit and wide-brimmed straw hat walked
in.
The man had a curling mustache waxed at the
points. A
I
silver toothpick jutted from between his lips. There was
a lot of silver in his mouth, too; all his front
teeth had been partially replaced, Will noticed as
he scrubbed his hands with carbolic solution.
"Sergeant Banks!" Jo exclaimed, smiling.
"How do you do, Miss Hastings? Dr. Hastings-was
The visitor touched his hat. He had a low,
husky voice. A second chin hid half of his
cravat. Despite his girth, the man seemed
to radiate strength and controlled tension. He was around
forty, but something in his brown eyes said he'd been
examining the world-and finding it wanting- for much
longer.
The man was obviously among friends. Yet the wary
brown eyes examined every cranny of the surgery. He
looked behind the folding screen, then lifted the
curtains and peered out the improvised window. Only
when he was satisfied did he inspect Will, then
say to Drew:
"This the friend you were telling me about?"
"That's right. Sergeant Eustace Banks-Will
Kent. Doctor Will Kent in another year. I
mean it'll be official then. He's already a
pretty good practitioner." -
Drew's remark made Will appreciate the meaning
of friendship. By what Drew said and didn't say, he
made it clear that Will's problem of a few minutes
ago-part inexperience, part fear of failure-would never
be mentioned in front of strangers.
"Glad to hear it," Banks replied. "Didn't
stop by purely to be social, Doc."
"You seldom do." To Will: "The sergeant operates
out of the Sixth Precinct station house over on
Elizabeth Street. You're out of uniform,
Eustace."
The policeman sat down on a stool. He
pulled his hat off and fanned himself. His
pink forehead glistened. His hair was parted in the
center, and had been shaped at the temples into a
pair of perfect spit-curls. A bit of a dandy,
Will decided. But not a man to be dismissed for that
reason.
"Of course I'm out of uniform," Banks
retorted. "It's my day off."
"You never take a day off."
The policeman laughed; it was more a snort than
anything else. "You learn fast, Doc." While
speaking, he somehow managed to work the silver
toothpick to the other side of his mouth without touching it.
"I came to ask
whether you've heard anything about a new stale beer
dive. It's supposed to be operating in Robber's
Row." Drew shook his head. "Haven't heard a
word." Banks sniffed. "Must be newer than I
thought. Maybe we can padlock it before anyone
perishes of poisoning." He stood up suddenly,
resettling his hat on his head without disturbing the
curls. Will noticed his hands. They were calloused.
The wrists were thick and powerful.
"Thanks for your time," he said in a voice lacking
any emotion. "Good day, Mr. Kent. Miss
Hastings-was As he turned to leave,
Drew caught his arm: "Are you going to check on this
new dive before you close it?"
"Sure. I figure on giving it the once-over
tomorrow night. Jake's going with me."
"I'm anxious to show Will the conditions we're fighting
down here. Truth is, I've never seen a stale
beer dive myself. Would you and Riis mind if we
came along?"
Again the wary eyes examined W. "Sure he's
got the stomach for it?"
"I'd say so," Will replied with a smile, "seeing
that I don't know what it is." The attempt at
humor failed. Banks stared: "Be thankful.
Even the wops who live in these chicken coops
won't patronize a two-cent restaurant.
That's the fancy name for a stale beer dive. A few
of 'em actually serve moldy rolls and some black
swill they call coffee. But the staple is beer from
the bottoms of kegs that decent saloons put out
on the curb. The kegs are supposed to go back to the
brewery for refilling, but the stale beer boys get
to 'em first, and drain the dregs."
"You mean the dives
serve
that kind of stuff?" "Yes, sir, that's
exactly what I mean." "Who'd be crazy enough
to drink it?" "People who can't afford better.
Tramps, mostly. They know they're taking their
lives in their hands. They don't care. Why, we
can't stay ahead of the stale beer trade in this part of
town! And the politicians don't help, either.
Well close this new place and ship the patrons
out for a six-month vacation on Blackwell's
Island. But it's likely none of them will serve a
full sentence. Some alderman will get a friendly
judge to spring 'em as soon as their votes are
needed, and they'll go right back to killing themselves in
caret ome other dive." He sighed and let some of
his anger drain away before he said, "It's a losing
game. I'll show you this new place if you've the
belly for it, Mr. Kent."
He sounded as if he were doubtful. Will said,
"Absolutely."
"I'd like to see it, too," Jo said. "But I know
better than to ask."
Banks" gaze flickered to her. "Let's hope
so. If my wife ever asked to visit a stale beer
joint, I'd break her head."
Jo bristled but kept quiet. The policeman
turned back to Will and Drew. He took
the silver toothpick out of his mouth and said:
"Tomorrow night. Dress like you don't have a cent.
Smear a lot of dirt on your faces and hands. Be
ready at nine sharp."
It wasn't a suggestion; it was an order.
CHAPTER VI
Stale Beer
ON MONDAY, DREW FOUND jackets and some
ragged pants for them to wear that night-not a difficult
search in this neighborhood. The landlord, Nevsky,
helped locate the clothing. Drew asked
Nevsky's wife to boil the old clothes and hang
them out to dry. She was quite willing; her own husband was
the one who had urged the precaution. Nevsky had
spoken of infants lying or playing in stacks of
garments in their parents' sweat shops. The children were
later found to be ill with smallpox. The garments had
transmitted the disease to employees of the companies
which had contracted for the sweat work. In one documented
case, the disease had been carried into a fine
Broadway store displaying the finished clothing.
As the summer evening darkened, the two young men
escorted Jo from the office to the tenement. There they
changed clothes, smeared dirt on their faces and
hands, and started back to Bayard Court.
The streets were dim; electrification hadn't yet
reached the Bend. Shops and tenement rooms were for the
most part lit by lamps and, in a few instances,
by gas. There were plenty of dark areas to conceal crime.
As Will and Drew walked down the passage
to Bayard Court, a church bell struck nine. From
up on the fire escapes, Will heard tired,
quarrelsome voices. Sergeant Banks and another
man were waiting near the tenement entrance.
The clock rang for the ninth and last time. In the
silence that followed, Banks said, "You're late."
Without waiting for an explanation, he stalked past the
two friends. Will heard a clicking sound. He couldn't
be sure, but he thought Banks was examining the
mechanism of a revolver.
In a hushed voice, Drew introduced Will to the
reporter Jacob Riis. All three hurried
after the stocky policeman, who had already entered the
passage leading to Bayard Street.
Once on the street, Banks turned right. The
others kept pace. The darkness made it impossible
for Will to tell just what Jacob Riis looked like,
other than that he was husky, with a frame much like
Roosevelt's. The reporter's voice was deeper
than Roosevelt's, yet there too Will
discovered a resemblance. Riis spoke with a
seriousness and an intensity that immediately brought the other
man to mind.
Riis was much more willing to answer questions than the
policeman who led them around the corner into Baxter
Street, then on through a succession of black
passages that seemed to go nowhere-at least not until
Banks traveled unerringly to some unseen doorway
in a decaying brick wall, or lifted some loose
plank in a solid-looking fence.
In just a short time, Will got a good deal of information
out of the reporter, starting with some facts about his book.
It was called
How the Other Half Lives.
Riis hoped it would shock the complacent public
into doing something about the poverty and disease endemic in the
New York slums.
Riis explained how the city's tenements had
developed. Seventy or eighty years earlier,
many residential lots in lower Manhattan had
had two houses on them. The smaller,
rear-of-the-lot house was usually leased to a ten669
ant. Soon someone got the idea of subdividing
such houses to produce even more income. As
fashions in neighborhoods changed,
better-class families abandoned the older
sections and moved uptown. The tenant houses were
expanded
outward and upward, thus creating tenements. Now the
blight was everywhere-block after block of it. "I've
done research on the subject of slums, Mr.
Kent.
The Americans have succeeded in developing
overcrowding to a high art. Even in the worst stews of
old London, people were never packed more densely than
at the rate of about a hundred and seventy-five
thousand per square mile. In parts of New York,
the density's twice that. One result is that areas like
this one become a breeding ground of disease. Has your
friend Hastings mentioned the infant mortality rate for the
Bend?"
"No."
"It's four or five times that of the rest of the city."
"Good God."
"The pestilence of the slums spills over into other
sections and kills rich and poor alike. But that
isn't the end of it. The slums are the nurseries
of the paupers and criminals who fill our jails and
police courts to overflowing. They throw off a scum
of forty thousand human wrecks every year.
Forty thousand who wind up in the asylums and work
houses! The slums create half a million
beggars who by their very numbers doom our charities
to failure. Above all, the slums touch family
life, the very keystone of society, with death and
deadly moral contagion."
"Doesn't anyone try to solve the problem?"
"Oh, yes-people try. But you might as well try
to dam Niagara with a quart bottle."
Crossly, Banks ordered them to lower their
voices. Riis did so as he went on: tilde
"For more than ten years I've fought the landlords and the
rental agents and their chief allies and
protectors, the aldermen they pay off. Do you know
what I've managed to
accomplish in all that time? Two years ago, the
Small
Parks Act was passed. The worst block of
tenements on Mulberry Street-the block on the
west side, where the street bends-will be razed and the land
converted to a park. But heaven knows when it will happen.
I tell you this, Mr. Kent. One park won't
obliterate the Bend. It's bigger than a single
block. The Bend is a state of mind
composed of equal parts of ignorance,
fear, greed, and unChristian disregard for fellow
human beings. The Bend isn't so much a
geographical spot as it is a cancer whose growth
is out of control."
"And no one does anything?"
"Oh, efforts are made. The Board of Health and the
sanitary police and the Society for Improvement
of the Condition of the Poor do their best, but it isn't
enough. In '67, the Tenement House Act cut
forty-six thousand new windows in buildings that had
never known daylight. But that still amounts to very little when
compared to the size of the problem and the moral indifference of
those responsible for it. Influential people don't
want changes, Mr. Kent. For one thing, the
slums have been absorbed into the political system.
The greater the density in a tenement, the greater the
number of votes that can be easily located and
controlled. Tenement votes can be bought very cheaply.
But the tenements are much more than a source of extra
votes. They're a source of immense profits.
That's why so much money is paid to bribe city
officials and inspectors to ignore the prevailing
conditions."
"The owners pay the bribes?"
"The owners, and those who operate the
buildings."
"Aren't they the same people?"
"No, generally not. Most often, each building has
a rental agent. A middle man whose main
responsibilities are to collect the rents and
to keep erecting partitions to create more rooms-without
spending money on fripperies such as toilets or
running water that's safe to drink. The agent makes
a handsome profit off the rents, and returns an
equally handsome percentage to the owners."
"How much?"
"It varies from fifteen to thirty percent.
Twenty-five is usual. As one honest builder
put it, why should a man take seven percent and
save his soul when he can lose it and make three or
four times as much?"
"Goddamn it, pipe down!" Banks hissed at
them. "We're getting close."
This time Riis obeyed the order. One at a time, the
four men stole through an opening in another plank
fence, then moved down a narrow passageway. A
cat miaowed. Will stepped in something with a rank smell
and a slippery feel. From the darkness overhead, a
voice called,
"Chi e
sta?
No one spoke. Will's heart was beating fast. He
kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He feared
they'd gotten lost.
All at once he heard singing. Saw a few
faint horizontal slits of light. "Look
sharp!" Banks warned.
Will realized there were no longer walls on either side
of him. They were in another courtyard. Several
stories above, he glimpsed faint stars behind a
haze of stove smoke. " "School's in-mind the
step," Banks said. The singing was louder; a filthy
song, Will realized when he listened to some of the
lyrics.
The light came from behind slatted shutters whose tops
were level with the ground. The shutters covered windows in
a sunken entrance way; the bottom was reached by a
flight of stone steps. Banks was already down there.
Drew's soles scraped softly as he went down
next, followed by Will and Riis.
Will discerned a door between the shuttered windows.
Banks opened the door. His big shoulders and
broad- brimmed slouch hat leaped out in
silhouette against the feeble light of kerosene lamps
trimmed low. A moment later, the four
men were inside the stale beer dive.
Will followed the others to a pair of dilapidated
benches that served in lieu of tables and chairs.
Somehow he moved across the room without showing his shock
and revulsion. If the tenement where Drew and Dr.
Clem practiced was a notch above hell, then the
subterranean lair to which Eustace Banks had
brought them was hell itself.

The room measured roughly fourteen feet on a
side. It had been dug from the ground beneath the tenement,
perhaps to serve as a storage cellar. A few
pieces of studding had been nailed over the scraped
'earth which formed the walls. The floor was hard-packed
mud, the ceiling low; Will and the policeman had
to stoop to avoid exposed joists.
Will took a seat next to Drew on a bench.
Riis and Banks walked to an open space in the
center of the room. Will kept his dirt-smeared face
averted from the eight patrons who were still awake.
Several others appeared to be sleeping.
All at once his eyes focused on the wall.
Bile rose in his throat. Dozens of brown
slugs crawled on the dirt, and in the two darkest
corners, larger lozenge-shaped bugs
darted back and forth.
He felt something crawling over the top of his shoe.
He glanced down and shook his foot. An enormous
roach fell out of his pants legs, then another.
He turned his head so the proprietor and his
customers wouldn't see him gag. Drew looked
green. He'd seen the roaches too.
Will forced himself to examine the room more carefully. In
the back, four patrons lay unconscious behind some
packing crates. In the center, two broken chairs
supported a beer keg. Beside the keg stood an
immense, long-jawed man with slitted eyes and a
bulging forehead. The man rattled coins in his
pants pocket as Banks held up four fingers.
The proprietor slowly counted the fingers with his
eyes. Then, with a witless grin he picked up two
battered tomato cans and filled them at the keg
tap.
He handed the cans to Riis. The reporter turned
and started toward Will and Drew. Banks waited for the
other two cans, counting out four pennies to pay for the
order. What made Will nervous was the utter stillness
of the place. The other customers-five men, three
ragged and incredibly filthy women of indeterminate
age-said nothing. They stared at the
newcomers from seats near the keg.
All the customers wore clothes whose original
colors were unrecognizable; dirt and grease had
turned them black. Two of the men were afflicted with
advanced cases of venereal disease; their faces and
hands showed a great many weeping lesions. These, then, were
part of the pitiable tramp population he'd heard about-
Suddenly one of the customers lurched to his feet.
A sore-speckled hand shot out and closed on
Banks" left arm.
The policeman's eyes registered anger. The other
man, a hatless fellow whose greasy hair hung
over his ears, peered at Banks and said in a
drink-blurred voice:
"Ain't I seen you before? Sure I have. I know where
it was! Elizabeth Street!"
Hearing that, the hulking proprietor reached disfor something
hidden behind the keg. Will held his breath. Banks
stared down his accuser:
"That's the fucking truth, brother. We have met before.
When the coppers closed that fine spot Salvatore
Passaglia was running, I got shoved into a
holding cell next to yours."
  "At Elizabeth Street?" "That's right,
brother."
  "Oh." Slowly, the man drew his hand back.
He wiped his nose. "Oh, tha's it-was
  "That's it," Banks said with a nod. Under the hat
brim, his eyes shone with an intensity that made Will
shiver. Banks wanted to hurt the man who'd
accosted him. The man was too drunk to see that, or
to hear it when Banks asked:
  "All right with you if I get on with serving my
mates?" The man tried to answer with a mock bow.
In the middle of it he sagged suddenly, passing out
on his feet. He might have struck the keg and
knocked it off its supports if the proprietor
hadn't given him a push. The man slipped
sideways and sprawled, his mouth open and his upper
teeth partially embedded in the mud.
  The proprietor relaxed. After an exchange of
nervous glances, so did Will and Drew.
  Riis and Banks distributed the tomato cans.
The four men huddled together, facing one another on the
benches. The other patrons had lost interest in them.
  Will raised his can and glanced inside. The so-called
beer was the color of weak lemonade. Only a
few bubbles showed on top. He swirled the contents
of the can, a move Banks misinterpreted.
  "For Christ's sake don't drink
it!" he whispered. "That stuff's brewed to kill at
long range. They doctor it with drugs to bring
back a head."
  So the foursome sat, merely pretending to drink
until the proprietor was called on to dispense
refills for two other customers. While the
proprietor was thus distracted, Banks lowered his
hand and emptied his can into the dirt. One by one, the
others did the same.
  A few minutes later Banks rose and
stretched. With studied nonchalance he called
goodnight to the tramps. One respondexl with a wave
and a grunt but the rest were oblivious. A second
man had collapsed beside the one who'd gone down a
while ago. By the back wall, another customer had
climbed on top of one of the scrofulous women. The
man's bare buttocks jerked up and down. The
woman
kept time by waving a tomato can above his shoulder. The
proprietor's tongue moved back and forth over his
lips as he watched. No one else paid any
attention.
The four men filed outside. "Jesus, Drew,"
Will whispered when the door had thudded shut behind them.
"That's unbelievable."
"But not unusual, I'm told."
"You're right," Banks said as he marched up the
steps. Will drew a deep breath. The heat-laden
air smelled sweet compared to that in the cellar. He
was queasy all at once.
As they moved along, Banks spoke to Riis in a
low voice:
"I recognize that cretin running the joint. A
Cherry Street roughneck named Dave
McCauley. We'll give Dave and his crowd
one more night of revelry and take "em out on
Wednesday-was A little louder: "What the hell's
all that racket back there?"
Although Will was responsible for the noise, he couldn't
answer. He was leaning against a brick wall,
violently sick.
in
Banks got them out of the vicinity of the stale beer
dive without incident. Feeling somewhat better, Will
caught up with the policeman and asked him a question he
supposed was naive. Yet what he'd seen had so
shocked and sickened him, he had to have an answer:
"Who's responsible for a place like that, Sergeant?"
Banks didn't laugh at him. "Jake here would
say everyone of us. We really don't
less-than beare whether such dives exist because we
don't give a damn about the poor-neither the old
poor who have been here for years, or the new poor
arriving at Castle Garden every day. So we let
'em live in places we wouldn't keep a dog, and
we hope to God that disease and their own
self-destructive behavior will keep 'em from our
sight. Above all, we don't give them any
help. I know that's how it works because my poor mother was
Dublin Irish. She came here with just a few coins
tied in a scarf and her soul brimming with hope. She
went to work for a young swell as a household girl-about
the only kind of job an Irish lass could find.
I learned long afterward that the swell and two of his best
friends were members of the
Know-Nothing party. Despisers of the foreign born.
One night the three forced my mother to drink a lot of
wine. Her employer told her that if she didn't,
she'd lose her job and he'd see she never got
another. She got sick from the wine but that made no
difference to the swells. Each one of them carnally
abused her. One of the three swells was my pa, but
of course I don't know precisely which-was
  There was a vicious sound to those last words. His
voice was barely audible:
  "She bore me and five years later died of
shame because of her mortal sin. I reckon I'd like
to kick those swells to death if I could find 'em.
I never learned their names. I was too little. Trouble
is, if I killed them I'd be sent to the Island.
Maybe that's why I do my kicking around here instead.
When I'm in uniform, it's legal."
  They'd reached the end of a passage. Banks
took hold of the bricks at the corner and turned,
a commanding, even frightening figure. "All here, are
we?"
  There were murmurs of assent. Will saw lighted
windows along a street he recognized as
Mulberry.
  They moved on in a more relaxed way. Banks
said to
  Will, "Want to come along and watch the sport
Wednesday
  night?"
  "Very much."
  "Nine o'clock. Elizabeth Street station. Be
prompt. This time we won't wait."
  "I'll be there."
  "Then so will I," Drew put in, though without
enthusiasm.
  Will said, "You didn't really answer my question,
Sergeant. Who's responsible for that place?"
  "I expect it's owned by one of the padrones. My
guess would be a big boss named Don Andreas
Belsario."
  "Know him?" Will asked Drew.
  "I've never met him, but I hear a lot about
him," Drew replied.
  "Well, this I guarantee," Banks went on.
"Everything -- disab him's shady, including that title
he hung on himself. He's no don. He's a
Neapolitan thug who happens to look like your
favorite grandfather. Good protective coloring,
that. He takes advantage of it. He started a
string of stale beer dives two years ago. A
couple of tramps died from drinking his brew. One
turned out to be the brother of a
member of the Board of Health. Overnight, Don
Andreas got out of the business and covered his tracks.
We couldn't charge him with a thing. Now I hear he's
back in the same trade, but we'll never get him.
Soon as we close one of his spots, he'll open
two more."
  "And you're sure he's behind the" place?"
  "Pretty sure. I don't think
Dave McCauley is working for the building's
rental agent. The agent's dirty work is confined
to bullying tenants who are late with the rent. For that,
he hires a rockroller named Giuseppe
Corso. Neighborhood boy. Good family
connections," he added with sarcasm. "It's a cinch the
building agent knows what's going on in his cellar,
though. Don Andreas wouldn't open up without making an
arrangement. Maybe the agent takes a cut and
doesn't tell the owners. Or maybe he passes
a percentage along to them. Either way, it wouldn't
amount to more than pennies. Dives like that are worthless
as a source of income. But as a source of
votes-that's another story."
  "But what about the owners?" Will persisted. "The men
who actually hold title to the land and the building? Do
they know about the stale beer dive?"
  "Probably not. But they have to know in a general
way that most everything happening in the tenement-and
especially the overcrowding-is against the law. They
couldn't be ignorant when they're drawing thirty
percent, which I've been told is the rate of
return for that particular tenement."
  "What kind of bastard would permit such conditions in
a building that belongs to him?"
  "A bastard who wants to get rich and stay rich
and isn't too finicky about his methods. We have a
lot of bastards like that in America, Kent-where've you
been? The whole tenement system is nothing but
American enterprise at work."
  "You mean respectable people own such places?"
  Banks guffawed. Then, with the faintly weary tone
of a teacher instructing a hopeless pupil, he said:
  "Yes, Kent, very respectable people. I've
studied the tax books on every tenement in the Sixth
Ward, and 1 can testify to it. The building we just
visited-that's owned by a real estate corporation which
is in turn owned by a holding company. The holding
company has a splendid, impressive name.
Pen-York Property Trust. It's known but not
legally
r
  provable that all the shares of Pen-York are
held by a single family. A fine upstanding city
family named Fennel. Ever heard of them?"
  CHAPTER VII
The
Tenement
  WILL'S ROOM ON THE top floor proved
too hot for sleeping. Finally he picked
up the clean, threadbare, and wholly superfluous
comforter Nevsky had given him, and carried it into the
hall.
  He passed Drew's door, then the landlord's.
Nevsky's flat contained not only living quarters
but eleven Singer machines-four owned, seven leased.
Light showed under the door. Nevsky was complaining
to his wife in Yiddish; perhaps it was the same
complaint Will had heard before- Nevsky was unable
to amass a decent dowry for each of his four
daughters. All were of marriageable age, but still
single due to the lack of a dowry.
  Nevsky claimed that he detested sweating. It
was, after all, a system of labor designed
to circumvent the new laws regulating hours and
working conditions in factories. But the landlord was
devoted to his daughters, and he was determined
to capitalize on the opportunity in America, and
give the girls a better start than he and his wife
had had in Russia.
  Beyond Nevsky's flat, there was light under Jo's
door as weH. Will almost knocked, but held back
at the last moment. As he climbed the stair at the
end of the hall, he found himself picturing her eyes
and the contours of her mouth.
  On the roof it seemed slightly cooler, even
though the air was oppressively damp. He almost
stumbled across three youngsters sleeping on a ragged
sheet. He apologized in English; they murmured
sleepily in their own language. Soon
he became aware of more than a dozen people occupying
improvised pallets on the roof. He found a
place against the stone cornice and spread the comforter.
He yawned. He was worn out. But sleep still
wouldn't come. Troubling questions chased through his mind. He
got up and gazed out across the rooftops of the Bend.
Lamps glimmered in some of the buildings. Eastward,
the colossal span of the bridge to Brooklyn
hung across the night sky. But all he saw was the
stale beer dive.
Do the Fennels really own that filthy place?
He didn't want to believe it, but he knew it was
possible.
And if Laura's family owned one tenement,
wasn't it likely that they owned others? The basis
of the Fennel fortune was New York City real
estate. Was Maison du Soleil built on the
money Thurman Fennel collected from slum
rental agents? If so, how much did Marcus know
about the business? And Laura?
The questions led on and on, like conjurer's boxes that
opened one after another to reveal one more box each time.
The result was continuing wakefulness, and a decision about
what he must do.
ii
The next day, Tuesday, was Drew's day off.
At breakfast he announced his intention of going across
town to a pharmaceutical supply house. There he
planned to purchase a long list of drugs the
partners needed for compounding medicine.
He and Will and Jo walked to the office. Soon
Dr. Clem arrived from his bachelor rooms in the
Bowery. He unlocked a cheap tin box kept on
a shelf, and removed all the bills but one. Drew
took the money and left.
The older doctor easily took care of the
morning's few patients. Will read a text from the
small collection in the
x
surgery. He found it hard to concentrate. Around a
quarter to eleven, he gave up and asked whether he
could be excused for an hour or so. Dr. Clem
replied with a nod, concentrating on the mortar in which
he was preparing a purgative for a patient waiting
outside.
Jo was folding sheets for the examination table. She'd
boiled the sheets first thing that morning and hung them up
compr8r-*-
in the passage outside the improvised window. When
Will asked to leave, she gave him a quizzical
look, then followed him out to the courtyard. There she
asked:
"Is anything wrong?"
He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. The sun was
hidden by dirty gray clouds, but the temperature still
felt like ninety or better. There was no wind
to disperse the odors of cabbage and fish and offal.
He shook his head. "I'm going over to the police
station."
"Whatever for?" She took hold of his hand. "You
haven't had more trouble with Corso, have you-?"
Spots of color brightened her cheeks as she
realized she'd been forward. She pulled her hand
away quickly.
"No," he said. "I just want to go back to that
tenement we visited last night. I want to see the
upper floors by daylight."
The harshness of his voice made her frown. "Drew
said reaching the place was like traveling through a maze.
Do you know how to find it?"
"I know someone who does. Banks. I'll see you
in an hour or so." He started away.
"Will-was
Her tone of concern brought him back. Gray eyes
held his a moment before she said:
"Do be careful."
He smiled. "I will." He took pleasure in
knowing she worried about him.

He found Eustace Banks at the precinct house
on Elizabeth Street. The sergeant questioned the
advisability of a return visit to the tenement:
"You don't exactly look like one of the renters. I
dont want Dave McCauley smelling a rat
before we come down on him."
"I can pretend to be looking for one of Vlandingham's
patients. If anyone questions me, I'll tell
'em I got lost and wound up in the wrong
building."
"Are you sure you have to see that particular tenement?
Wouldn't another one do just as well?"
"Absolutely not."
"All right," Banks grumbled. He reached for a
sheet of paper and a steel-nib pen. "I'll put
down the directions. Just stay away from the
cellar."
With the directions in hand, Will started back into the
Bend. He'd gone no more than a block when he
encountered Mrs. Grimaldi. On her arm was a
hamper containing a cauliflower, two carrots more
brown than orange, and a large, fragrant
onion. Perspiration shone in her dark mustache.
She greeted him with a smile that didn't quite reach her
eyes.
"Are you enjoying your visit to the Bend, Signer
Kent?"
"There's certainly a lot to see."
"Maybe you'll want to leave sooner than you
planned. 'Sep Corso's doing a lot of
talking."
"About what?"
"About you. I wouldn't go too many places as you
are-was Her eyes flicked past his shoulder.
"Alone."
Will's stomach began to hurt. Drew's warning
hadn't been an idle one, then.
"Thanks for telling me. I'll keep my eyes
open. How's that baby you found?"
Matter-of-factly, she said, "The poor little thing
died. It happened last night around
midnight. We did the best we could, Grimaldi
and the children and I. But the little girl lacked strength.
I've already paid for a mass for her soul."
Suddenly, instead of the uncomplaining stoicism he'd
come to associate with her, there was bitterness:
"You should be thankful you are only visiting the Bend.
You can escape its miseries whenever you wish. The
rest of us-we aren't so lucky. Good day to you,
signer," she said, marching around him with the dull gray
daylight shining in her tear-filled eyes.
She clearly didn't like the weakness the tears
represented. Before she'd taken three steps, her
knuckle was in her eye and her shoulders were squared
again, ready to receive whatever burdens the Bend would put
on them.
iv
In the daylight, and guided by the written directions,
Will had no difficulty finding the tenement. He
climbed its
I dark, crowded stairs. The familiar squeak of a
pump han- **" dig followed him upward-as
did the eyes of the old men and women and children he
passed. Those eyes were suspicious; even hostile.
He was well dressed. The tenement dwellers
couldn't be sure he wasn't some
official from the city.
But no one bothered him. He paced the halls. With
every step, he grew sicker and angrier.
Insects crawled in cracks in the floor.
Roaches ran along broken baseboards. The air
was hot, still, and foul. Doors stood open in the
hope of catching a puff of breeze, but there was
none. Through those doorways he saw quarters hardly
fit for animals, let alone human beings. None
of the rooms measured more than ten feet on its
longest side. Only one in every seven or eight had
a tiny window. Although it was the middle of the day, oil
lamps were needed for light. They added to the heat and
spread a faint, smoky haze.
In one room he counted nine straw pallets. In
another, two infants lay fretting in wooden
boxes, and a four-year- old boy swung in a
large shawl hung in a corner to supplement the
mattresses on the floor.
There was almost continuous conversation, plus a good deal of
shouting-all in Italian. Infants cried. Dogs
barked. He even heard a goat bleating in one
apartment. The narrow corridors and confined spaces
amplified the sounds to a din. Finally, unable to take
any more, he ran down to the first floor and
outside.
He approached an old man seated on a crate
near the steps leading down to the stale beer dive; its
door had a heavy padlock this morning.
"Do you speak English?"
A frown of suspicion wrinkled the old man's
face. He
took a black clay pipe out of his mouth.
"Si
coma little."
"How many people live in each room in this building?"
"The sanitary police-they ask the same question."
"I'm not a policeman. I'm a doctor.
Dottore. Medico"
"Ah." Some of the wrinkles disappeared.
"Can you tell me how many?"
The old man thought about it. "The least I know of is
six, the most twenty."
"In one room?"
"Si."
"How much is the rent?"
  "It depends on the size of the room. Seven,
eight, nine dollars a month."
  Red-faced, Will said, "Jesus Christ."
  He turned away, trembling so hard,
he barely knew where he was going. He still had
to marry Laura, of course. But in exchange for the
performance of that duty, Marcus or her father had
to give him some assurance that they weren't responsible
for the misery and squalor he'd just seen.
  Abruptly, he realized he hadn't thanked his
informant. He turned around. The crate was gone and
so was the old man.
  The sights and sounds of the tenement had so unsettled
Will, he could hardly keep his mind on the patients
who came to the office that afternoon. To make things
worse, a couple of ragged boys kept racing up
and down the passage outside the window of the surgery.
They peeked through the curtains several times, startling
Jo and the two men, and embarrassing the patients.
  The last time the boys did it, Jo was busy
removing some hardened wax from a woman's ear. One
of the boys yelled. Jo started, and the tip of the syringe
scraped the ear canal. The woman cried out.
Vlandingham ran to the window, flung the curtains
back, and cursed the fleeing boys. Then he stormed
over to Jo and criticized her carelessness with a
ferocity all out of proportion to the offense.
  For the rest of the afternoon, the older doctor was in a
bad mood. When the waiting room was
empty and they were closing up, he apologized to Jo
and explained why he was upset. The man with cancer
hadn't returned. Vlandingham looked defeated as
he shut the door and bid Jo and Will goodnight.
  An hour earlier, a rumbling thunderstorm had
dispersed most of the clouds. But it hadn't relieved the
heat. If anything, the rain had made things more
uncomfortable. Steam rose from the sidewalks. Will
felt as if he'd bathed in machine oil. Jo
kept dabbing her cheeks with a bit of lace- edged
linen.
T
  They walked slowly across the Bowery and into the
Jewish section. Behind them, above the tenements to the
west, a huge, dark orange sun dominated the
sky. The storm's passing had brought the pushcarts out
again. Women were haggling over the price of tin cups,
neckerchiefs, peaches, eyeglasses, even eggs with
broken shells. Over the squawking of several
not-quite-dead chickens hung on the metal hooks of a
cart, Jo said:
  "What did you see in the tenement?"
  "Nothing I care to remember." That wasn't quite
true. When next he spoke to Marcus, he'd
remember well enough.
  In response to a customer's gesture the chicken
peddler seized one of his birds by the neck and pulled
it off the hook. He flung the chicken on a
bloody chopping board and decapitated it with one
stroke of a cleaver. Then he began to section the
bird.
  "As I recall, Mr. Riis took a
photograph of a hallway in that building," Jo
told him. "I hope his pictures will help
convince people such places do exist."
  "By God, I hope so too."
  The slow-sinking sun only seemed to intensify the
heat and humidity. Will suggested dinner. Jo said she
wasn't hungry. She seemed edgy, which was
exactly how he felt. His head was aching
again-another by-product of the insufferable weather.
  They walked the last block to the tenement.
Conversation lagged. They climbed the stairs and parted with
only an exchange of good evenings. He found his
room broiling. He slammed the door and peeled
off all his clothes. He lay down, fell into a
doze, and was soon dreaming.
  In the nightmare he saw infants squalling and
suffocating in shawls strung in corners. He saw
cockroaches crawling over mounds of
dirt. He gagged on the smells of waste and
yesterday's cooking. He heard the weeping and cursing
of people penned in a tenement whose rooftop carried a
huge sign blazoned with the name Fennel.
  And then he saw Roosevelt's scornful face
silently condemning him for doing nothing about any of it.
Jo's Confession
HE WOKE ABRUPTLY, struggling for breath.
The room was pitch black and hot as a furnace.
He lit a lamp; consulted his watch. Only a
quarter after ten.
He pulled on a singlet and his oldest pair of
trousers, then went into the hall. There was a light under
Drew's door. He knocked. No answer.
He looked in. The room was empty. But the coat
Drew had worn that morning lay on the cot. He
shut the door and moved on.
Jo's door was dark. He took the stairs to the
roof. The red sun had gone, replaced by blurred
stars. He walked around the small, shed-like
structure which enclosed the head of the stairs. His
foot collided with something soft.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Will?"
"Jo?"
He crouched down. "I didn't see you sitting
there. I must have tramped all over you. I
apologize."
"I should have brought a light. But even a tiny flame
seems to raise the temperature ten degrees."
As she spoke, he heard rustling sounds. He
balanced beside her on the balls of his feet. At
last he realized the significance of the rustling; she
was slipping into a blouse she'd discarded.
Soon his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He
could see her push her hair back over her
shoulders. She fastened the lower buttons of the blouse
but left the upper ones undone.
He sat down next to her, his back against the wall
of the stairwell and his eyes on the lamp-lit tenement
windows in
the distance. His shoulder was only an inch from hers. That
proximity and the evening'heat conspired to produce a
physical reaction. He was surprised but not altogether
displeased.
"I've been up here for an hour," she said. "Did
Drew get back yet?"
"Yes, but he isn't in his room. He must be out
to supper."
"Did you eat?"
"No. I still don't feel hungry.**
"Neither do I."
"Sorry I wasn't very talkative on the way
home. I was just damned depressed by that tenement.
What's the name of Jake Riis's book-?"
"How the Other Half Lives*
"Yes. I never knew. I never imagined. 111
say one thing-was He tried to see her face in the
starry darkness, but it was little more than a pale oval.
"Now I understand why your brother decided
to practice in this part of New York. I only
began to understand it at Castle Garden, when I
helped him deliver a baby. Did he ever tell
you about that?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was when I first admitted that he really
knew what medicine was all about. But I tried
to deny that he was right."
"You don't now?"
He shook his head. "And that's something new. Up at
Harvard, I thought he was crazy. The more he scoffed
at my ambitions, the more I resented and laughed at
his. I don't think our disagreement was all my
fault, though. Drew's my friend, and a wonderful
doctor. But sometimes he can be pretty
self-righteous."
"How well I know. I'm guilty of the same thing.
It must run in the family. Will you accept an
apology for both of us?"
"It isn't necessary."
"I think it is. Because I'm going to ask you a
blunt question about your feelings. When Drew talks
about his work, do you feel guilty?"
"Of course. That's the reaction he's looking for,
isn't it?"
"Perhaps it was at Harvard."
"What do you mean? Nothing's changed. He still
dwells on the importance of his work-was
"Not to shame you. There's a different reason, I
think."
The conversation was beginning to make him edgy; perhaps because
he couldn't prevent guilt feelings. His annoyance
showed when he said:
"Oh? What is it?"
He sensed rather than saw her shift her shoulders against
the wall, then draw her legs up closer. She
sounded melancholy when she answered:
"Drew's been working with Dr. Clem since
graduation. Do you know how much the two of them have earned
in fees in that time? Two dollars and
eighty cents."
"I thought Drew didn't care about profit."
A bitter laugh. "I'm not talking about profit.
I'm talking about survival."
"Maybe the Kents could donate some money to the
practice."
"That's nasty. Charity is the last thing anyone
wants from you."
His annoyance drained away. "I'm sorry. I
guess the heat's getting me down. You were starting
to explain why Drew talks the way he does."
"I can't be certain, of course. But I have a
theory. At best, a slum practice is
depressing. You make so little progress. And there
are so many barriers. You've seen some of them.
Language. Ignorance. Fear. And you saw what
happened today. Rather, what didn't happen. A man
who desperately needs medical help refused
to come back."
"Do you mean Drew is starting to ask himself whether he
made the right decision?"
"He doesn't say so, but I'm afraid he's
doing just that."
"And when he tells me how noble the work is-how
important comhe's really trying to convince
himself?"
A sigh. "Yes."
Far away, a gun fired. Someone screamed. A
dog began to bark, the sound quickly muffled by a hubbub
of voices. Then those too melted away, and the hot
night was quiet again.
There had been a note of vulnerability in Jo's
voice a moment ago. Touched by it, he spoke
gently:
"And how do you feel? Is working here less
satisfying than you let on?"
r
"Oh, I'm learning things I couldn't learn
otherwise. I could be content to spend my life in this
kind of neighborhood. Very content in-in the proper
circumstances."
"What might those be?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she countered his question with
another:
"When do you plan to be married, Will?"
He jerked his wrists tighter against his legs. "No
date's been set."
"But you
are
engaged to that young woman Drew told me
about?"
"The engagement isn't official. There's one
matter to be settled first."
"But you love her, don't you?"
"Would I think of marriage if I didn't?"
Then he thought,
Yes. Marrying her has become my re
bar
sponsibility.
That had changed everything, somehow; that and all he'd
seen and heard since Saturday.
He started when her hand stole across to his forearm.
"That isn't an answer, W."
A brusque laugh. "You're pretty forthright,
Miss Hastings. And, might I say, pretty
damn nosy, too."
"For a purpose. When Drew says the practice
is important, he's telling the truth. The people in
the Bend need good doctors. Dr. Clem will
retire soon. You could take his place. Together, you
and Drew could make a go of it."
"Misery loves company, eh?"
His attempt to relieve the tension failed. There was
urgency in her voice as she leaned close to him in
the dark:
"What better way do you have of spending your life?
Do you really care about that girl?"
"Jo-forgive me, but-why-was
He couldn't bring himself to say it. She said it for him:
"Why is it any of my business?" Amazed, he
felt her fingers against his cheek, softly touching.
"Because, Mr. Will Kent, at the risk of again being
considered much too forthright-was
She brushed her lips against his.
"comI lost my heart to you the first time Father brought me
to Cambridge. I'd never try to take you away from
someone you love. But you don't speak of that girl with
much conviction. If you don't love her-well-was
Another light kiss. Her breath was sweet on his
face as she whispered:
"I'll fight for you."
All he could say was, "My God."
Now, at last, she was able to tease again:
"Don't chatter so much. You know what we've both
wanted for the last ten or fifteen minutes."
This time her mouth came against his with passionate force.

The next few minutes passed at dizzying speed.
They lost themsejves in emotion, kissing and holding
one another tightly. Against his chest he
could feel Jo's body, firm yet soft beneath her
half-open blouse. Just as his hand moved to her breast,
a door opened at the head of the stairs.
"Jo? Are you up here?"
She pulled back. His left hand caressed her
cheek and came away damp. Tears?
"I know I'm too forward," she whispered. "But who
decreed that it must always be the man who speaks first?"
"Jo?" Drew's voice faded slightly as he
walked to the far side of the roof.
She swiftly kissed him again. "Now that I've
confessed and made a complete fool of myself, there's
nothing left to say-was She clambered up, her
skirts falling into place. Her hands flew to her
blouse to straighten it. "Except this. I'll be here
if you ever decide what you really want. I don't
believe you know yet. When you're with that rich girl,
think of me a little, too. Think of the name my parents
gave me."
"Dammit, Jo, are you up here or not?"
"Coming! Will and I were just sitting over here, talking -"
Talking and throwing my whole life off the rails,
he thought, overcome with emotion. She started past
him. He caught her arm:
"What do you mean about your name?"
She pressed her open mouth against his cheek for a
second, giving him a last tender kiss before she
said, "Didn't I
tell you that Jo is an old Scots word? It
means sweetheart. I love you, W. Don't ever
forget that."
Hair streaming behind her, she ran around the corner and
out of sight.
CHAPTER IX
The Raid
WILL SLEPT POORLY AGAIN that night.
Memories of Jo bedeviled him; memories of
her warm, ardent kisses. In the morning he woke
from a restless sleep and began an inevitable
comparison between Jo and Laura.
Laura got the worst of it. Her passion had a
furtive, guilty quality. Jo was far more honest
and direct. He imagined that she'd be a stimulating
wife-and not just in bed. She wouldn't be the typical
docile spouse who never permitted herself an
original thought or opinion. If anything, she'd
err in the other direction. He found that appealing- and a
definite contrast to Laura's studied ignorance of the
world and its problems.
But what good were comparisons? Events in
Newport had dictated that he marry Laura. A
year ago-even a month ago-he'd have been
overjoyed about that. He recalled an old maxim
he'd heard somewhere. A warning to be careful when you
chose the things you wanted from life, since you would
undoubtedly get them.
On Wednesday morning it rained hard again. The
hourlong downpour created muddy rivers in Bayard
Court, and cooled the air only a little. In the
surgery, Will and Jo went about their work with a
self-conscious politeness that was almost a parody of
good manners. Drew soon noticed, but he said
nothing.
Around noon, he and Will left to get something to eat.
Jo pleaded a lack of appetite. Dr.
Clem's midday meal was
always the same-two pears bought fresh that morning from
one of the Bend's numerous fruit peddlers.
  On the street, Drew said, "You and Jo are
certainly tiptoeing around each other. Did you have an
argument last night?"
  "No," Will said, too quickly. How could he
admit the truth-especially to her brother?
  Drew accepted his answer without comment. They
crossed the Bowery, their destination a new
restaurant in the neighborhood. The place was
trying to attract customers by offering not only a
complete meal for thirteen cents, but two schooners
of beer instead of one, and a complimentary cigar.
  "Haven't changed your mind about going tonight?"
Drew asked.
  "No."
  "I grant you Banks will have a squad of men with
him- maybe more. All the same, it could be
dangerous. I didn't peg you as the adventurous
sort."
  "I'm not."
  "Then why are we taking chances? You certainly
don't have a personal stake in seeing that dive
cleaned out."
  Will thought of Thurman Fennel. And Marcus;
charming, sociable Marcus. Always impeccably
dressed. Always carefree. Will's most important
question for Marcus and his father was a simple one. How could
they draw income from real estate and not know its
location or its condition? The answer seemed clear.
They couldn't.
  "You're wrong, Drew. It is a personal
matter."
  Drew looked dubious. "I can't
see how-unless Jake Riis has suddenly turned
you into a reformer."
  Will managed to smile. "If that's what I'm
becoming, the person responsible is someone I've
known a lot longer than I've known Riis."
  Drew sighed. "You mean if one of us gets shot
or bashed in the head tonight, I've only myself
to blame?"
  "That's right, Deacon."
ii
  Banks brought two full squads.
  The policemen wore dark blue trousers and
frock coats
i

with brass buttons and wide belts. Tall,
conical gray hats completed their uniforms. They
marched two abreast, swinging their long locust-wood
billies.
  Garbed in old clothes, Will and Drew brought up
the rear. They speculated quietly about the wisdom
of this formal parade from Elizabeth Street.
Loungers along the route made derisive
remarks. But nothing was thrown, and there was no trouble.
The marching, men finally halted in a dark
courtyard Will thought he recognized.
  A man in a tattered shirt and cap broke
away from the wall near the cellar entrance. The man
started to confer with Banks. Will moved closer to hear
what the man was saying.
  "comn much business for the last hour. I don't
believe they've been tipped. I've been right here
the whole time."
  Banks clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work.
You had risky duty tonight. It'll be noted on your
record. Now fall in. I brought an extra
stick. Wouldn't want you to miss the fun."
  Will was disturbed by the barely suppressed
excitement in the sergeant's voice. Banks handed
the stick to the ragged man.
  "Thanks kindly, sir." The man touched his cap
with the billy, then stepped into the ranks.
  In a hoarse whisper, Banks issued orders.
The first squad would invade the stale beer dive. The
second was divided into teams responsible for guarding
the various exits from the courtyard, in case any
customers slipped past. * Will cast a nervous
eye at the cellar steps. Lamps gleamed behind the
slitted shutters, just as they had Monday night. A
couple of voices made raw by drink were
raised in a chorus of a minstrel tune. Will started
when Banks loomed at his left, prodding him with his
stick:
  "You and your friend be careful. Most of the customers
of a place like this are revolvers-in and out of a cell
regular as the seasons. But that doesn't mean
they're harmless. The drugs in the beer can do queer
things to a man's brain. So watch your step. I
don't want to be writing reports to explain an
accidental death."
  He waggled the locust stick and added, "If
anyone dies by chance, it'll be McCauley or one
of his patrons."
  Will shivered. Cheerfully, Banks said to his men,
"Heads up, lads. Here we go."
in
The sergeant led the way down the steps. He'd just
reached the bottom one when the door was jerked open by a
tipsy tramp. The tramp saw Banks and started
to shout a warning. Before he could, Banks laid his
stick against the man's temple.
The blow didn't seem particularly hard. But the
tramp shrieked, and Will heard bone crack. The
man fell. Banks jumped over him and plunged
through the door with an enthusiastic yell.
The police who stormed after him didn't bother
to step over the fallen man. Hobnails came down
on an exposed cheek; an oustretched hand. From the
top of the stairs, Will gazed at the tramp,
horrified. The man's open mouth, glazed eyes,
and sudden fetid smell said Banks had killed
him.
There were shouts; oaths; sounds of wood splintering.
Will ran down the stairs. Drew followed, breathing
loudly. From the doorway, Will saw that the police
had already pulled the tap from the beer keg, broken the
keg open, and shattered most of the rickety benches
on which eight or ten patrons had been relaxing.
The customers received no quarter. The patrolmen
swung their locust sticks at the nearest dirty
face, male or female. One middle-aged crone
had all her front teeth knocked out. Then a
pair of officers beat her to the ground.
The only resistance came from McCauley, the man
with the bulging forehead and slitted eyes. He broke
away from one policeman, gut-punched another, and
bolted toward the doorway where Will and Drew were
standing.
He battered a path for himself by means of his sheer
size. He kept one arm crooked over
his head, protection against the clubs hammering at
him. His other hand groped for something inside his greasy
vest.
To Will's right, Banks finished clubbing another
victim. He flung the man aside, hunted for
McCauley, spotted him and charged. But there were
several struggling policemen and patrons between the
sergeant and his quarry.
McCauley pulled a brightly plated derringer. The
policeman nearest him saw the multiple barrels
aimed at his face.
f
  The yelled in fright. McCauley fired. The
policeman's hat fell off and his forehead
disintegrated. He tumbled back over a packing
case, crushing it.
  "You murdering son of a bitch." Banks howled,
strug
g
ling toward him. A policeman inadvertently
stepped into
  his path. Banks yanked the policeman's arm so
hard, the man fell. Banks stepped on his leg and
kept going.
  McCauley's misshapen mouth jerked
in a grotesque smile. Again he took aim. From
the side, another policeman grabbed
McCauley's trousers, fastening on a bulging
pocket. McCauley wrenched sideways. The
fabric tore. Out of the ripped pocket spilled
copper pennies-the pitiful profits he'd tried
to carry away.
  The derringer exploded, its small sound made
thunder" ous by the confines of the room. Banks dodged,
losing his hat. His cheeks were red but not a hair of his
mustache had been disturbed. McCauley's
bullet knocked a shower of insects off the wall
behind the police sergeant.
  McCauley turned. A couple of yards
remained between him and the doorway, where Drew stood
at Will's right.
  What happened next took place very quickly.
McCauley pointed his gun to clear the door. Will
ducked, and somehow his foot slipped. He stumbled
against Drew, pushing him to the right. Drew grabbed the
doorframe with his right hand. McCauley fired and
missed.
  Will straightened up and launched himself at
McCauley's legs, bringing him down with a flying
tackle. He sprawled on top of the
big man, who promptly flung him off and
regained his feet.
  The fall left Will winded and dizzy. But he
grabbed McCauley again and hung on. Banks was
only a few steps away, his path clear at last.
McCauley cursed and shoved the derringer against the
top of Will's head.
  On his knees, Will jerked backwards. The
derringer roared, the slug scorching past his left
shoulder. McCauley jammed a knee in Will's
face, toppling him. Banks smashed his billy
into the back of McCauley's neck.
  The big man staggered. But he didn't go down.
He lurched on toward the door, blinking rapidly.
Banks darted around W; flung his right arm back,
readying another blow-
More pennies poured out of McCauley's torn
pocket. He
slid past Drew and out the door, reaching the foot
of the steps just as Banks swung the stick in a
savage arc. Will called a warning but the words were
covered by the sickening crunch of the stick.
Drew cried out. He'd been holding the
doorframe with his right hand and hadn't been able to let
go in time. It was that right hand which Banks had
accidentally hit.
"Goddamn it, stop him!" Banks shouted as
McCauley looked back. The slitted eyes
fixed on Will for an instant. Then, like a sprinter,
he was up the stone stairs and into the dark.
Drew leaned in the doorway, gasping and massaging
his hand. Banks didn't seem to notice. He
pulled Drew out of the way and plunged through the door,
bellowing curses.
He was gone ten minutes. He came back without
McCauley.
iv
Soon afterward, in the courtyard, the police lined up
the four prisoners who could still walk. A black
maria would be sent to collect the rest, one of the
officers said as he lit a fat green cigar.
Three or four more matches were struck and passed from
hand to hand. A thick cloud of smoke began
to collect. Will said to one of the policemen, "Is that
the way you celebrate a successful raid?"
"Hell no. The smoke masks the stink of the
prisoners. I expect the boys back at the station
house are smoking too-'specially the ones who tend
the cells."
"Where's Banks?" Drew said in a
harsh, high voice that signaled displeasure. His right
arm hung motionless at his side.
A mustached face loomed out of the dark. "I warned
you two to watch yourselves. Jake Riis has been on
a dozen raids and never gotten hurt." He
whacked his stick against his right leg. "If you'd been
quicker on your feet, I wouldn't have lost
McCauley."
"Well, I'm damn sorry."
"Believe me, so am I. Don Andreas is
probably pouring Wine for that son of a bitch right
now. Congratulating him
on getting away! He got a look at you, I
noticed," the sergeant added to W. "If I were you,
I'd shorten my stay in the Bend."
He brushed a frayed serge cuff across his sweaty
face, disturbing one of the points of his mustache.
Only then did he indicate Drew's dangling
hand. "Didn't break it, did I?"
f
Calmer but still disgusted, Drew said, "Not quite. But
I'll need liniment and bandages for at least a
week." "Better stay home next time."
  Banks spun and moved to the four prisoners.
He recognized one white-haired,
emaciated fellow, and prodded him with his billy.
  "Look who's here. Roscoe the Revolver.
Back to Black- well's for another vacation, eh,
Roscoe?"
  The old man, stooped and benign-looking,
unleashed some of the foulest profanity Will had ever
heard. Drew coughed from all the cigar smoke as the
old man said, "You didn't have to hit Mag
Stephens that way, Banks. You could have kilt her,
you dog fucker."
  With his left hand Banks seized the old man at
the scruff of his neck. With his right he jammed the
stick horizontally against the prisoner's windpipe.
The man's tongue popped out. His eyes rounded and
started to water. Leaning down, Banks whispered:
  "I'll do the same for you unless you swallow that
tongue and keep it swallowed."
  He pushed on the stick again. The old man made
gagging noises. Banks released him and began
issuing orders for his squads to reassemble. He
posted two men to guard the dive until the wagon
showed up.
  Mocking voices called down from the fire
escapes. Will thought he heard Banks" name shouted
once or twice, and not in a complimentary
way. A few empty cans were thrown. But the
police marched out without incident.
  "Banks doesn't exactly generate
respect, does he?" Will said as he and Drew
followed the marchers. Drew had put his right hand into the
pocket of his old jacket, letting it rest there.
He shrugged wearily:
  "One way or another, the Bend gets
to everybody. Eustace is no worse than most on
the force, and he's better than a lot of them. I'd
take his advice about leaving. Along

  "dis
so.
with Corso, now youVe got McCauley against you.
Maybe the padrone, too."
"I haven't heard from Corso and I probably
won't hear from the others. I'm staying till
Sunday-just the way I planned."
Drew laughed for the first time all evening. "You sound as
tough as Banks."
"You said the Bend gets to everybody."
"But I wouldn't want to be responsible for anything
happening to-was
"It's my decision, Drew. My father
once told me that every sensible man in the First
Virginia Cavalry was scared to death of Yankee
shot and shell. All the same, they didn't run
away from it."
Still trying to lighten the situation, Drew said, "That's
the way it is with Virginians and Kents, eh?"
Fearful as he was of again encountering Giuseppe
Corso or Dave McCauley, Will found a
measure of courage in the words he'd just spoken.
He'd made a decision, and although the fear stayed with
him, he slept better that night than he had for
several weeks.
That same night, Eleanor paced her room in
Boston. Outside, thunder boomed. Occasional
storms had drenched the city all week, but had done
nothing to relieve the stultifying heat. Hand pressed
to her lips and head bowed in thought, she barely heard
the rain begin, so thick were the muffling draperies which
hid the locked windows.
A single shaded light burned above her writing
desk. On the desk lay a second letter from
Louisa Drew in Philadelphia. Ah urgent
plea this time. It forced Eleanor to think.
Her father's words that well-remembered afternoon in his
office had shaken her almost as much as
Leo's death. Gideon had called her a
fireside moralist, had charged that before Leo's
death she had convinced herself that hatred would never touch
her if she pretended it didn't exist. And that
since his death she had only gone on hiding.
Just like her mother.
For several days afterward Eleanor had denied the accu-
sations vehemently in her own mind, especially the
idea that she was imitating Margaret. But then doubt
had begun to creep in. Doubt and a slow, shameful
realization that her father was right. At a time of tragedy,
after the horror of the flood and her inadvertent
revelation to Martin, reality had been too much for
her. She had begun locking real doors, just as
she'd locked an imaginary one for years. And had
turned her back on the one solid chance she had
to resume her life, by going back on the stage.
  It was frightening to realize that her flirtation with
madness had gone so far. Yet now, aware of it at
last, she felt a sense of redemption; rescue.
She had her father to thank for that, and this evening, she had
been gathering her nerve to go downstairs and tell him.
  But first there was another decision. she was strong enough
to make it.
  She stopped in the center of the room,
turned toward the desk and gazed at Louisa's letter.
Showing that determination which had made her so successful
as a manager, Louisa had refused to accept
Eleanor's initial, negative answer to the offer
of a place in her company. This latest letter renewed
the offer of employment for the entire season. But,
Louisa had noted, a prompt reply was necessary.
  Finally, after perhaps a minute, Eleanor's
expression grew more determined. She picked up her
skirts.
  But before she moved toward the desk, her eye fell
on the closed door of the bedroom. She stared at it,
frowning. If she were going to take the step she
contemplated-take it because it was essential for her
survival-then it was time to stop the outward imitations
of her mother as well.
  She walked to the door, twisted the key, and
flung the door open, pushing it all the way back
against the papered wall. A stir of air fronf the
corridor touched her cheek.
  She turned around and crossed the room. The
bedroom had three windows. One by one. she flung
back the draperies concealing them, raised them, and
pushed the shutters outward.
  Rain splashed her face; the storm was
heavy now. But the air felt deliciously cool,
and the rain had a sweet taste when she ran her
tongue over her lip. At the final window, she
stood for a moment, head back and eyes closed,
savoring the freshness of the swirling air and the dampness
it bore.
Then, swiftly, she returned to the desk, inked a
pen, and began to write:
My dearest Louisa,
Thank you for yrs. of the most recent date. I
hasten to answer immediately, in order to tell you that I have
reconsidered my original decision
-
In the dark beyond the windows, the storm intensified over
the Common. The gusts rattled the writing paper
until she had to hold it down with her left hand as
she wrote.
A small smile on her face, she bent over the
letter, feeling a joyous freedom as she wrote in the
wind that rushed through the room, cleansing it of its
staleness and its ghosts.
CHAPTER X
Ultimatum
A
STREAM OF PATIENTS kept the
Bayard Court office busy on Thursday
morning. To judge from the number of coughs,
sneezes, and runny noses the doctors saw, an
epidemic of summer influenza was sweeping the
neighborhood.
Will had been up before dawn; thinking of Jo, and
Laura, and the Bend. All that he'd heard in the
past day or so-from Drew, Jake Riis, even the
brutal Banks-had started him moving in a different
direction. He wasn't sure where he'd wind up.
But the next step was clear. He must speak
to Marcus, and perhaps Thurman Pennel, as soon as
possible.
He yawned as he brought Vlandingham a bottle of
cough mixture from one of the cabinets. The doctor
gave him a stern stare:
"You should go to bed at night, instead of chasing Banks
and his flying squad."
  Drew turned from the patient whose throat he was
about backslash to examine. At the moment there were
two middle-aged
  Italians in the surgery. Drew was taking care
of one. VI-ANDINSHAM
  the other. Neither patient could speak English; v
both had made their symptoms known
b-y sign language.
  "You know about the raid?" Drew asked his partner.
Neither he nor Will had mentioned it; Jo had only
been told that it had been successful.
  Vlandingham snorted. "Don't act so blasted
surprised. Everyone in the neighborhood knows.
While I was walking over here this morning, four people
informed me that you two had gone with the police to close
that dive."
  Jo looked at Will, as if for confirmation. An
abrupt silence had descended over the surgery. Will
saw the expression of Vlandingham's patient change
from anxiety to outright terror. The man was staring past
the doctor to the doorway.
  Drew glanced in that direction and frowned. His
patient, too, had a fearful look. Will turned and
discovered the cause. A man had entered
unannounced, evidently opening the door so as
to make no noise.
  The man was about sixty-five, slender, and
slightly stoop- shouldered. He had merry brown
eyes, a Van Dyke which had been neatly trimmed
and combedj and magnificent white hair that covered the
tops of his ears and brushed his collar.
  Jo was the first to react. "You can't come
in here!"
  Vlandingham's gray eyes remained on the
visitor. "The gentleman is accustomed to doing
whatever he pleases." He glanced past the stranger
to the outer room. Five minutes earlier, eight or
nine people had been waiting. Now the room was empty.
  The stranger's clothing was neat, though heavy for
summer, and considerably out of date as well. The
black trousers and matching sack coat were tailored
in a style popular in the 1850's. His shawl was a
reminder of a masculine
  fashion that had disappeared soon after Lincoln's
  death. A black silk cravat, gray
gloves, and a cane with a silver knob completed his
outfit. Every item contributed
  to his air of quaint gentility. But despite his
age and his
  attire, he appeared alert and vigorous. He
continued to
r
smile in an avuncular way as Vlandingham walked
toward him:
"I see you've frightened away all our patients,"
Vlandingham growled.
  "Have I, Doctor? It wasn't
intentional."
  The stranger spoke English with a heavy accent.
Still smiling, he glanced at the man Vlandingham had
been examining.
"Per placere andatevene."
His eyes darted to Drew's patient.
"Anche to. Immediatamente."
The second man knocked his stool over in his haste
to beat the first to the door. The visitor stepped
aside to permit them to flee. Drew righted the stool,
a scowl on his face.
  "Who is this man?" Jo demanded.
  Drew shook his head. "Never saw him before. But
I suspect -"
  "You know him by name," Vlandingham cut in. "I
know him personally. We were introduced several years
ago at a
ristorante
just around the corner on Mulberry."
  "An occasion I recall with immense
pleasure," said the visitor.
  "You may, but I don't." Vladingham turned
to Drew. "The gentleman no longer lives in the
Bend, he merely continues to exploit it." Will's
stomach flipflopped. He knew the
stranger's identity now.
  "That was one of your operations they raided last
night, wasn't it?" Vlandingham asked.
  "Alas, yes." The visitor's smile lost
some of its warmth. He gave Will a swift glance that
was frightening because of its total lack of emotion. The
man treated Drew to the same quick scrutiny, then
said:
  "Permit me to introduce myself to the young
signori.
I am Don Andreas Belsario."

  "I don't give a damn if you're the sainted
ghost of Billy Tweed," Vlandingham exclaimed.
"Get out of my surgery."
  Don Andreas' manner grew soothing:
  "Please-there is no need for voices to be
raised. What I have to say can be said politely.
And you needn't become involved, Dr. Vlandingham.
Neither you nor the young
lady bear any responsibility in this matter. I
have come to speak with the two young
signori.
Dr. Hastings and his new acquaintance-was
Will quickly supplied his name. He was
damned if he'd let some elderly grafter
buffalo him.
The padrone fixed him with another chilling stare.
"Are you by chance related to the New York family
which publishes the
UnionThat
Will felt as if he'd been struck. For the padrone
to make that connection by guesswork alone was too
improbable to be believed. The man knew who he was
because he'd made it his business to know.
He returned the padrone's stare. "That's right."
"A fine newspaper," Don Andreas said. "We
read it regularly in my household."
Vlandingham grabbed the padrone's arm. "What the
hell do you want?"
Quickly, the man stepped back. Vlandingham let go.
Don Andreas glanced down at the wrinkles left
on his sleeve by Vlandingham's fingers. Using his right
glove, he flicked away invisible dirt, then
murmured:
"I told you, Doctor. It is for the ears of the two
young-was "Say it and get out," Vlandingham broke
in. "I'll have to disinfect the whole place to get
rid of your stink."
The sally infuriated the padrone. But he
maintained his control. Even smiled again:
"Very well. As you said, Doctor-it
was
one of my twopenny restaurants which the police
invaded and padlocked last night. There were those in the
raiding party not officially attached to Elizabeth
Street-was
Again the brown eyes slid to Drew, then W. "My
employee,
il signor
McCauley, knew the two of you were not policemen.
But he knew nothing else. Not your names, or where you
might be found. Early today we circulated your
descriptions in the neighborhood. My
apologies, Dr. Hastings, but the mention of your
girth led to a quick identification. I have come here
to protest your interference in my affairs."
Drew's face reddened. His voice took on that
high, rasping sound:
"You've got it mixed up. I didn't close your
place. The police did. Not to say I wouldn't
shut all such establish702
ments if I had the chance. They're pest-holes.
Even tramps don't deserve to be poisoned."
"Your moralizing is extremely
tedious," Don Andreas said with a smile. "Of
course I know you didn't instigate the raid. But
by your interference, you and your friend almost deprived me of
an able lieutenant.
II signor
McCauley isn't the brightest man in my
employ, but he is one of the most useful. I will not
brook a similar interference again."
He glanced at Drew's bandaged hand. "I
notice you earned a small reward for your meddling.
How sad it would be if some mishap crippled you
permanently. Never again able to perform surgery-you would
hardly deserve the title doctor then."
Jo was white. Drew shook with anger:
"Your effrontery is unbelievable-was
"No, Doctor. Yours!" the padrone shouted.
"You, all of you, are permitted to practice here
by my sufferance alone. Sergeant Banks has
harassed me before. My patience with him has worn
thin. Last night he again closed a valuable
commercial enterprise-was
"How can you call a dive like that valuable?" Will
demanded.
Don Andreas controlled his anger; shrugged and lowered
his voice as he said:
"Oh, I am not speaking of monetary value. The
profits of a two-cent restaurant are of course
insignificant. But the friendships made through operation
of such places-the votes that can be harvested one or
two at a time, then brokered-those are extremely
significant. Those votes enhance my authority in
this district, and my worth at City Hall. When you
rob me of even one restaurant, as the two of you
helped Banks do last night, the loss is not
inconsiderable. When you compound the injury by nearly
sending a valuable man to Blackwell's Island for
six months or more-that is not easily borne,
signori."
His brief burst of temper might never have occurred;
he sounded almost genial again:
"Put yourselves in my position. Imagine what would
-- Jiappen if I allowed this affront to go
unpunished. I would quickly become a laughingstock.
A toothless old grandfather devoid of power and
prestige. Regrettably, I am unable to have
Banks removed or held in check by his
superiors. So I must find other means
to demonstrate my displeasure. You-was
He pointed a gloved finger at Drew. Like a gun
barrel, the finger swung toward W.
"comand you. Both of you will leave the district by noon
Saturday. If you are seen in the Bend after that, the
consequences will be unpleasant. You, Doctor
Vlandingham- you may stay. Also the young lady who
assists you. The voters must be kept in good health!
But if either of you is found abetting the police, your
dispensation will likewise be withdrawn."
No one moved or spoke. Will and the others were
stunned. Like an accomplished actor holding the
stage, Don Andreas was in control and knew it:
"You may, of course, think of scurrying to Banks
or some other police functionary to report what I
have just said. No action will be possible against me,
however. Several reliable witnesses will be prepared
to swear in court that I was never anywhere near these
rooms today-that I was, in fact, entertaining some of
my seventeen grandchildren in Central Park. I bid
you all good day."
With a little nod, he strolled out, gently pulling the
door shut behind him.
ill
Drew sank down on a stool. Almost
unconsciously, he brought his bandaged right hand into the
palm of his left and cradled it there as he shook his
head.
"My God. I can't believe it. People don't say
such things in the civilized world."
Vlandingham tried to smile. It was only a jerk of the
corners of his mouth. "I'm afraid that's your
error, Drew. Thinking you're still in the civilized
world."
"He's an ignorant man!" Jo exclaimed, as
if trying to shake off the spell of the visitor.
"Only stupid people threaten violence."
"Stupid people or very confident ones," Vlandingham said.
"Don Andreas has tremendous influence in the
district. I suppose he feels he must
demonstrate that occasionally. We had the misfortune
to provide him with a convenient opportunity."
"Not we," Will said. "Just Drew and I."
Jo's anxious eyes sought his. "What happened
during the raid? With that man he talked about, I
mean?"
Drew told her, concluding, "Will tried to stop him,
but he got away."
Musing aloud, Vlandingham said, "Wonder what
he's got up his sleeve for Banks? In the past
he's tried bribing him, but Banks can't be bought."
Carefully closing his left hand around the bandaged one,
Drew looked monumentally annoyed. "I
still don't know how the devil a doctor gets
involved in this kind of mess."
"By deciding to practice in this kind of
neighborhood!" Vlandingham snapped. He strode
to one of the equipment cabinets and pulled a small
key from his vest pocket. He bent to insert the key
in the keyhole of a bottom drawer as Drew went
on:
"Well, I can't let some crook run me off.
But you didn't bargain for this, W. There's no
reason for you to stay and run the risk of getting
hurt."
"You know I wasn't planning to leave until
Sunday," Will said. "I see no reason to change
my plans. Tomorrow I have to do an errand on Wall
Street, but I'll be back by evening."
Slowly, his gaze traveled from Drew's face
to Jo's. What he thought he saw there-admiration
mixed with anxiety comwarmed him and somehow made his
decision seem less foolhardy.
How did old Philip feel, staring into the
muzzles of British guns at Concord bridge
a hundred and fourteen years ago? As frightened as
I feel right now?
"Ever fired something like this, Drew?"
Vlandingham's voice made them turn. From the
cabinet drawer he'd taken an old maroon cloth
and unfolded it to reveal the oiled metal of a
revolver with a long barrel.
"No," Drew said. "But I had a squirrel
gun when I was younger."
"Then you should be able to get the hang of this without much
trouble. It certainly isn't the sort of instrument
I planned to give my partner any time during our
association -"
, He polished the already spotless barrel with the
sleeve of his smock, then started to hand the gun
to Drew. He blinked.
"Good God. You can't fire it. You couldn't fire
it if your life depended on it."
An unfortunate turn of phrase, Will thought
gloomily.
Drew laughed and held up his bandaged hand.
"No, not very well. I wondered when you'd realize
that."
"I can fire it," Will said. "I know how to handle a
revolver.
That looks like a fine one."
"It is. Forty-four caliber Adams. Five
shot, double ac1tion.
The Union Army bought five hundred of them during
the war. This one came from a Reb prisoner-one of
D. H. Hill's men who was killed running away
from the Bloody Lane at Antietam. I think
one of his own must have shot him in the back. He was
dead by the time he was brought to our hospital tent. And
since he'd obviously stolen the revolver off a
Federal, I-was He cleared his throat. "I thought
it all right to take it from him. It shoots well. I
did some target practice with it over on the
Weehawken Heights a year after the armistice. I
have some ammunition I bought at the time. I've kept
it dry, perhaps it's still good-was
Fiercely, Jo shook her head. "Must we go through
this? Do you really think that awful man will do what he
said?"
"It all depends on how badly he feels his
prestige has been injured," Vlandingham told
her. "I'd hate to gamble that he was bluffing. I
think it's safer to assume he isn't."
She walked to the door. The reception room was still
empty. She turned back suddenly. "Why couldn't
Banks provide a police guard?"
"On what grounds?" Vlandingham replied. "A
threat? If the police gave special
protection to every person in the Bend who was threatened
by someone, they'd need a thousand patrolmen just for this
precinct."
Will licked his lips; they were dry all at once.
"If the padrone's threat was serious, well know
by Saturday night or Sunday. Till then all
we can do is look out for ourselves."
Drew nodded. Jo's silence signaled
reluctant agreement.
"May I see the gun, Doctor?"
Every eye shifted to the bright weapon as Vlandingham
laid it carefully in Will's open hand.
No patients appeared the rest of the day. Don
Andreas had marked the doctors, and communicated the
stigma to the neighborhood. The silent reception
room was proof of the padrone's influence.
Late in the afternoon, Will walked out to the courtyard. The
Adams .44 was thrust into the waistband of his
trousers. Above him, only a scrap of sky was
visible between the laundry on the pulley lines.
Tenants of the buildings stared at him from fire
escapes. Their faces were sober, as if they knew
he was under some kind of sentence.
Jo came outside. "Will?"
He turned. How lovely she was-
"What is it?"
"I've been wanting to apologize for being so forward
the other night. I hope you'll forgive me. Forget
what I said."
"Nothing to forgive. But as to forgetting-I can't."
"I wish things had worked out differently all around."
"Yes," he said. "All at once I do too."
Their eyes held a moment. Then she turned and
hurried back inside. But not before he caught a
glimmer of tears on her cheeks.
CHAPTER XI
Questions
AT THE END OF THE day, Will, Drew, and
Vlandingham returned Jo to the protection of
Nevsky and his wife, then walked on to the East
River. There Will fired half a dozen practice
rounds at the wake of a passing scow. Two crewmen
shook their fists and shouted, presuming the scow to have
been his intended target.
Will handed the revolver back to the older doctor, then
rubbed his right forearm. He said he hadn't expected
the gun to buck quite so hard. "But I imagine I can
hit a man at close range if it's necessary."
Feeding bullets into the Adams, Vlandingham smiled
coldly. "I expect so too. There's
a lot a man can do when he must."
The two friends saw Vlandingham back to his rooms
in the Bowery, then called for Jo. The three of them
went to their favorite thirteen-cent restaurant.
They chose a table from which they could watch both the
front door and the family entrance at the side. Will
felt ridiculous with the revolver hidden under his
coat. But to banish that feeling, he only had
to recall what Don Andreas had said. .
Conversation faltered during the meal, and all of them
turned in early that night. Will lay awake for
hours, or so it seemed. He wondered what ,the
next few days would bring. Or even if he'd
survive them.
In the morning, he put on his straw hat and a good
jacket. He gave the revolver to Vlandingham and
promised to be back as soon as possible.
"Don't hurry, we don't need you," Drew said
with a gesture at the reception room. It was empty
again this morning. "There are usually one or two
patients here when we open up. The people in the
neighborhood are more afraid of the padrone than I
imagined."
The city baked in the August heat. Will was sweltering
by the time he reached the offices of the Fennel
Company, a luxurious second floor suite of
rooms on Nassau Street just around the corner from
Wall. Three typewriting machines clicked in a
large, dark-paneled anteroom. A tiny,
mummy-like man wearing a cardboard eyeshade and
sleeve garters approached the mahogany railing
where Will stood waiting.
"Mr. Fennel, please.""
"Mr. Thurman Fennel is not here this morning," the
old man said regally. "Mr. Marcus Fennel is
handling matters in his absence."
"Please tell Marcus that Will Kent wants to see
him."
"He's extremely busy reviewing the books.
If he's willing to see you, I'm sure it won't
be for an hour or more."
"All right," Will said, his voice harder. "But you
tell
him
right now that I'm here."
r
The clerk hesitated, scanned Will's face, and
marched out of sight. He was back in less than a
minute, looking amazed:
"He'll see you immediately."
He unlatched the gate in the railing and opened it so
Will could step through.

"Lord above! What a surprise."
Marcus circled a paper-strewn desk placed in
front of windows overlooking Nassau Street.
The room could have accommodated a dinner table seating
thirty people. It was decorated with expensive walnut
wainscoting and furnished with dark, heavy pieces with
claw feet. In one corner, two stock market
tickers on marble pedestals clattered softly,
spewing paper tapes into collection baskets on the
floor.
Marcus' damp shirt was open at the collar and his
sleeves were rolled up. He pumped Will's hand.
"I'm forced to stay in the city all this month, but I
didn't think anyone came here by choice. Are you in
town on business?"
Will twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. On the
wall to his left, he noticed a multi-colored
map. The map was framed in half-inch mahogany
molding and measured about twelve feet by six. It
depicted the southern end of Manhattan Island, with
north at the right hand margin. The lower East Side
was studded with numerous pins with bright red or
blue heads.
"Not business in the conventional sense," he said.
"I'm helping a colleague from the medical school.
He practices down in the Mulberry Bend."
"Good God. That's a frightful area. Is this something
you're required to do to earn your diploma?" "It's
something I'm doing because I want to." "I see."
Marcus cleared his throat; the edge in Will's voice
was unmistakable. "You never mentioned it in
Newport, that I recall."
"I didn't think anyone in Newport would be
interested." The blunt reply made Marcus
frown, though he still tried to be cordial:
"Well, I'm happy to see you, whatever the
reason. Sit down, sit down."
With a gesture at one of the chairs, he returned
to his own, which was high-backed, throne-like, and finished
in leather. Just as Marcus was about to sit, Will said:
"I'd prefer to stand. I have only one or two questions
to ask you."
"Questions?" Marcus was starting to sweat heavily. He
plucked a cigarette from an ivory box half
buried amid ledgers and memoranda. His hand looked
less than steady as he put the cigarette in his
mouth. His eyes kept moving between Will's
face and the map Will was studying.
Marcus fumbled with a match. It burned out before he
got the cigarette lit. Finally he was successful.
He flipped the burnt match into a cuspidor, and
said:
"What kind of questions? About the protocol of
engagements? I'm the last one to ask about such things."
"I haven't come to discuss a wedding."
"Didn't you and Laura reach an understanding before that
telegram took you away?" Marcus squinted at
him through curling smoke, wary now. "Of course, I
know neither of you said anything about it, but after you left,
she was absolutely buoyant." A cynical
smile returned. "No one ever leaped to the defense
of her honor the way you did, old boy."
Will's cheeks grew warm. "I suppose everyone in
Newport's laughing about that."
"No, no! I didn't mean-was
"Never mind. It isn't important-I'm not here
to discuss Laura, either."
"But there
is
to be an engagement, isn't there? An engagement and a
wedding?"
"I don't know. It may depend on the
answers I get from you."
What a pathetic lie, he thought. No matter what
corruption he found in this eminently respectable
office, the discovery wouldn't cancel his obligation
to Laura.
Then why was he doing this? He knew, of course.
For the past year or so, he'd lived comfortably with
distortions. The opulence of Fennel House and
Maison du Soleil were the norm; poverty had
been abnormal-even nonexistent- in the world as he
saw it. He'd deluded himself because he wanted
Laura and all she stood for. Or so he thought.
Now the Bend was removing the distortions; restoring
perspective and a dear, true vision of things. He
was learn710
ing what Laura and her family actually
represented. Wealth and position built on human
suffering, if those colored pins meant what he
guessed they meant. He was still obliged to marry
Thurman Fennel's daughter. But if he did,
by God he'd understand the full meaning of the bargain.
Marcus flung his half-smoked cigarette into the
cuspidor. "You haven't exactly been cordial
since you came in here, old chap. I'm growing rather
tired of your truculence. Perhaps you'd
better be explicit about what you want."
"Does the Fennel family control a company
called the Pen-York Property Trust?"
Marcus turned pale. But he hesitated only a
second: "Of course. There's no secret there.
See here-what's gotten you onto such a tedious
subject as-?"
"And does the Pen-York Trust own a
five-story tenement down in the Bend, in a
cul-de-sac that goes by the name Robber's Row?"
Hostile now, Marcus sneered: "Do we have another
do- gooder on our hands? Another Jacob Riis?"
"I should imagine his work does bother your conscience,"
Will said with a nod.
Marcus laughed curtly. "Nothing bothers my
conscience, old boy, except failure to earn a
maximum return on every dollar the Fennel
family controls."
"What do you consider a maximum return,
Marcus? Twenty percent? Thirty? I know one
section of town where you can make at least that."
"What the hell are you ranting about?" Will stalked
toward the map.
"About the kind of return you get when you put a
building in the hands of a rental agent who
subdivides it into tiny, filthy cubicles that rent
for twice what it costs for a decent flat in a good
section. I'm talking about the return from slum
tenements."
He struck the map with his fist. Marcus had bolted
from behind the desk. He rushed to within a yard of Will before
stopping abruptly, unsure of what to do.
Will's angry eyes raked across the clusters of pins
inserted in the wards of the lower East Side. He
located the intersection of Mulberry and Bayard.
For several blocks around it, pins crowded one
another. He pointed:
"I guess you can't tell me whether you own that
particular tenement. It appears you've got a dozen
in the area.
You must have trouble keeping them all straight. The
profits from each, I mean. You don't seem
to worry about all the misery and death you may be
causing." He snatched four or five of the pins and
flung them on the carpet.
Baffled and angry, Marcus stared at him a moment.
. "That was cheap and showy."
"I know. But it made me feel damn good."
"What's happened to you, old fellow?"
"I swallowed a dose of reality. It
got all the delusions out of my system. For years,
I admired the kind of life your family leads.
Because I thought I wanted the same kind of life,
I never asked myself whether it had a price. Now
I've started asking."
"Who the devil's been filling your head with this
socialist nonsense?" A weary smile showed on
Marcus' face. "How
fdo you suppose great fortunes are made in this
country? Out of thin air and Christian piety? Of
course the Fennels comcaret have some dirt on their
hands. I expect the Kents do, too.
m
You'll have to accept that if you intend to be part of the
fam-was
ch""Shut up, Marcus," Will broke in. "All
I want is the
answer to one question. Do the Fennels own a tenement on
Robber's Row?"
"Jesus," Marcus breathed, pivoting away and
retreating behind his desk. He braced his hands on some
ledgers, leaning toward his visitor. "You've turned
into a regular roughneck. What comes next? Do you
throw me out a window the way your father knocked down
McAllister?"
"Don't tempt me. Answer my-was
"Nor
Marcus" voice broke as he said it.
Recovering, he went on, "That answer will have to come from
my father. I won't take the responsibility."
Will stepped forward, then checked himself. Marcus was
pale and sweating hard; his forced nonchalance had
completely crumbled. Suddenly Will felt he'd
been bullying a child,
"All right," he said. "Where can I find your father?"
"You might try his club. The Apollo. Uptown,
at-was
"I know where it is."
He jammed his hat on his head as he stalked toward
the door. Marcus groped for another cigarette and
called:
"Hurry and you may catch
him
while he's still sober."
The door slammed.
f
. Ill
Marcus sank into his chair, his sullen face shiny
with sweat. He struck a match and burned himself before
he got the cigarette going. He took
several puffs. His breathing slowed.
Then suddenly he jumped up and hurried to a door
so artfully designed, it was all but invisible in the
wainscoting. He jerked the door open, stepped into a
dark cubicle and began cranking a wall
telephone.
When the operator made the connection and the call was
answered at the other end, he said:
"This is Marcus Fennel speaking. I must talk with
my father. Get
him
to the telephone as fast as you can. Tell
him
it's an emergency."
CHAPTER XII
n
What Fennel Said
A
MASSIVE GRANDFATHER clock rang ten-thirty.
Thurman Fennel said, "Robber's Row? I'm not
familiar with the name. But I probably own the
building. Been buying tenements all over the lower
East Side for years. Splendid investments.
Splendid. That tell you what you wanted to know?"
He covered his lips with a wrinkled hand, and
belched. Then he reached toward a filigreed silver
tray bearing five champagne glasses. Two were
empty. He picked up a full one and sipped.
Standing in front of the older man, Will was momentarily
at a loss for a response. He'd expected
hostility from Laura's father, not an immediate, if
bleary, admission of the truth. Of course Laura
had said that her father was

5*1,
drinking heavily these days. And when he drank, he
lost all caution.
Once, Thurman Fennel had impressed Will with his
commanding presence. Now the bald and paunchy man
looked sadly ordinary. His shirt and summer suit
were stained and wrinkled. He smelled as if he
hadn't bathed for days. He slumped in a velvet
chair in front of tall windows hung with lace
curtains so heavy, only a glimmer of morning
light penetrated. The curtains muffled noise and
effectively hid the squalor of the world outside.
Except for the two of them, the book-lined clubroom
was empty.
In a vague voice, the older man went on.
"Impossible to be positive about one
building. The family's holdings are pretty
extensive. I'd bet we own it, though." He
sipped again. "Otherwise Marcus wouldn't have been so
agitated when he told me you were asking questions."
Will was startled. "When did you speak to Marcus?"
"Right before you got here. He called me on the
club's telephone. He was damn near
hysterical. I'm afraid my son will never make
a businessman. He's short on nerve. He
isn't a bad administrator if he's told
exactly what to do. But he can't deal with
emergencies, and he has no mind for the creative
posh-possibilities of real estate. Fact
is-to be absolutely candid-was He drank. "You
have it all over Marcus. Even if you do come from a
family of damn radicals."
He consumed the rest of the glass at a gulp,
Jieedless of the way some of the liquid ran down his chin
to his shirt. Another belch, and he went on:
"Hate to admit it, but my son's no good with
anything except polo ponies or a tennis
racket. An ineffectual Harvard-educated fart,
is what it comes down to-was
Fennel replaced the glass on the tray and reached
for another. Then, peering at the young man
begrimed from his trolley ride, he said:" I
"Oh. Not minding my manners, am I? Care for a
champagne cocktail? I can ring for more. I
probably will before the day's much older."less-than
Softly, Will said, "No, thank you." There was no
point in badgering a drunkard. The sooner he
left, the better.
"Mustn't have any secrets from you, my boy."
Once more Fennel took a sip. "You're to be a
member of the family soon. Snaring you has been their
design, Laura's and
my wife's, ever since Marcus fetched you home that
Christmastime."
"Snaring? That's a pretty hard word, Mr.
Fennel."
A sloppy shrug. "Fits, though."
"But I'm the one who's been doing the courting."
The older man gave him a pitying look. "You
only think so. They played you like a violin, my
boy. Fact is-was Another large drink. "Even
though I abom-abomin-hate your father's newspaper,
I have felt increasingly sorry for you. You may think
marrying Laura is an attractive proposition.
You'd get a fine dowry to add to your own inheritance,
plus the social standing your father can never
hope to acquire-was
The words disturbed Will, and not merely because they were
true. Something poisonous was gathering within the drunken
man, and slowly working its way out of a deep, concealed
place.
"But I'll tell you this, Kent. You needn't ask
my permission to marry Laura. She and her mother
decided the question months ago. I have nothing to stay about
it."
He reached out to put his empty glass on the tray,
but he wasn't watching. As he put the glass
down, he bumped another. It fell, striking the
raised edge of the tray. A half moon of crystal
broke from the rim of the overturned glass.
"Glad it wasn't a full one," Fennel said with a
snuffling laugh. The library was utterly still save
for the heavy
tocktock
of the clock pendulum. Fennel's face grew
twisted and sour; the poison was near the surface.
"Another thing," Fennel resumed after he drank.
"Those two harpies need you more than you need the
Fennels. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking
otherwise. My sweet daughter can't get a
regular suitor from her own social
group."
"Oh, sir, I can't believe-was
Fennel didn't seem to hear: "There's no
shortage of ordinary suitors, y'understand.
Penniless attorneys. Merchants mortgaged to the
hilt. But the ladies don't want someone like that.
They want a man with money and some sort of
pedigree. That rules out most of those European
dukes and earls. They've got the titles but nothing
else. So it comes down to an American. Trouble
is, mothers in the best families won't let their
sons near my daughter. They've heard too many
stories. It's been that way ever since Laura-
matured." He shook his head. "My fault, I
reckon. But I don't know how it happened-was
His voice strengthened. "I do know I had to move
out. I couldn't stand those damn women one day longer.
Seems to be the familiar complaint of Newport
husbands," he added. He drained the glass,
rose, and lurched across the
* ,room to jerk a satin bell pull.
Will was in such turmoil, he didn't know what
to say.
Fennel came lurching back, stumbled against his chair
and almost fell. He seized the back of the
chair and held himself up. He smiled at Will again,
half in contempt, half in pity:
"Guess you're surprised to hear me speak of my
wife and daughter the way I do. I'll tell you the
reason. I hate both of 'em. My wife's a
pretentious, domineering bitch. All she cares about
are
things
comoh, and maybe the approval of a bunch of
dry-titted, half-crazy old hags she
fancies to be her betters. You've no idea how
frantic she is to keep from being ostracized because of
Laura. You've no idea how many backsides she
must kiss so it won't happen. That social stuff
is shit, my boy. Pure shit. I like feeling
important as well as the next man, but by God
I know I came from nothing and will go right back there when
I'm all through. My daughter-she's caught the
taint in that house. It's ruined her. She's worse
than her mother. At least my wife isn't a
whore."
A seventy-year-old man wearing club livery
entered with another tray bearing five more champagne
cocktails. He set it down, then removed the first
tray without so much as a lifted eyebrow-as
if finishing five drinks before a quarter of eleven in
the morning wasn't at all unusual.
When the waiter had gone, Fennel helped himself.
He stood sipping his fresh cocktail with an owlish
look. At last Will spoke:
"That's a terrible thing to say about your own daughter."
'Terrible? I 'spose. Trouble is, I don't
know a better word than whore. I tell you again, my
boy-you don't need my permission to marry Laura.
You've no competition. No one in her own set will have
her. Here-was
In the process of placing his cocktail on a
book shelf, he nearly fell again. He rummaged
for something in his pockets; finally pulled out a
wrinkled piece of newsprint about
seven inches wide. One edge was ragged, as if the
papei had been torn from a longer galley.
"Here's her latest escapade. I was one of
Colonel Mann's supplicants at
Delmonico's earlier this week. He arranges
to let you know when he's written an item for
Saunterings
that he thinks you should see-the fucking robber. I paid
eight thousand dollars to keep this out of the next issue

Town Topics."
Fennel shoved the typeset paper at Will, who was
already numb from all he'd heard. His feeling of
horror worsened as he read the torn galley:
A hurricane of scandal is about to disturb the
tranquil waters of Newport's summer scene.
This particular storm promises to make its landfall
near a cottage where the sun was thought to shine
perpetually.
Will looked up. "The sun? Is that his way of saying
Mai- son du Soleil?"
Fennel nodded with grudging admiration. "The bastard
always finds a way to reveal identities without naming
names. Read on. Read all about your dear, sweet
intended!"
Not so, the Saunterer discovered a fortnight ago.
Next spring will bring more than the traditional
blooming flowers to the young mistress of the aforesaid
cottage, we are informed. The unfortunate maiden
in question may one day discover that her presumably
unwanted offspring has inherited a penchant for
tennis
-
though for fetching the spheroids, not lobbing them.
"Godamighty," Will whispered. For a
moment he wanted to believe Mann had invented the
story, but that was too farfetched; how could the publisher
hope to collect hush money for a fabrication? But
Will didn't see how Laura could be pregnant if
what she'd told him the day after their lovemaking was
true-
Wait. The story said
a fortnight ago.
She might have thought she was pregnant then, only
to find before he left Newport that she was not.
It explained some things, but not all. Who was the father?
Did the reference to fetching tennis balls mean it was
Muldoon? If it did, Laura had lied to him.
And the shacker had told the truth. Fennel saw his
confusion and chuckled in a gloomy way. Sipping his
champagne cocktail, he gazed out through the com8ecru
curtains with eyes that almost failed to focus. Will
I*forced himself to read the rest:
still
true, the story is a sorry ending to the season for
one of the colony's premier families. Alas, it
is not an unexpected ending, however. The erring
maiden is said to have erred many times before, thus ensuring
an absence of quality suitors upon her doorstep.
Ah, la folie ddgete! Ah, la
folie de la jeunesse!
Will crumpled the galley. "Where do they get
material like this?"
"Mann depends on spies. Didn't anyone ever
tell you , rthat?"
He nodded, remembering; Marcus had said exactly
that.
"There's no telling how many informants may be
scurrying around our own household, each one hoping
to overhear something salable. That must be what happened in
this case."
"You're acting as if this could be true, Mr.
Fennel."
"Am I, now?"
"You're pretty damn calm about it. He's
written filth about your own daughter! Is it
true?"
"Kindly keep your voice down, Kent You'll have
the club stewards on my neck." ,
"Is it true, goddamn it?"
"Why, my boy, I don't know. It very well
might be."
Will felt as if a knife had been rammed into his
stomach. Fennel went on, "I'd say learning
whether it's the truth is your
responsibility, not mine. You're the one foolish
enough to think of marrying her. My only concern was to keep
Mann from printing the item. If he did, I'd
look like a jackass in the business community.
Couldn't allow that-was
He stumbled to W; squeezed his shoulder with clumsy
cordiality:
"Brace up, Kent. Brace up and have a
cocktail. If you still want to acquire social
standing overnight, my possibly pregnant daughter
can give you that much."
He stared into Will's dazed eyes. There was genuine
sympathy in his voice as he continued:
"Don't feel bad that they gulled you. They gulled
me for years. I don't know you well, but you strike
me as honest and decent. That's why you mustn't feel
bad. Being honest and decent immediately puts you at a
disadvantage with my wife and my daughter, since
they-was He drank. "They are not."
The tall clock ticked. Fifteen seconds
passed.
Thirty.
The confused look cleared from Will's eyes. His head
came up.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Fennel.
The only person who can answer the rest of my questions
is Laura."
He held out the galley. Fennel didn't move
to take it. Will dropped it between them and walked out.

Despite the intense heat, he walked all the way
back to the Bend from midtown. It took him about an
hour, and failed to produce the result he'd hoped
for-a lessening of the anger and humiliation consuming him.
"Being honest and decent immediately puts you at a
disadvantage with my wife and my daughter."
What a fool he'd been!
Red-faced and perspiring, he stormed across Bayard
Court and into the reception room. It was still empty.
But someone from the neighborhood was inside-Mrs.
Grimaldi.
She and the others turned toward the door as he entered.
He took note of their faces. "What's wrong?"
Mrs. Grimaldi sighed. "Word has passed in the
Bend that anyone visiting these rooms will incur the
displeasure of a certain padrone. Nevertheless,
conscience compelled me to bring news which otherwise you
might not have heard for hours. Grimaldi agreed that
I must come."
Jo watched Will with anxious eyes.
Vlandingham wiped his palms on his trousers; the
revolver bulged under his surgical apron. He
said, "A fisherman found Eustace Banks just after
sunrise."
"Found him where?"
Drew said, "Propped against one of the piers of the
Brooklyn bridge. With his throat cut."
Will felt lightheaded for a moment. Mrs.
Grimaldi said:
'That is not the worst of it. I did not have a chance
to tell the others before you came in-was
"Tell us what?" Jo asked.
The older woman hesitated briefly. "It is
being said in the streets that the death of Banks is not the
end. It is being said that-was
A doleful glance at Will and Drew.
'That the two young doctors will be next" , i
CHAPTER XIH
Carnage
THE
REST OF FRIDAY dragged, dark with the threat of
rain.
They had one patient; a woman of about thirty with a
lined face and exhausted eyes. Her forearm was
badly H burned. Vlandingham dressed
and bandaged it in about fifteen minutes. Even that
seemed too long for the woman, f bar who nervously
explained that she'd fallen against her stove and wouldn't
have troubled the doctors except that her arm was the one
she used for twenty hours of ironing which she did every
week for a Bayard Street sweater.
"What she meant," Mrs. Grimaldi said after the
woman left, "is that if there were any
neighborhood doctors
not
in disfavor with Don Andreas, she would have gone to them.
But at least she came. That showed more courage than
most have exhibited." Drew looked skeptical.
"Maybe the people in the Bend are showing common sense.
Maybe we should, too."
From the cabinet where she was rearranging bottles,
Jo
r
looked at her brother. "Are you saying we should
lock up and leave?"
"I'm suggesting we might think about it. Does it
really make sense to stay here when we've been
threatened, and Banks has been murdered?"
Vlandingham's swivel chair squeaked as he swung
around; he'd been reading one of the texts from
the shelf above his desk. But he hadn't turned a
page in almost twenty minutes. In reply
to Drew's question, he said:
"No, it doesn't make a whit of sense-not if
your sole concern is self-preservation. I can tell
you this much. If we leave before noon tomorrow, we might
as well not come back. The confidence I've worked
years to build will be gone like that."
He snapped his fingers. Then, chair squeaking again,
he returned to his study of the same page.

Around six that evening, they extinguished the lamps in the
office, locked up and walked slowly toward the
Bowery. Heavy thunderclouds rumbled in from the
northwest. Wind billowed grit and rubbish through the
streets. Neighborhood people ran for cover, some of
them casting pitying looks at the three men and the girl.
On the corner of Mulberry, peddlers were
hurriedly covering their carts with tarpaulins. Will
checked the street for oncoming vehicles and got a
shock. Four doors down on the far side of
Mulberry, Giuseppe Corso was just turning into a
saloon.
Corso recognized the foursome at the interesection.
He took a cheroot from his mouth and, his
eyes on Will, dropped the cigar to the pavement and
stepped on it. Then, laughing, he ducked inside.
Will looked to see who else had noticed. Drew and
Dr. Vlandingham were engaged in conversation about the
comparative merits of catgut and silk
ligatures. But Jo had seen Corso; her
expression made that clear.
Bayard Street grew almost pitch dark under the
heavy clouds. After the four of them had crossed
Mulberry, Jo dropped back and took Will's
arm. Her touch was comfort721
ing and familiar, somehow. Her hand seemed to belong
right where it was.
"You've been very quiet ever since you got back from
Wall Street."
He shrugged, as if to indicate he had nothing to say
on that subject. She went on:
"I do agree with what Drew said yesterday. This
really isn't your fight. I wouldn't think less of
you if you left. Drew wouldn't think less of you."
He remembered the contemptuous way Corso had
reached for his watch chain with the knife. Remembered some
of the people he'd seen in the surgery; people desperate for the
care the doctors offered. Now they'd been frightened
away-
"But I'd think less of myself," he said. "And it
is my fight. I'll stay until Sunday."
He reached across with his other hand, closing it on hers.
They gazed at one another and let their eyes speak
eloquently of their feelings. They might have been
alone on the dark, windy street.
Several steps ahead, Vlandingham grabbed his derby
as a gust lifted it from his head. "Hurry up, you
two!"
They ran to catch up. But each knew something had
changed, and changed profoundly, in that moment in which
they'd looked at each other.
The grit-laden wind blew harder than ever. A
butcher shop sign over the sidewalk creaked on
its iron rod. Creaked and screeched and threatened
to tear loose, just as old confusions and uncertainties
were tearing loose within Will Kent. Tearing loose and
blowing away-gone for good-
"I wish you'd go," Jo whispered suddenly. "I
don't want anything to happen to you."
"I feel the same way about you." The feeling had
been struggling for release for days, he realized.
Even in the midst of then* predicament, he
experienced a moment of almost unbelievable
happiness. "That's one more reason I have
to stay." His
"You're more stubborn than I gave you credit for at
first."
He smiled. "Being stubborn is one of the chief
pastimes of the Kents."
"Tell me why you've been so quiet all afternoon."
He frowned. "Oh-thinking." "About Don Andreas?"
"Not entirely."
Memories cascaded through his mind; memories of
Thurman Fennel and the torn galley from
Town Topics;
of Muldoon's taunts; and of Laura's puzzling
behavior- suggesting a quick marriage one day, only
to reject the idea the next. He'd thought Laura
was just a proper young woman carried away by her
feelings. Her feelings for him and no one else-
Damn fool,
he said to himself as he and Jo walked arm in arm.
Muldoon as much as told you what she was. You
thought he was only saying it to settle a grudge.
In the last few days he'd made a lot of
discoveries about Laura Fennel. But he'd made
even more important ones about himself. He'd discovered
how badly false ambition could distort perception and
judgment: he had believed what he
wanted to believe about Laura, never what the facts
suggested. He'd discovered how wrong he was to want
all that the Fennels represented. Mpst
important of all, he'd discovered Jo.
The clouds burst with a blaze of lightning, a clap
of thunder. He rushed Jo toward a covered passage
between buildings. It was just half a dozen steps away
but they got soaked.
He heard Drew calling from shelter farther down the
block. He shouted a reply but the storm muffled
it. In the darkness of the passage, with thunder shaking the
pavements and rain cascading from black clouds, he
took Jo's waist in both hands:
"I don't know any way to tell you except
straight out.
I've fallen in love with you. You're the only one
I want."
She put her hands on his shoulders. For a moment her
face shone. But a sudden memory erased the
radiant look:
"What about the girl in Newport?"
"I'll see her once more. To say goodbye.
Maybe one of these days I can explain how she
misled me. How I let myself be misled. But it's
pointless right now." "You mean because of Don
Andreas?" He nodded and kissed her. They held one
another without speaking, their tightly clasped arms
communicating their love, and their fear that they'd found
each other too late.
The most severe weather passed in less than an
hour. But it rained all night and on into the next
day. Drew, Will, and Jo reached the office shortly
after eight-thirty Saturday morning. Dr. Clem
was already there. This Saturday would regularly have been
his day off. But Tie'd changed his schedule, he
said. They all knew the reason.
They kept the waiting room door dosed,
to provide more warning if anyone tried to come in that
way. The Adams revolver lay on the examination
table. In the hallway of the tenement, the pump handle
squeaked with its familiar rhythm.
By ten Jo had cleaned the entire surgery. Will had
read a chapter on delivery of a child by surgical
section. Drew and Dr. Clem had used the time to go
over the account book for the practice-a study good for
producing a lot of dismayed laughter from both of them.
About ten-fifteen, Mrs. Grimaldi appeared with a
strapping, black-haired young man she introduced as
her son, Tomaso. He would be staying with her in the
surgery until twelve o'clock had come and
gone, she said.
No amount of argument from Drew and the others did any
good. She had made up her mind about staying. If
Don Andreas sent roughnecks at noon, at least
those roughnecks would have to deal with more people than they'd
bargained for.
Eleven came.
Eleven-thirty.
Twelve.
Two lamps illuminated the gloomy surgery.
Rain dripped steadily in the passage beyond the
curtains-which bore constant watching since there was no
way to close or shutter the window.
From twelve until half-past there was scarcely a
word of conversation. The temperature dropped. A
dank chill began to pervade the room. Soon Jo
was shivering and chafing her arms.
At one o'clock, Mrs. Grimaldi rose from a
stool where she'd been sitting for over an hour.
"Come, Tomaso. I think it is safe for us
to leave. If the padrone meant to
make good on his threat, he would have done so by now.
Something changed his mind. I always suspected he was
a cowardly windba-was
"Mrs. Grimaldi," Jo whispered,
pointing at the homemade curtains. "I thought I
heard someone-was
There was a loud explosion in the passageway. One
of the curtains whipped wildly. Jo screamed as
something struck Vlandingham's shelf of books and sent
one spinning to the floor.
IV
Tomaso Grimaldi leaped at his mother and flung
her to the floor. Someone outside yanked the
curtains apart. In the window, looking like a goblin,
Corso crouched, his derby tilted down over his
eyes and a small silvery gun in his right hand.
High up in the tenement, people began to shout and scream.
Corso huhtSaid a target. Will lunged for the
revolver on the examination table. Behind him he heard
the crash of the reception room door flying open, then
heavy footsteps, and Drew's warning:
"Look out, it's McCauley
-"
A thunderous explosion. Jo cried, "Dr.
Clem!" Something thudded to the floor.
It was McCauley's shot that killed the older
doctor. Almost immediately, Corso fired at Jo.
She was hit as she ran to the fallen physician.
She rose on tiptoe, an astonished
expression on her face. Her hands groped toward
a small black hole in the lower right side of her
apron.
She staggered against Vlandingham's desk, breathing hard
and blinking rapidly. Will had the Adams in his right
hand now. Corso tore down one of the curtains with his
free hand, flinging it behind him and laughing as he pointed
the muzzle of his gun at Will through the swirling
smoke-
Will fired.
Corso's derby flipped up in the air and over the
back of his head. A red cavity had been scooped
from the center of his forehead.
"Ahhh!"
He seemed to be struggling for breath. Parallel
streams of blood ran down the sides of his nose and
dripped into his open mouth as he toppled
backwards into the passage.
Behind Will, Drew was panting and struggling with someone.
Will spun; saw Drew break free of
McCauley's grip and lurch toward one of the
equipment cabinets. Mrs. Grimaldi and
Tomaso were getting to their feet. Jo was bending
forward, her arms crossed over her stomach as if
to contain her pain.
Drew managed to open the cabinet with his unbandaged
left hand. Instruments came clattering out.
Slitted eyes shining with enjoyment, Dave
McCauley grabbed Drew from behind. With his other hand
he brought a huge old horse pistol up to the
back of Drew's head. "Let him go!" Will
yelled.
McCauley pivoted, squinting. Will squeezed the
Adams' trigger. He felt sudden stiffness in the
mechanism; applied more pressure-
Nothing happened. Something had jammed or broken.
McCauley held Drew's collar with his left
hand while leveling his gun at W. The round black
muzzle aligned with Will's forehead. Will dodged to one
side. McCauley followed him unerringly.
Drew wrenched away from McCauley. Will dove
for the 1floor and landed next to the examination table,
expecting
to feel the impact of a bullet any second.
McCauley let out a choked cry just as his gun
boomed.
His explosion of breath escalated into a moan, then
to a shrill cry of pain.
The bullet from McCauley's gun missed Will by a
foot or so. Groggy, he climbed
to his feet. Jo was walking in a small circle,
moving rapidly and shaking her head as she talked
to herself:
"I didn't get hurt. Somehow I didn't get
hurt, it was like a bee sting, can you imagine-?"
He recognized the delirium and wild excitement
produced by a gunshot wound. She was in shock. The
wound might be far more serious than she realized.
He turned to find Drew, who was reaching to yank the
horse pistol out of McCauley's hand. The big
man was mewling like a child. Finally Will saw why.
Drew had snatched a scalpel from the cabinet.
Its handle jutted from a rip in McCauley's
left sleeve. The blade was imbedded in the big
triceps muscle.
"Jesus Christ, don't let me die. Don't
let me die like a dog," McCauley babbled,
slipping sideways to the wall and then dropping to his
knees. Tears of terror trickled down his face.
It was a wound easily survived, but McCauley
didn't know that. Drew seized the advantage:
"No one will help you unless you tell us who sent you
here."
Weaving back and forth on his knees and crying,
McCauley managed to say, "Don
Andreas. Who else do you think it would be?"
Over the sound of Jo's agitated voice, Mrs.
Grimadli spoke to her son:
"La polizia, Tomaso! In fretta!"
The husky young man cast one more awed glance at the
carnage in the surgery, then bolted out through the
reception room. In the outer hall, Will glimpsed
pale faces; tenement dwellers wanting to see what
had happened, yet too frightened to step over the
threshold.
Drew grabbed McCauley's jaw with his left
hand. "Confessing to me isn't good enough. You'll have
to speak your piece at Elizabeth Street. And in
a courtroom."
"I will if you don't let me die, I swear
to God I will. Just help me.
Help me"
Wrathful, Drew reached across with his left hand,
grasped the scalpel and tore it out. McCauley
shrieked and fell sideways, fainting. Drew
looked at him with disgust. Then he dropped the
bloody scalpel on McCauley's shirt.
He turned to his sister. She was still following that
small circular path and holding her stomach. Fear
on his face, he hurried to her with Will
only a step behind.
A sergeant and two patrolmen from Elizabeth
Street arrived shortly. Ten minutes later
attendants from a horse- drawn ambulance carried
McCauley out on a litter. Will had applied a
Spanish windlass tourniquet to arrest the bleeding
of the man's arm.
The attendants returned and wrapped Vlandingham's
body, then Corso's. They took both from the
tenement.
Will struggled against the shock beginning to build up within
him. He'd shot and killed a man. He told
himself
he'd had no choice-or even any time for rational
decision. Still, the fact was inescapable. He'd
killed a man. A worthless thug, maybe. But a
human being.
One thing helped stave off the full impact: the
sight of Jo lying under a sheet on the examination
table where Drew had carefully placed her. She was
white as milk. And awake, although her eyes
didn't quite focus. From time to time she spoke
softly, laughed, or sang snatches of a song.
All of it was incoherent.
Mrs. Grimaldi watched Jo
anxiously. Will walked to the cabinet for a decanter
of medicinal whiskey. He tugged at the stopper but
seemed to lack strength. His fingers had a queer,
lifeless feel.
c
Killed a man.
The police sergeant said to Drew, "Should we dump
the two bodies in the courtyard and let your sister have
a place in the ambulance?"
Drew's voice took on that high, nasal
quality. "We can't risk the ride to the
hospital."
"Hurt that bad, is she? Sure don't look it.
There ain't much blood-was
Drew exploded: "How long have you been on the
force? That's a classic gunshot wound. Very
probably clotted already. There may be bad
internal hemorrhaging."
Will's hands froze on the decanter. He had just
realized what had to be done.
"comI won't risk dislodging a clot during a rough
ride. We'll remove the bullet here, and
determine the extent of the injuries."
Drew folded the sheet back and studied the hole in
Jo's apron. It was a small black
crater into whose center scraps of cloth had been
driven by the bullet's passage. There was some
blood showing, but not much.
Talking more to himself than to the others, Drew continued,
"Maybe the bullet spent itself in the abdominal
wall. But it's more likely that the cavity was
penetrated. From the position and angle of the wound,
I'd suspect a perforated small intestine. That
generally means several holes rather than one-was
Suddenly his eyes focused on W. "For God's
sake put that whiskey away."
"Why?"
"Because-was
Drew brought his bandaged right hand up from behind the
examination table. "You're the only one who can open
her up and see how badly she's hurt."
" vi
The accumulated shock and horror of the past hour
overwhelmed Will then. His hands started to shake.
He pushed the glass stopper back into the decanter
and held it tightly.
"Look, Drew, I know she needs help. But I
don't think I can-was
"Jesus, let's not repeat Castle Garden.
You've had surgical training. Heard
all the lectures. Watched the demonstrations -"
"But I've never done a procedure like this."
"Are you afraid to try?"
T"
Bungler.
Drew mistook his frightened silence for consent:
"We'll go slowly. Step by step. I'll give you
advice if you need it, though I don't think you do.
Mrs. Grimaldi will help too."
The stout woman raised her eyebrows, then frowned.
"I'll do anything you ask,
dottore.
As best I can."
Will fought to overcome a sense of certain failure.
"Drew, I don't have the skill!"
His friend stared at him.
"You'd better. Unless you want her to die."
vu
Will fixed his attention on Jo's white face. Her
eyes were nearly closed but her lips were still moving,
uttering airy, cheerful words he couldn't understand.
Suffering from shock, she was in some other, happier
place.
He struggled to collect himself. As Drew had said,
Jo's was almost a textbook wound.
Gunshot victims frequently reported little
pain. Most said the wound felt as
if
a small stone had hit them, or a light blow of a
cane.
He recalled a Harvard lecture on the tragic
lessons of
nr
1881. On June 30 of that year, President
Garfield had been shot. He had languished and
ultimately died in September because
exploratory surgery was still suspect; no
attending physician had been willing to probe for the
assassin's bullet and remove it. The two young
men didn't want to make the same mistake.
Drew's gaze fixed on his friend's face. So did
Mrs. Grimaldi's and that of the police sergeant.
Will stared at the freckles which Jo's pallor
emphasized so dramatically. He thought of all
she'd come to mean to him--and what she
backslash
meant to his future.
She meant everything.
His head cleared a little more. He rubbed his eyes with his
palms-
"All right. I'll do it."
A moment later, he said to the sergeant, "Please
keep people away from that window, and out of the waiting I
room." The sergeant pivoted and left.
"Mrs. Grimaldi, light those lamps. Every one of
them. What kind of surgical books do you have,
Drew?"
%
"I caret et's see. We have an Ashhurst, and a
Wyeth. A
Smith's Operative Surgery,
too."
The last was a Harvard text. "Get all of them."
Drew nodded. For a moment, intense emotion misted his
eyes. He knew, as did Will, that physicians with
close personal ties to a patient should never
operate on that patient. But circumstances had forced
the abandonment of the rule. Drew's glance said he'd
be forever grateful to his friend.
Trying to keep his mind from the frightening possibility of
failure, Will went on, "Anesthetic, now. Do you
have ether?"
"Yes, plenty."
"An inhaler-?"
"That too. We have everything necessary."
"We'll need the carbolic-was Again he rubbed his
eyes. Mrs. Grimaldi put the chimney back
on one lamp and removed another. "With all that's
happened, I can't seem to remember where you keep
it."
Drew laughed in a ragged way. "You know something?
Neither can I. But well find it."
Together they started the search as lamp after lamp spread
blazing light in the room.

W.
Under the Knife
UNDER DREW'S SUPERVISION, Mrs.
Grimaldi uncorked a can of ether, poured the
proper amount onto the gauze inside the inhaler,
then lowered the inhaler over Jo's face. Drew
watched for signs that the ether was irritating his
sister's respiratory passages. The first few
minutes would be the most critical.
Will, meantime, cut away Jo's clothing, struggling
to maintain a dispassionate professional attitude
as he did so. It was impossible to be completely
free of emotion. He was pink-faced when he pulled
the last of her undergarments from beneath the sheet with which he'd
draped her.
He folded the sheet down, laying it so the turned
edge covered her to just above her pubis. He was
struck by the fragile whiteness of her body. A
deep sense of love swept through
him,
followed by an overwhelming fear of losing her though
chance or, worse, lack of skill-
No. He wouldn't let that happen. He
would not.
If he wanted to be with Jo for the rest of his life,
his mind had to function clearly, and without error. His
hand had to be steady. He concentrated on achieving that
steadiness as he temporarily covered die wound with a
layer of gauze soaked with carbolic, then added a
second layer, and a third.
Jo's sputtering cough brought Will's head up
sharply. Drew whispered urgent instructions
to Mrs. Grimaldi. She grasped Jo's forearms
while he took hold of her shoulders as best he
could. Will got ready to step in, should the ether
produce the violent resistance that it sometimes did.
But Jo only coughed once more, lightly; she was
resisting less than the average, uninjured
patient. In this case her state of shock had been
of benefit.
When Drew told Mrs. Grimaldi that she could
let go, Will went back to work. He hurriedly
dipped surgical instruments, including a
Nelaton probe, in a tray of antiseptic
solution. One by one he laid the instruments within
easy reach on a small, towel-draped table.
Next he soaked a number of elephant-ear
sponges that would be used to remove blood and
secretions from the wound and the peritoneal cavity. Just a
couple of days before, Drew had spoken of the new
gauze sponges being adopted in many hospitals; as
yet no one at the little clinic had had time to cut and
sew any of them, so it was necessary to stick with the marine
sponges that had been in wide use for years.
Drew was at the head of the operating table, Mrs.
Grimaldi next to him at Jo's right shoulder. Will
could feel his friend's eyes on him as he scrutinized
the wound-a small, relatively bloodless hole
two and three quarter inches to the right of the
umbilicus, and half an inch below.
He drew another deep breath. Reached out to dip
both hands through the carbolic solution one last time.
Then, with the utmost care, he inserted his right index
finger into the wound.
Blood oozed. "Not large enough," he
muttered, and quickly expanded the wound with scissors.
The added quarter of an inch afforded
Mm
the room he needed. But he couldn't locate the
bullet.
Next he tried Nelaton's probe, an
instrument capped with unglazed porcelain. When the
probe came in contact with a bullet, the bullet
would mark the porcelain with a v metallic streak.
This time there was no mark. Grim, Will withdrew the
probe and looked at his friend.
"I can't find it. And the peritoneum's torn. The
bullet's 1gone into the abdominal cavity."
It was what they'd feared-the possibility of
visceral Udamage. Drew quirked the corners
of his mouth, as if the
thought of the next step was almost too painful. But he
recovered quickly, giving a little nod:
r8Go ahead and open her, then. The quicker the
better."
Once more Will studied the wound. "The direction of the
entry is anterior to posterior and the angle seems
to tend toward the center-a median incision would be
indicated. Do the texts go along with that?" *
Drew glanced down at the books open
on the floor be732
tween the head of the table and the place where Will stood with
his back to the lamps. Drew kicked one of the texts
and said with that nasal tone:
"You don't need the books. You know what to do.
Get busy and do it, for God's sake."
n
Will reached for the scalpel. Adjusted it for proper
fit in his hand. Stepped a half pace to the left in
the hope of obtaining better light. As best he
could, he obliterated Jo's identity from his mind.
Then he touched the scalpel to the skin at the chosen
site.
He applied downward pressure. Watched the
indentation appear in her skin, then a thin redness as he
started the section.
He lengthened the incision to an inch.
Two inches.
Three.
He heard whispering; Drew giving instructions.
Mrs. Grimaldi stepped to Will's side:
"Stop a moment. I'll wipe your face."
Gratefully, he held the scalpel steady while
she reached around with a towel to pat his forehead and
eyebrows dry. He blinked to express
his thanks, somehow incapable of uttering so much as an
extraneous word now. Every bit of his concentration was
fixed on what had become his universe comthe
operative field, and the incision which he now completed
to its initial length of six inches.
He'd made his incision directly in the midline
through the linea alba, without disturbing the muscles on
either side. Fortunately, as he'd hoped, there was
minimal bleeding. Mrs. Grimaldi responded
speedily when he summoned her and deftly sopped
up the blood with one of the marine sponges.
He reached for the forceps. Transferred them to his
left hand and carefully picked up a little fold of the
peritoneum, into which he cut with the scalpel. The
incision was small. He left it that way as he
caught each side of the wound with a hemostat, then
temporarily closed the belly while he stepped
away from the table and again ran his
hands through the antiseptic solution. Several trays
of it had been set up on the desk beforehand.
With scissors, Will enlarged the peritoneal incision
until he was sure he could introduce his disinfected
right hand. Then, softly:
"Drew, can you manage the anesthesia from now on?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Grimaldi, give him the inhaler. Then
clean your hands and come here beside me."
As soon as she was in position, he said, "I hope
your stomach's strong."
Almost annoyed, she shot back, "Worry about the
poor child, not me."
"Very well. Here's what I'm going to do."
He described the procedure. Despite her
protest a moment ago, she swallowed and blinked
rapidly when he concluded, "Each section must be
supported under some of that toweling stacked on the
stool. And you mustn't let the gut slip or fall
back into the cavity-understand?"
White-faced, she nodded. He closed his teeth on
his lower lip and, after a last glance at Drew's
tense face, slipped his hand into Jo's body.
m
He began with the loops of small intestine which
presented at the incision. When he'd slowly
withdrawn about nine inches of gut, he found the
punctures; five of them.
Where was the bullet? That would have to wait. For the moment,
his work was with the ragged multiple perforation in the gut
wall.
Mrs. Grimaldi's eyes were huge.
Despite obvious fear and her unfamiliarity with the
glistening internal organs of a human body, she was
doing an expert job of cushioning the portions of
intestine brought out through the incision and placed on
towels soaked in Thiersch solution.
There'd been no time to properly empty Jo's
gut, so before attempting to close the wounds, Will had
to gently express the contents upward beyond the last
puncture, then prevent their return by applying a
clamp across the intestine. He expressed some
remaining material downward and
applied a second clamp. He was sweating
heavily again, but he could no longer call on Mrs.
Grimaldi for relief.
He reminded himself that he'd have to cleanse the cavity
of material which had escaped from the small intestine.
He'd nearly forgotten that. With a human life in his
hands-literally in his hands, as it was now-nothing could be
forgotten.
Bungl
-
No.
The past was reaching out to snare him; drag him
to failure. He wouldn't permit it. He meant
to save Jo's life so they'd have time
together-
Drew was staring at him with a strange, questioning
expression. Will's jaw set.
"I'm all right," he said. "How does she look
to you?"
"Her breathing is satisfactory. So is her
heart rate. I'd say so far, so good."
"All right. Just a little while longer, Mrs.
Grimaldi."
"I'm fine, just fine," she said in a hoarse
voice, her eyes fixed on the strands of exposed
gut. Will turned the intestine so the first section to be
repaired was directly in front of him. The first
puncture began to ooze a little more material that
hadn't been expressed away. Quickly he
positioned a sponge so the material wouldn't drain
back into the cavity.
His right leg started to ache and throb. From tension, he
was sure. It was worrisome. A severe spasm could
throw his hand awry at a critical moment. He
bent the leg slightly, alleviating the strain, and
gently picked up the torn gut to decide how best
to suture it.
The first and second punctures had to be treated as
one, he decided. They were quite close together
because the bullet had passed through both gut walls
while they were folded against one another. Visually,
he measured the distance between the two punctures.
Only a fraction of an inch of tissue separated
them when the gut was extended.
He cut out the tissue between the punctures, thus
forming a single elliptical opening more easily
sutured. Carefully he trimmed away the opening's
ragged edge, leaving a new and smooth one.
Next he took a narrow section of each of the two
long edges and tucked them inward, so that the gut's
outer sheathing on one side of the opening touched similar
sheathing on the other. Drew passed him a curved
needle with a

I
long, twisted strand of carbolated black silk
attached. Mrs. Grimaldi had prepared the
needles after Drew had chosen them from the collection
in the office, to be sure they weren't too sharp.
He intended to use the Lembert suture, standard in
intestinal procedures. He'd seen it
demonstrated in the operating theater caret but had
only tried it on inert laboratory material,
never on a living patient. When
correctly placed, the suture passed through the two
outer layers of intestinal tissue comthe very thin,
membranous serosa, and the muscularis-to the next
layer, the submucosa, which carried the blood
vessels. The Lembert suture was an inverting
stitch, pulling all outside tissue to the inside
without penetrating the mucosa, the intestine's inmost
layer. If penetration accidentally occurred, the
contents of the intestine could touch the suture, perhaps
cause infection, and even disrupt the entire suture
line.
Drew was clearly nervous over the procedure Will was
about to attempt:
"You mustn't go too deep-but if you don't go deep
enough, the sutures will tear out."
"I'm worried about hitting the blood vessels in
the submucosa."
"Go under them. Miss them. You're a doctor-you're
supposed to be able to do that."
Slowly, Will pushed the needle into the tucked-together
edges of the opening, kept pushing it with no
difficulty, then felt a slightly increased
resistance which told him he was into the third layer of
tissue. He turned the needle to point it outward
again. Following Drew's instructions
proved a hellishly difficult and time-consuming
process. But once the sutures were set, they were
firm, and he was positive they'd hold.
Three other punctures, one hardly more than a
nick, had to be closed before he could consider that
phase of the work complete. Finally he stepped away
from the table, his right leg hurting so fiercely he
wished he could anesthetize it.
Drew watched him in silence. An hour had
passed, or a little more. At least another hour
remained-even assuming he could locate the spent
bullet.
Mrs. Grimaldi looked exhausted, her face so
pale, her mustache stood out with great prominence.
She stared at
Will, then at the strands of intestine draped over the
blood- smeared towels like so much sausage.
To buoy her, Will said:
"You've done wonderfully, Mrs. Grimaldi.
Better than many professional assistants,."
Her voice was strained. "Don't talk. Just get
done with it."
Once more he introduced his hand, probing through the
viscera with great care while trying to remember the
Gray's memorized: so laboriously as
part of his first-class studies. Suddenly he touched
something foreign and hard against the posterior mesentery
near the lumbo-sacral area.
He lost it just as suddenly. But now he knew the
bullet was free. It hadn't struck major
blood vessels, the aorta nor the iliacs, and it
hadn't lodged in the bones of the spine. If he could
just find it again-to 
His mouth opened in a kind of ghastly parody of a
smile. Barely breathing, he shifted his hand
downward, searching.
Stiff with tension, his right leg began to shake. The
trembling became a violent spasm. God, not
nowt
The rod loomed in his mind, whipping toward his
shoulders -
Bungler.
BUNGLER.
Drew stared, fear on his face; Will had a
remote, lost look in his eyes.
Drew started to move toward his friend, as if prepared
to take over using only his left hand. Will clenched his
teeth, struggling with the inner enemy:
No.
Not this time.
NOT EVER AGAIN.
"Will-?" Drew asked in an anxious voice,
moving to his side.
Will thumped his right heel on the floor, hard. He
did it again. A moment later the peculiar glint
faded from his eyes. They seemed to refocus on his
surroundings. His reddened hand came slowly back up
into sight. In his palm lay a mashed bit of lead.
With a sudden sag of his shoulders he said, "That's all
of it." He flung the bullet behind him. It struck
the floor. He closed his eyes and smiled a
brief, tired smile.
iv
Drew wiped the back of his bandaged hand across his I
upper lip, his relief evident.
"Congratulations."
"Not time for that yet," Will countered. "We're a long
way from finished."
But he knew they'd make it.
He
would make it and, more important, so would Jo.
Sometime during those last moments of intense concentration,
as he'd located and withdrawn the spent lead, he had
found comfort in a sudden image, and a very faint sound within
the confines of his mind.
A single sharp crack: a rod of punishment
breaking.
No,
being
broken. By his own hand.
Forever.
An hour and fifty-eight minutes after he'd first
probed the wound, Will finished the final suture and
stepped back.
He'd carefully cleansed the abdominal cavity with
sponges attached to long holders, then repaired the
incisions one by one. Now the girl on the table was
changed again; she was no longer a patient he was
required to think about in a narrow professional way,
but a woman with a name, a unique appearance, and a
set of-traits that had become dear to him.
He put his freshly scrubbed left hand against
Jo's cool cheek. Despite his good intentions, his
control broke. He burst out laughing.
Drew and Mrs. Grimaldi were thunderstruck. He
couldn't stop. He laughed so hard, tears streaked his
cheeks. He laughed because the strain of the operation was behind
him; and because he was happy; and because he'd
1right-brace won a victory.
When the laughter diminished, he thought about
that victory. And about his mother.
still
don't know why you thought so little of me. Maybe you
couldn't help it, I don't know. I only know that
to save her, I had to prove you were wrong.
"Will?"
He was leaning against the wall near the window where the
curtains had been torn down. He wiped his
cheeks with his palms as Drew spoke again:
"You did a splendid job. Just splendid."
He shrugged, as if to minimize the compliment. He
looked past Drew to the girl sleeping peacefully
beneath fresh sheets, Mrs. Grimaldi sat beside
her, keeping watch.
Then he took note of the admiration and affection on
his friend's face, and he knew he needn't be
afraid to believe Drew's compliment.
To realize that-to grant that to himself-opened him to a
new emotion he hadn't experienced for years.
Pride. He had done the job he had been trained
to do. He had done . it well.
Most important, he'd saved the lif e of the one
person he loved above all others.
I'm sorry, Carter,
he thought as he gazed at Jo's calm,
lovely face.
The promise you asked me to give you was the wrong
promise, for the wrong purpose. As long as 1 have
work that matters, and a woman I love, I don't
need anything else. 1 certainly don't need a
mansion in Newport or a ball invitation from some
arrogant old woman.. I don't have to show
anything, prove anything, to anyone except myself.
It's taken me all this time to learn that.
He didn't know whether he could ever explain his
change of heart to his stepbrother. He'd
certainly have to try. He owed Carter that much, even
if the result was a painful confrontation. Of course
it might be years before he saw Carter again; his
stepbrother might never come home from San
Francisco now that he'd found some success there.
Well, that confrontation could wait; The confrontation with
Laura could not.
i
s'CHAPTER XV
Laura's
Confession
ON SUNDAY, WHILE BELLS rang the call
to church, Tomaso Grimaldi brought a wagon to the
mouth of the passage leading to Bayard
Court. Mrs. Grimaldi had padded the back of the
wagon with clean blankets. Drew and Will carried
Jo out to the street and lifted her into the wagon with
great care.
Will took over the reins. Drew sat beside him.
Tomaso
rode in back with the half-conscious girl. The
wagon com bar
pleted a turn in the street and headed east along
Bayard.
Will and Drew had stayed awake all night watching
Jo.
One or the other of them had administered an opiate
when
bar she needed it, and both of them had spent a lot of
time
answering questions from several police inspectors.
The two young men had also discussed the question of
Jo's care. They'd decided the best place for her
was Nevr sky's tenement. Some member of the
Nevsky family was I usually on the premises
and could see to her needs. She
would also have a room to herself, as opposed to a bed in a
ward at a public hospital. The constant
presence of a doc1 tor wasn't necessary;
she'd come through the operation splendidly, and all she
needed now was rest.
"Out of the way, out of the way!" Nevsky shouted as the
wagon drove up. He had cleared a section of
curb in front
of his building. He elbowed a peddler with many pairs
of suspenders draped over his shoulder, and motioned the
wagon to the curb. Soon Jo was settled
upstairs.
Will packed his valise. When he was done, he
returned to her room. He pulled a small
wooden box up next to her cot and sat down.
He gazed at her silently for a minute or so.
Her red-gold hair was neatly tied behind her head;
Nevsky's wife had
gotten her into a nightgown and used a comb and brush
on her hair while Drew held her up, loudly
disapproving of the whole business. Jo's eyes were
closed now, and she was still abnormally pale. But Will
didn't think he had ever seen a woman half so
beautiful.
Presently he took her right hand in his. "Jo?
Can you hear me at all?"
Her eyelids moved slightly. Her tongue
brushed across her lower lip. She almost
smiled. She heard him.
"I have to leave for a few days." The words brought a
tightness to his face. "But I'll be back."
She murmured something; a small, pleased sound.
Drew had walked in a moment earlier. He
reacted to what he'd just heard:
"Great day in the morning! That's wonderful news."
Will chuckled as he stood up. "Don't sound so
surprised. Do you think I saved your sister
solely for humanitarian reasons? I wanted
to keep her around so we could see each other. Maybe
even discuss plans for the future-was
Drew's smile faded a little. "Maybe? You mean
you're not sure?"
"I am. I don't know about Jo."
"I don't know why you say that. She's had her cap
set for you ever since that night we dined at the oyster
house."
"Then she and I will have a lot to talk about. As soon
as I get my diploma-was He didn't
hesitate; he knew what he wanted, and where he
belonged. "comI'd like to take Dr. Clem's
place, if you'll have me."
"If?"
With a roar of delight, Drew clapped his
friend into a clumsy embrace and waltzed him into the
corridor, where Nevsky was fuming over a broken
sewing machine belt. "Nevsky, meet my new
partner-Doctor Kent."
Nevsky wasn't impressed; he waved the belt.
"Can he repair this? Of course he can't. What
good is he?"
Doctor Kent.
It had a very good sound.
As the two young men walked down to tfee street, Will
thought of Drew's partner. Vlandingham's body had
been removed to a local undertaker's. "Is there
going to be a service for Dr. Clem?" he asked.
Drew shrugged. "I suppose so. I doubt
we'll be invited."
"Why not?"
"Oh, just a feeling. J-ast night I sent a
boy uptown to
find Dr. Clem's brother Cyrus. The undertaker
said he showed up with an expensive hearse and took
the body away as fast as he could. T don't
suppose he'll be anxious to see any of Dr.
Clem's downtown acquaintances at the funeral."
Will shook his head. Once, he'd admired the younger
Vlandingham. And he'd come close to being the
same sort of doctor. Drew and Jo had saved
him from it. Laura too had played a role, though
an unintentional one. In a way, he owed her
thanks for that. But he knew he'd never utter them.
When he saw her again-tomorrow, if he were lucky-he'd
have all he could do just to keep his temper.
ii
They emerged from the tenement. The weather had changed
dramatically during the night. The sky was bright
blue and cloudless. A refreshing breeze carried a
cool foretaste of autumn.
. The two young men discovered Mrs. Grimaldi
waiting on the stoop. She was dressed in her
Sunday finery. She said she'd prayed for Jo in
church, and she wanted to know whether those prayers and
all the others said during the long night had been
answered. Gravely, Drew told her they had.
The three walked to Mulberry Street, whose curbs
and sidewalks were beginning to overflow with the usual
Sunday crowds. Suddenly Will spied some loungers
on a stoop just ahead. He recognized one-Rocco
Amato, the man who had joined Corso in the
attempt to rob him.
Will's hand tightened on the handle of his valise. He
anticipated trouble. And indeed, Amato
stared fixedly at the trio as they approached.
Mrs. Grimaldi glared right back.
Amato smiled nervously, then raised Ms hand
to his forehead and pulled it away in a kind of
salute. To Will he called, "Eh-
Dottor Pistol."
Will frowned; said to Mrs. Grimaldi, "What the
devil does that mean?"
"It's a nickname. Doctor Pistol. Ever since
you dispatched Corso, I've been hearing it all
over the neighborhood." She beamed at him.
"It's a compliment."
"A compliment for killing a man?"
"Life down here is not so refined as it is where you
come from," sheeatold him cheerfully as they walked on.
The loafers went back to talking and joking. "People in
the Bend didn't like 'Sep Corso. Even his own
relatives feared and detested him. You have earned
widespread respect whether you want it or not."
Will was about to say something when Drew exclaimed,
"Police!" They watched a horse-drawn wagon
clatter around the corner, race past them and stop in
front of an establishment whose gaudy signboard
said
Ristorante Na- poli.
A plain clothes detective opened barred doors
at the back of the wagon and jumped out. Three
uniformed men with locust sticks and handcuffs leaped out
after him. The men ran inside the restaurant. The
policeman driving the wagon watched the entrance
warily.
A crowd gathered, murmuring questions. Sounds of
commotion issued from the cafe: a table overturning;
crockery breaking. A familiar voice cursed in
fluent Italian.
The man was shouted down by others who spoke English;
the police, presumably. People gasped and pointed as
the policemen emerged into the sunlight with an elderly
man in tow.
Don Andreas Belsario's face was dark red. He
held his handcuffed wrists close to his vest, as if
hoping to hide the most evident sign of his
downfall. The moment people recognized him, they
stopped talking. The fear the padrone generated was
all too evident.
Don Andreas saw Mrs. Grimaldi and her
companions at the back of the crowd. He stopped and
addressed Will and Drew:
"Ah-what a surprise. The young gentlemen
responsible for my predicament. Did you
come here to enjoy my humiliation?"
One of the policemen pushed him. "Shut up and move
along. The magistrate's waiting."
Don Andreas wrenched away. His defiance was carried
off with such arrogance, the officers were more amused than
angered.
The padrone's white hair blew fitfully in the
cool breeze. Again he fixed his eyes on
Drew, then on W. The venom in that gaze made
Will catch his breath. When the padrone spoke, his
voice was pitched low. But it carried clearly through the
hushed crowd:
"These
ufficiales
have informed me that someone named McCauley-was He
mispronounced the name; intentionally, Will suspected.
"coma person of whom I have never heard- is accusing
me of misdemeanors I have not committed. As soon
as I have cleared up the misunderstanding-was
"In about twenty years," said the plain clothes
detective standing behind him.
"comy will see me again. This is my district."
He meant it as a warning. His eyes were on Drew.
But it was Will who replied:
"It's ours, too. When you get back,
we'll be here."
Mrs. Grimaldi laughed. It broke the tension.
People began talking softly. A few even smiled and
pointed at the prisoner. Faces gradually lost
their look of strain, as if there was a realization that the
padrone was, perhaps, not omnipotent after all.
Don Andreas tried to glare the onlookers to silence
but it was too late. The policemen lost patience;
jabbed him with their sticks. The detective sprang
forward and jerked the wagon doors open.
When the padrone saw the bars on the doors, he
began to curse loudly again. A policeman yanked
his arm. He resisted. The officer pulled harder.
In a moment Don Andreas was howling, and struggling so
violently he had to be subdued by blows of the locust
sticks.
He was half carried, half thrown into the wagon.
Finally, with the detective standing on the rear step and
clinging to a hand rail, the wagon rattled away.
For a few more seconds, the prisoner's cursing and
rav. ing could be heard in the unnatural silence.
Then the wagon turned a corner and Mulberry
Street grew noisy again.

Will traveled all the way to Newport
even though he wondered if Laura would refuse
to see him. She didn't. But she sent word that they
would have to speak in the formal garden-out of earshot of the
servants.
She arrived twenty-five minutes after he was sent
to the garden to wait. Her curly hair, so
reminiscent of her brother's, straggled over the
collar of her dress and down the
back. She had a haggard air, as if from
sleeplessness or worry.
Unsmiling, she remained some distance from the marble bench
where Will had been sitting. Out on the Atlantic, a
long white yacht steamed south under a
Wedgewood-blue sky crowded with small, fluffy
clouds. The garden lay in sunlight one moment,
shadow the next.
"I didn't expect you to come here again," she said.
"Marcus sent a telegraph message from the city.
He said you spoke to Father, but not about us. He said you
asked questions about the family business. Matters that
are really none of your affair."
"I did see your father," Will said, nodding. "But we
didn't talk much about real estate. He was more
interested in discussing an item he paid to keep out of
Town Topics"
"Oh, dear God." Laura covered her mouth with
both hands. She looked vulnerable all at once;
Will was almost sorry for her. But sympathy vanished
when he recalled how she'd tricked him.
"This isn't pleasant for me, Laura. But it's
necessary. I've tried to establish the sequence of things.
I figure it must have gone like this. Some days before
we-before the morning we went to the shore-someone
supplying items to Colonel Mann overheard you
say you feared you were carrying a child."
She pivoted away, a reaction he took to mean that
his guess was correct.
"On the morning I spoke of, you still thought you were
pregnant. So a quick wedding-even an
elopement-was an idea that had some attraction for
you. And you also went out of your way to remind me that because
of being- with you, I was obliged to marry you. Then, the very
next day, you completely reversed everything you'd said
the day before. I wondered why, and you gave me the
answer, only I wasn't bright enough to see it just then.
You told me you were cross because of a-feminine
complaint. In other words, sometime during the night you'd
discovered you weren't pregnant after all. You were still
willing to marry me-your father explained the reason for
that-but there was no longer any need for haste.
No longer any need to cover a mistake-though of
course, once we were married, I'd always be
available to legitimize any others you might
make."
Despite his best intentions, he was beginning to speak
angrily. She heard that. Fear crept into her
eyes. He took a step in her direction.
"That's all I was good for, wasn't it?
Legitimizing any bastards you might conceive
by accident?" His hands clenched at his sides. "What
a damn fool I was. I was so dazzled by you,
by-was He lifted a hand toward the house, "comth-was
He couldn't go on.
She made a steeple of the tips of her fingers;
concealed- her mouth with it. From behind her hands, she
murmured, "God, you sound so bitter."
"Do you blame me? You told me you cared for me.
I believed you. I trusted you. I thought you'd never
made love to anyone else-or that if you had, it
hadn't happened more than once or twice, and only
then because your emotions carried you away. But that isn't
the way it was at all."
Again he moved toward her. She backed away, but not
quickly enough. He seized her arm:
"When you thought we should get married right
away, who had you been with, Laura? If there'd
been a baby, who would have been its real father?"
"Damn you, let go! You have no right-was
"After the way you gulled me, I have every right.*

"I said let-was
He shook her; hard:
"Who, Laura?"
She looked closely at his threatening face. Said:
"One-one of the shackers."
Even though he expected that, it shocked him. He
lost color.
"Which one? Muldoon?"
His anger had been drained away by sorrow and disgust;
she sensed a chance to strike back. She tore free
of his hand. Pushed wind-blown hair from her eyes and
smiled sweetly.
"I really can't tell you, my dear. It could have been
any one of six or seven."
Reunion
SILENCE.
From the loggia on the east side of the mansion, he
heard the rhythmic click of garden shears. He
wanted to hit her but pity held him back. He
groped for the straw hat he'd dropped on
the bench when he arrived.
"I guess that says it all. Goodbye, Laura."
Her anger faded as quickly as his. With an almost
imploring note in her voice, she asked, "Where
are you going? Back to Boston?"
"Yes, then back to New York."
He jammed the hat on his head; the movement had a
swift, threatening quality. She retreated a
couple of steps. Something had changed her mood and
left her uncertain, even sad.
She clasped her hands at her waist; held them
tightly together as she whispered, "What will you be doing
in New York?"
"I intend to practice there. But not in the section of
town we talked about. Not on Fifth Avenue.
Downtown-in an area called the Bend. It's a
slum. Full of Italians and Irish. I know you
aren't interested in the world at large, but you must be
familiar with this particular section. The Pen- ads
own a lot of property in the area. Tenements.
Filthy buildings, but very productive as
investments. Surely you've heard the Bend discussed
at the dinner table. It provides some of the income that
enables you to enjoy all this splendor-was
Her response was a blank stare.
He'd been wrong; she didn't know a damn thing
about the nature of the family's real estate
holdings. If she'd ever heard the Bend mentioned,
she'd probably paid no attention.

His
L
"In any case," he went on, "as soon as I
finish my studies, I'm going to practice in the
Bend. You might pass this along to your brother. When
I'm permanently settled, I'll do everything in
my power to help the authorities punish the people who
run tenements. I don't mean just the rental
agents. I mean the owners."
"My, you're getting very sanctimonious-was
"Call it whatever you like."
"You're turning into a radical like that father of yours."
He looked at her for several moments before he said:
"If that's true, I'm pleased."
"You're
disgustingl
You and that whole family of yours. You're
canaille, that's all you are.
Canaillel"
"By your standards, and McAllister's, I
suppose we are. I don't mind a bit."
He'd stayed too long. He had a bad taste in
his mouth. He turned and started walking. He was
halfway across the garden when he heard her coming,
screaming at him:
"You're an idiot, Will Kent. You're not going
to use your training to help your own kind, you're going
to squander your life among a lot of foreigners-was
She was growing hysterical; her shrill voice was
cracking. "coma-lot of- dirty foreigners,
they-aren't-even-Americans-was
He faced her. "Yes they are. Better ones than
you."
He said it quietly, without rancor. She stopped
three feet from him, hair blowing wildly around her
head, fists balled at her sides, gray eyes
filled with tears of fury.
She stared at him; saw the determination on his face.
All at once she began to weep like a girl much
younger:
"Oh, Will-don't walk out on me. No one
else-who's decent-will ever marry me
if
comy walk out-"
Once more he said, "Goodbye, Laura,"
and quickly left the garden. Moments later he was
striding down Bellevue Avenue. Free.
ii
It "was ten minutes past midnight when Will
climbed the front steps of the Kent house. The wind
gusted along Beacon Street, sharp and cool out of the
northwest. A light still burned behind the curtains in
his father's office. He was
tired but strangely exhilarated as he rang and
waited for someone to answer.
The door opened. Instead of a servant, Eleanor
stood there, clad in nightgown and robe, "Will!"
"Hello, Eleanor." He stepped in. "I
didn't expect you to answer the bell."-
"I was just on my way to the kitchen. I was closest.
Are you all right?" "Fine-just fine."
With a delighted smile, she hugged him. Then she
began, "Everyone thought-by "r
She stopped. He finished for her:
"That I'd gone for good. That was my intention when I
left. I made a mistake. Where are Father and
Julia?"
"Julia's still at the Association office, working on
the next issue of the newspaper. She just
telephoned and asked Papa to send the
carriage in half an hour. He's in the office.
Mr. Calhoun left about twenty minutes ago.
He and Papa have been conferring for hours."
Will covered the distance quickly. Eleanor followed.
He knocked, then pushed the door inward.
A disheveled figure in shirtsleeves,
Gideon looked up from his desk. A cigar jutted
from his mouth. His face had a dark, mottled look,
but Will was too overcome to notice. Gideon's
frown changed to an expression of surprise, then
to delight that was quickly masked by caution: "You're the
last person I expected to see tonight." "I came
home to tell you I made a mistake. One that
nearly became permanent. I'm finished with Laura
Fennel. There's another girl. I'll tell you
about her if you'll forgive all the rotten things I
said to you. Forgive them and let me stay a day or
so-was
Gideon, too, was overcome. He could only
say, "By
God!"
He rose from the desk, flung his cigar into the
fireplace,
and walked toward his son. "I'm the one
to apologize. I tried to say the right
things but I used the wrong words."
He rubbed his good eye with the knuckles of his right hand.
"We'll have time to talk of that. Plenty of time.
Oh, I'm glad you're home again-was
His voice broke on the final words. Father and son
put their arms around one another with unashamed
affection.
f""

"Yes, she's awake," Drew said. "She's been
sitting up most of the day. She began to make a
noticeable improvement when we got your telegram
announcing the date you'd be back."
He opened the door. Jo was in the midst of conversation
with Mrs. Grimaldi, who was seated at the
bedside. The tenement room was steaming; a late
summer heat wave had set in. The bedlam of
Bayard Street drifted up to the open window.
Will found himself overwhelmed with emotion at the sight of the
girl propped against pillows at the head of the cot.
"This is no place for me," Mrs. Grimaldi
said. "No place for you, either,
dottore"
She took hold of Drew's arm, pulled him into the
hall, and shut the door.
Will moved to the box on which Mrs. Grimaldi had
been seated, bringing it closer to the bed. Jo fussed
with her hair:
"I must look frightful." He took her hand. "You
look grand, Jo." "How fine you make that name
sound." "It's because I finally discovered what it
means." He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting the
sweet warmth of her breath. "And how much it means
to me."
Her cheeks turned pink. Bewildered, he drew
back: "What did I do?"
"Nothing. It's just that-all at once I remembered
who took out the bullet. I'm not exactly a
prude. But I'm embarrassed by the fact that I no
longer have any secrets." "You're wrong, Miss
Hastings. There's one." "What?"
"The answer to a question."
x
"What is it?"
"Before I tell you, I want you to know I'll be coming
back to the Bend next summer. I want to take
Dr. Clem's place."
Her eyes shone. "That's what Drew said."
"Did he? Well, then, I think you know the question.
Will you marry me?" Nervous all of a
sudden, he didn't give her time to answer: "If
you're wondering about the girl in Newport, that's
finished."
She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him.
He slipped his arms around her waist and held her
tightly. When she gasped, he knew he'd
squeezed too hard. Red-faced, he muttered an
apology, then said:
"I hope I didn't put too much pressure
on the sutures." He reached for the sheet covering
her. "Better let me have a look."
She slapped his hand lightly. "Drew can take
care of it. It doesn't seem right for a girl to have
her intended poking and peering at her. That should wait
until after the wedding, at least," she finished with a
teasing look. "You mean you will marry me?"
"Oh, Will-don't you know the answer? I decided a
long time ago that you and I would be married. It was just a
matter of making it all work out. Didn't Drew
tell you?" "Were you always sure it would?" "Not
always. But I am now. I'll help you with your work,
and we'll raise fine children named Kent and have a
wonderful life together."
They whispered and kissed and soon fell to discussing the
details of a marriage. Jo's eyes
softened, focusing on some remote but pleasing vista
in the future. "Where shall we go on a wedding trip?"
The question jolted him into remembering his stepbrother.
They had a lot to talk about, and some of it wouldn't be
easy.
"What about San Francisco?"
"Oh, yes! I've always wanted to visit the
West." But a moment later she wondered if it was a
good idea; at the mention of San Francisco,
Will's face had grown troubled. She deliberately
changed the subject:
"Were you in Boston these past few days?" He
nodded, his mind elsewhere. " "And how is your
family?"
She had his attention again. "I'm worried about my
father. He isn't in good health. He refuses
to admit it, though. When I was home, I tried
to ask some very general questions about the way he's been
feeling. He practically bit my head off while
assuring me he was feeling splendid. I don't
believe it, but I don't know what to do. He
won't let me examine him, and my stepmother can't
get him to a doctor. I will say he's been in
somewhat better spirits since we patched up our
differences. But he's still

I
fretting about my sister. So am I. Eleanor's not
as bitter as she was right after Johnstown, and she's
decided to go back to work, but there's still something wrong.
I know her. Even though she's a good actress, I
can recognize the signs-was
He shook his head, and spoke his deepest concern:
*"I sometimes wonder if she'll ever be happy
again."
I
CHAPTER XVH
Someone
Waiting
AFTER THE CURTAIN CAME down, Eleanor
took off her makeup, put on her street
clothes, and returned to the stage to wait another
thirty minutes. Every night at the same time, a
carriage called for her at the actor's entrance on
Sixth Street. The carriage returned her to the
theatrical boarding house where she'd rented rooms
for the season. She could have left with the rest of the company,
of course. For the first couple of weeks, she had. But
certain experiences outside the stage door had
caused her to resort to this later
departure, which by now had become a comfortable ritual.
She didn't mind the wait. In fact she enjoyed
spending a few minutes alone on the stage when it was
empty and lit only by two dim incandescent work
lights.
She liked to pause and touch the stacked flats which
only a little earlier had been standing behind the
footlights in gaudy representation of a railroad
passenger car. The play being presented from the
twenty-fifth to the thirtieth of November was
The Tourists in a Pullman Car.
It was a bit of comedic fluff, but audiences liked
it. Eleanor played a major role, but her mind
was really on the play which the company would open on the
second of December- Sheridan's
The Rivals.
Joe Jefferson was producing as well as starring in
it. The cast included bright and pretty Viola
Allen, whom Eleanor had known at Daly's, and of
course the owner-impresario of Arch Street,
Louisa Drew.
Of Mrs. Drew's many famous stage personations,
Mrs. Malaprop in the Sheridan comedy was perhaps the
greatest. At seventy, Louisa was as energetic and
funny in the part as she'd ever been.
Together, she and Jefferson had made
The Rivals
an institution in the American theater. Whenever the
two of them revived the play, sold out houses were a
certainty. Eleanor was looking forward to playing
Julia Melville in the new production.
Pacing the stage slowly, she gazed past the
footlights to the parquet, with the parquet circle
above it, then the regular balcony and, highest of
all, the family circle. White and gold trim
throughout the theater complemented the bright red plush of its
seats. A magnificent domed ceiling decorated
with floral paintings arched over the whole; in the center
hung a great crystal chandelier, barely visible in
the darkness. The Drews had completely remodeled
the playhouse in the early 1850's, and audiences
liked the result. The seating was comfortable and the sight
lines superb.
Eleanor was very glad she'd chosen to make her
return to work here. Almost without exception, a new
show was mounted every seven days. The demanding production
schedule forced her to concentrate on the external world,
and helped keep her mind off the past.
The return had been hard in many respects, but
she'd known it would be. Most difficult,
now that she was no longer a married woman, was the
presence of men in her life-including those she sought
to avoid by her delayed departure from the theater.
Well, she supposed she couldn't ask for all her
problems to be solved. Life didn't work that way.
On balance, the year in Philadelphia promised
to be a fine one. She loved the companionship of her
fellow actors, and especially that of Louisa
Drew. Yesterday, for example, Eleanor would have
been alone on Thanksgiving Day, had not Louisa
invited her to dinner.
The Drew residence had been noisy and festive.
The oldest of Louisa's four children,
Georgianna-a superb player of comedy, just like her
mother and late father-had been in town for twenty-four
hours. With her was her husband, the handsome and
flamboyant Maurice Barrymore, and their three
charming, extroverted children. Lionel was
eleven or twelve, Ethel ten, and already a beauty.
John, the one who most strongly resembled his handsome
father, was seven or eight.
Georgie and Maurice were currently members of the
stock company of Countess Helena Modjeska.
The Polish- born beauty, a former star of
Warsaw's Imperial Theatre, was
enjoying one of her most successful seasons.
Consequently the Barrymores were too.
That success had been quite apparent all day long.
Maurice had been merry and flirtatious-although he
did drink a little too heavily. As the mince pie
was being passed, he'd tipsily informed Eleanor that
the name with which he'd started life in India was Herbert
Blythe-and since he was already married under the name
Barrymore, would she slip away and become Mrs.
Blythe?
He kissed her hand as he said it, and his own wife
laughed. Blythe or Barrymore, he was
devilishly handsome, Eleanor thought. So handsome that
she certainly would have looked twice at him if
he'd been single, and she had been interested in men.
But of course that part of her life was over. One
failure as a woman was enough. The moment his lips
touched her hand, she froze inside. In the limbo of
her mind, huge and forbidding, was the door. It was the
one phantom she could not banish.

A little of the sorrow about Leo was passing. She could
reflect more objectively upon the past. In the
hours she spent alone at the boarding house, she
occasionally turned from studying her next
role to thoughts of other aspects of her life.
During those hours she had come to a decision. She had
decided that of necessity, her only interest for the
rest of her life would be her career. Such a future
might not be a very satisfying one. But it was sensible in
light of the secret she carried, and the misery it had
brought. She would never love another man, only
to hurt
him
as she had hurt Leo.
That was the safest way. And yet, a part of her-
shamefully disloyal to Leo's memory-occasionally
longed to discover someone else with whose help she
could
open
the door, share her secret, and thereby begin
to overcome its crippling power.
She wasn't totally unresponsive to men. During
Thanksgiving dinner, for example, she'd found herself
quite taken with Maurice Barrymore's handsome face,
flirtatious banter, and occasional warm
glances-until that moment when he'd kissed her hand.
So she knew that her wish was an impossible one.
To pretend otherwise was cruel self-deception -
Her reverie was interrupted by the distant
rattle of a cleaning pail. Through a curtained
doorway in the lowest tier of boxes, she saw the
glow of a cleaning woman's lamp. Had a half
hour passed yet? She didn't think so. But she
could walk to the stage entrance and ask Charlie, the
elderly doorkeeper, what time it-
"Eleanor?"
The voice made her start. It came from behind some
flats stacked at stage right. Hand to her breast, she
turned as the speaker appeared. It was Louisa
Drew.
"Louisa," she said, letting out a breath. "I
didn't hear you coming-was
Mrs. Drew walked into the dim light at center
stage. Smiling, she said, "I hope you were busy
thinking of Mr. Sheridan's dialogue."
Eleanor laughed. "I'm sorry to say I
wasn't. But I promise to study that new business
for Julia's curtain speech before I go to bed tonight.
I marked it all down during rehearsal. Half
an hour in front of a mirror will smooth out any
rough spots."
"Good," Louisa said. "Joe and I have toured in that
play so long, we tend to forget that last year's
staging can always be improved."
Louisa Drew was a small, queenly woman with a
sizable bosom, a prominent nose, and large blue
eyes. When viewed from certain angles, those eyes
showed a decided bulge. Louisa's son, young
John-one of Daly's stars, though Daly disliked
the term-laughingly maintained that without "the Drew
pop-eyes," the family would never have produced so
many performers who were successful at comedy.
Eleanor's employer had been born of theatrical
parents in Britain in 1820. As far as Louisa
knew, her actress mother had first put her on the
stage when she was around
a year old. As a young woman, she'd married the
Irish comedian, John Drew, and together they had
managed the Arch Street Theatre until 1862,
when John died. Immediately, those in the profession had
predicted either a speedy sale or a speedy
failure of the playhouse. Instead, Louisa set
to work to build a strong company, and had turned the
theater into one of the most profitable in America.
By herself, she was far more successful than she'd been
while dividing responsibility with her husband.
Even such formidable theatrical figures as Daly
and the Wallacks acknowledged her to be the country's
foremost producing manager.
Louisa cleared her throat. "I did have one
observation I wanted to make before you left. You were a
few seconds late with your third entrance this
evening." The criticism was delivered in a
straightforward way, without rancor. Mrs. Drew
wanted every aspect of her productions to be
perfect. No one was above criticism; not
Jefferson, and certainly not she herself.
"You're quite right," Eleanor admitted. "My tuning
was off, and it had a strong effect on the whole
scene. We got much less laughter than we
usually do, I'm sorry about the whole thing."
"I know there are extenuating circumstances. The
call- boy said you slipped and almost turned your
ankle just before making the entrance." "I did. But that
isn't an excuse."
Louisa patted her arm. "When I saw Dan
Prince at the Wallack benefit last year, he
told me he'd once predicted a fine future
for you. I told him I agreed with his prediction.
Besides being extremely talented, you're thoroughly
professional."
Eleanor smiled. But hearing the name Dan Prince
tinged her thoughts with sadness. Prince had been the
featured player in the first company with which
she'd toured, the Tom show she and Leo had joined
together. Prince was a superb actor. But because of his
drinking he was no disonger able to get any roles
except walk-ons.
How different everything had been just a little more
than ten years ago! She and Leo had been eager
young
actors, and Prince had still been able to give a
creditable
performance. Now Prince's career was in ruins, and
Leo-
Leo
-
She bowed her head. Again Louisa touched her arm.
"What's wrong, my dear?"
"Oh-the usual. Memories. Leo would have loved
working here this season. We had such a wonderful time
when we were here before. He had such a grand future-was
"Leo was a fine man," Louisa agreed. "And a
generous one. He always said that of the two Goldmans,
you were the one with the first-rank talent."
"Oh, no, Louisa-was
"It's true, my dear. He told me that time and
again. One of the qualities that made Leo such a
thorough professional was a grasp of his
own limitations. He used to watch you rehearsing and
whisper to me-in delight-that you had no limitations
at all. You could play any role. Go as far in this
queer business as you wished. Climb up to the
pineapple of success, as Mrs. Malaprop would
say."
And that's all 1 have left
-
the prospect of reaching the pineapple of success,
she thought. still
wish it was enough.
But it wasn't. In spite of her decision, there was
one role she could never play, and it was the role she
sometimes longed to play most of all. The role of a
woman who felt and responded as other women did-
Softly, Louisa said, "I believe I heard the
hack arrive."
"Did you?" Eleanor shook her head. "I was
woolgathering again. It's getting to be a bad
habit."
"But understandable," the older woman replied in a
sympathetic tone.
The two women walked toward the stage door. When
they'd gone half a dozen steps, Louisa asked:
"You leave at this time every evening, don't
you?"
She answered carefully "I prefer to let the
crowds clear away. I dislike fighting my way
through a lot of stagestruck people. I know they pay my
salary but I'm just not up to being courteous to them when
I'm tired."
They had reached the exit. Louisa was silhouetted
against the shaded incandescent lamp on the
doorkeeper's desk six feet away. Eleanor
couldn't see her face, but her voice was kind:
"I understand. Quite a few of the men in those crowds are
waiting for you-as I think you know. Given your good
looks and the striking impression you create on stage,
that's to be understood. It's one reason I've
ordered Charlie -" A nod toward the elderly man
behind the desk. "com never to admit strangers to your
dressing room. I appre-
date that you arent prepared for attention from gentlemen,
and may not be prepared for months or possibly
years."
still"
never be prepared,
she thought. But all she said was:
"That's very considerate, Louisa. I must get my
wrap. Are you leaving now?"
"No, I have to stay and total the receipts for this
production. I'll be done in an hour. Charlie will
keep me com- f
f
Pany." *8All right. Good night."
"Good night, Eleanor," Louisa Drew
murmured. Only when Eleanor turned away did
the older woman permit herself a sorrowful shake of
her head.
  .
Eleanor walked to her dressing room for her hat,
coat, and gloves, then returned to the stage
entrance. She said goodnight to Charlie and stepped out
into the frosty November darkness.
The same hack driver called for her every night.
She was getting used to his silhouette on the
driver's seat, his generally grumpy mood, and the
ripe smell of his swaybacked mare. The horse
stood motionless now, head down and steam pluming from her
nostrils.
A chilly kind of light fell from the street lamps
along Sixth Street. There was no one waiting near
the stage door. Eleanor had found that men would
seldom linger for more than ten or fifteen minutes
after the rest of the cast had left.
Some of the men who waited for her were wealthy; some were
socially prominent. Many were both. Often one of them
would send his card in, or hand Charlie a bouquet for
delivery to her dressing room. Many young
actresses loved the ritual of stage door
courtship, knowing where it could lead if a girl was
sufficiently careful about the man she chose
to favor. Not a few highly profitable marriages
had been made on the doorsteps of theaters. It was
a fact of life in the profession, but one of which she
wanted no part-
"Mrs. Goldman?"
For the second time tonight, a voice from darkness startled
her. The voice came from her left. Vaguely
alarmed, she wondered about the stranger's identity.
She was billed at Arch Street under her maiden
name.
"I didn't mean to frighten you, Mrs. Goldman."
Now she recognized the voice. She didn't
believe her ears.
The man had been leaning against the wall, hidden
by shadows. He stepped forward into the light. He was
bundled in a fur-collared overcoat; and hatless,
so she was able to confirm her identification. She saw
the curly hair; the thick, dark brows;
the irregular teeth revealed by that smile she'd found
so infectious-
"Oh my God," she said in wonderment and dismay.
"It is you, Mr. Martin."
CHAPTER XVIII
The Secret
"FORGIVE ME FOR STARTLING you-was Rafe
Martin began. Still astonished, she interrupted:
"Where did you come from?"
"Altoona. I've been working there ever since I
got out of the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"That's right. After we saw each other last, I went
back to work searching for flood survivors. It was
my bad luck to go into one house while a looter was
at work. I started to collar him and he took a shot
at me. Luckily the wound wasn't a fatal one.
But it took me a good ten weeks to get back on
my feet completely."
Her heart was beating so fast, it actually seemed
to hurt. A voice within her cried,
He knows what happened to you!
Her shame grew worse by the moment. She had to say
something. She blurted the first thought that came to mind:
"I thought you were dead-was
He grinned. "Glad I'm not. Otherwise I'd
have missed this chance to see you. Yesterday I happened
to pick up a Philadelphia paper. I noticed
the advertisement for the
play, saw your name in the cast and caught a train.
I was up in the family circle tonight. Out here, I
outlasted three much more prosperous-looking gentlemen.
I'm sure they thought I was waiting for someone else.
I'm not dressed well enough to present myself to the
prettiest woman in the company."
Conflicting emotions raged through Eleanor then. She
was immensely happy to see Martin, but in conflict
with her pleasure was a frantic compulsion to break
away; flee from him, and from the memory of what she'd
confessed in that moment of hysteria.
She called on her acting ability and put a chill
into her voice:
"I'm glad to know you're alive and well. And
I'm very flattered that you came all the way from
Altoona to watch the play."
"Not the play, Mrs. Goldman. Y."
"Yes. Well-I must go. I'm late for an
engagement."
"Can't you break it? I'd like to buy you supper."
"No, that isn't possible."
"You're dining with someone else?"
"No, but-was
Her shame destroyed the impression of cool
reserve she wanted to create. Unexpectedly on
the verge of tears, she found her voice breaking:
"Please leave me alone, Mr. Martin.**
She hurried toward the hack. He came after her and
caught her arm. The hack driver leaned down to ask
if she needed help. She shook her head, confused,
frightened, all at once unable to control her
emotions.
She moved a few paces down the sidewalk so the
driver couldn't eavesdrop. Casting a long shadow,
Martin followed.
"I don't mean to intrude on your mourning," he
said. "But you made a great impression on me in
Johnstown. A great impression-was
She understood what he was saying behind the screen of
polite language. Her cheeks grew warm again.
He went on:
"If you can't see me this evening, tell me how
soon you can and I'll come back. When I want
something, I'm a very persistent fellow."
"Mr. Martin, you must understand my situation. I'm a
widow-was
"I respect that. I'm only saying that after a
suitable time, I'd like to call on-was "It's
impossible?"'
"Why?"
"I-I can't tell you. And you mustn't ask."
"If it's because you're embarrassed about what you
admitted to me-quite by accident, I think-you should know it
makes absolutely no difference-no, please.
Let me finish. Flat on my back after they
yanked that bullet out of. me, I had a lot of time
to think. I kept recalling what you 1 said that
night, and I decided that it must be a cross you'd
carried all your life. For one moment in
Johnstown, the cross was too heavy. Now if you
don't like me of want any part of me, now or ever,
so be it. But if the reason you refuse to see me is
that cross, I'm telling you it makes no
difference."
His craggy face lit with that brilliant smile.
"You'll have to forgive me for being so forward, Mrs.
Goldman. I probably ought to be horsewhipped
for speaking so soon after your husband's death. But I
fell in love with you the minute I saw you in
Johnstown. The first time we spoke, 13aret
knew you were the only woman I wanted.
The only one I ever would want. I have very little
money, poor prospects comn much to offer except
my feeling for you and a conviction that I don't dare
waste time. Not all that much of it is given to us in this
life. Your poor husband is proof of that."
He drew a breath. "Now may I take you
to supper?"
Fear surged within her. She wanted to believe his
assurances. She couldn't:
"No, Mr. Martin, I don't think-was
m
"It doesn't
matter,"
he broke in gently. "What happened
is long in the past. But if it's still a burden, think
of this.
Two can carry a cross more easily than one,"
"This-this is absolutely insane-was
In a querulous voice, the hack driver called,
"Getting kind of late, ma'am. I've got a
long drive to my place in Chester."
Martin leaned down to her; whispered, "Just supper.
From there on we'll trust to luck."
She formed the word
no.
But she couldn't utter it. Five seconds went
by. Five more-
"Mrs. Goldman?"
Then, incredibly, something loosened within her;
loosened, broke free, and was swept away. She
would always feel the shame. Yet its power suddenly
seemed less potent, simply because the secret was
no longer hers alone.
He didn't scorn her. He wanted her
exactly as she was-
She was sure her face was red. She certainly
felt foolish, surrendering to hope so quickly and
eagerly. But she'd lived too long with grief. It
was time that a little happiness comor at least a little
hope-came her way-
"All right, Mr. Martin."
"You mean we'll go?"
"Yes. The truth is, I don't have an
engagement, and I'm famished. I never eat dinner
before a performance."
Grinning, Martin sprang to the hack door. He
handed it open and stood aside:
"After you."
She bent to enter the hack, then paused to look at
him. "Did you really expect I'd say
yes to this kind of wild proposal?"
"Well, I had hopes. I told you I'm
persistent. And while I'm not much for the formal ways
of churches, I don't believe our lives are
ruled purely by chance. After I survived that
bullet in Johnstown, I figured I must have
been spared for a reason. Let's trust to luck,
Mrs. Goldman. Maybe we'll find out the
nature of that reason."
She laughed.
"You are a very forward man."
"That too. Want to get inside so the poor fellow
on top can find us a restaurant and get on home
to Chester?"
u
At the end of the Arch Street season, one week before
Will's wedding in Hartford, Eleanor Kent
Goldman and Cornelius Raphael Martin were
married in a small family ceremony in the house
on Beacon Street.
In private, Gideon told his daughter he was
pleased with the match. He found Martin a smart,
strong-minded fellow, with the kind of independence on which
Gideon prided himself and admired in others. He
wasn't the least put off by the fact that his
daughter had fallen in love with a telegrapher:
"He's got more character and substance than hundreds with
fancier occupations."
"I agree," she beamed, kissing her father's cheek.
His expression grew sober:
"I'm also happy for another reason, Eleanor.
You seem to be putting the past behind backslash you
successfully."
He took her slight shrug and her small, quick
smile as an assent. What she was thinking was far
less positive.
Eleanor loved Rafe. She wanted to marry him.
But she was terrified of failing again. How was it
possible for a human being to be attracted and
repelled by something at the same time?
But the attraction was stronger, and so they said their vows,
and kissed, and outwardly no one suspected a
thing-except perhaps the new bridegroom.
Eleanor's anxiety persisted up to the very moment he
placed the plain ring on her left hand. And the instant
he did, anxiety became fear.
in
Like many American newlyweds, they wanted to see the
Niagara Falls, which Eleanor had never visited
even though she had played Buffalo
several times. They didn't plan to reach their
destination the first night, however. One of Gideon's
carriages spirited them southward out of Boston, to a
small country inn where they would spend the night. In
the morning, the carriage would call for them and deliver
them to a suburban rail station where they could catch a
train for Albany.
The inn was small, quiet, and comfortable. There were
only six rooms on the second floor. The
largest had been reserved for the honeymooning couple.
Rafe and Eleanor found a splendid old
canopied bed, a fieldstone hearth with apple wood
logs burning-the spring evening was cool- and a repast
of champagne, caviar, cold salmon with capers,
and other delicacies spread on big silver
trays; an amenity arranged by the Kent family,
they were sure. The innkeeper, cordial enough,
didn't seem the sort to appreciate or
regularly serve caviar.
The day, for all its joy, had been long and tiring.
Eleanor's mental state wasn't helped by her
exhaustion. She tried
to nibble a bit of dry toast with caviar and a dusting of
golden egg yolk spooned over it, but she couldn't
get it down. Rafe popped the cork of
one of the three champagne bottles crowded into a
bucket full of ice; the cork went ricocheting
around the walls and the beamed ceiling like an oversized
bullet. She ducked as it missed her and landed at
his feet. With the foaming bottle wrapped in a white
towel, he stood studying her. His grin faded.
"Not feeling like any of this, are you?"
"Rafe-was
"Not f eeling like anything but rest."
He put the bottle back in the bucket and bent
to kiss her forehead. "That's perfectly all right.
Everything in its own tune. We'll just curl up and
sleep. I'm damn near worn out myself."
His kindness touched her; prodded her to do what she
knew she must, though she feared it.
"No," she said softly, opening her lips a little as
she kissed him. "Well have a proper honeymoon.
Just give me a few minutes."
"Eleanor, believe me--you needn't flog yourself.
I know how hard this is for you." They had several times
discussed the problems in her relationship with Leo.
Yet all that candor and all his reassurances did
nothing to slow her heart beat or banish the dry,
sour feel of her mouth. She hated herself; hated
what she was. She hated the fact that he
knew-and was incapable of believing his assurance that it
didn't matter. Why had she consented to marry him?
Why!
Panicked, she fled to the small dressing room.
There, alone behind the closed door, she tried
to compose herself. She unpinned her hair and changed from
her traveling outfit to the fine Chantilly bed gown
and matching robe Julia had given her. She
wanted to be a good wife, but she'd wanted that with
Leo, too, and she'd failed. Brushing her hair
over and over, she told herself she would fail again tonight.
She delayed for twenty minutes; thirty. Then
conscience temporarily won out over fear. She
opened the door and walked back to the bedroom as if
marching to her own execution.
Rafe had donned a smoking jacket of fine dark
green crushed velvet. He looked monumentally
uncomfortable in such finery. Barefoot, he sat with
one ankle resting atop
V
another on a hassock. He
twirled
a champagne glass nervously in his right hand.
He'd extinguished the lamps; the only light came
from the dancing flames.
"My," he breathed. "Don't you look ravishing,
Mrs. Martin."
She tried to smile. "I am Mrs. Martin,
aren't I?"
"You certainly are-and I couldn't be happier."
"But I'm afraid 111 never make a perfect
wife."
"Only fools ask for perfection in themselves or
others."
"Oh, Rafe-you are an incredibly kind man."
'The hell I am," he replied with that smile that
charmed her so. "I'm np saint. I'm just like those
scientific fellows I've read about. The ones who
go digging for old art treasures -"
"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked,
diverted. He set his glass aside and walked
to her.
"One of those fellows who digs around old Arabian
ruins and turns up a beautiful, old lamp worth
millions. You don't find them throwing away such a
treasure just because it has a few nicks and dents."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "We all have
those, my love. Every man and woman God ever
made."
His voice was so gentle and reassuring,
she almost forgot to be frightened. He leaned down and
said, "I know what's terrifying you. It needn't
Well just sleep, that will be fine tonight-or any other
night until you say otherwise. We're going
to heal you, Eleanor-was
"No!"
she cried softly, one arm flung around his neck.
She brought her mouth up against his, and lost herself in
the kiss and the embrace that accompanied it.
He kissed and caressed her in a tender way. It was
her urging that took them to the bed. Yet as she
slipped out of her robe and gown, she felt the tension
tightening her loins, then her whole body.
He felt it too. His caresses stopped. Their
naked bodies etched by the flickering fire, they sat
on the edge of the bed with their hips and shoulders touching.
He poured a glass
of champagne and handed it to her.
"Drink a little of this. It might help."
"Not as much as your kindness," she murmured, bending
to sip and wondering again whether she would fail him. He
put his left arm around her shoulder in a companionable
way; he was, at that moment, as much her friend as
her would-be lover. She finished the champagne and
felt the tension lessen just a little. When he
resumed his stroking and kissing, it was very slow; very
gentle. He touched each part of her only after long
minutes of careful preparation. Finally he lowered his
body over hers-and the tension seized her again. Gazing
down with concern and love, he quickly placed his right
palm against her cheek:
"Don't worry, don't worry-111 stop the
moment you say. I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't, darling," she lied, drawing him to her.
She couldn't help a pained cry as he entered.
She closed her eyes, cursing herself. He remained
absolutely motionless. Moments passed. Then:
"Eleanor?"
Slowly the tension left her face. He was where he
belonged comand she was enduring it. The first step had been
taken.
She saw the imaginary door. One of its panels
displayed a great raw opening, as if it had been
chopped with an axe. She realized what the image
meant. The door was breached; no longer capable of
containing secrets-
"Yes," she answered very softly. "I'm all right.
Love me Rafe. Please do-was
And he did, with consuming passion and tenderness. It
hurt her a little, and he knew it, so he
was careful and deliberate until the end when, with
wondrous realization overcoming her disbelief, she was
aware of an absence of pain, and, next, just a faint
stir of pleasure-gone so
Iqkly she might have thought it hadn't happened at
all.
But it had.
It had.
Afterward, reliving the moment as she lay drowsing beside
him, she was filled with a conviction that she might have
escaped her yesterdays at long last. It might be
that she could look forward to a chance of becoming a whole
woman.
He alone made it possible because he loved her, and
because
he
knew
and said it didn't matter. Two could indeed bear a
cross more easily than one.
Perhaps, she thought as his arm cradled her against his
side, perhaps that was the secret of the survival of the
Kents-and of all families that managed to withstand living
in a world that was no better than its inhabitants:
troubled, capricious, filled with error and
contradiction.
Four hands lifting made a burden lighter. And the
strength of those hands was love. She held that thought as
she reached down to close her hand on his-
And cried.
She cried as she hadn't for months; perhaps years.
Anxious, he questioned her. She reassured him that it
was only happiness that made her weep. Happiness,
and freedom, and the final destruction of a door.
CHAPTER XIX
The Broken
Promise
FROM SACRAMENTO, WILL telegraphed ahead to say
that he and his new wife would be arriving via
Pullman Palace Car. A note from Carter was
waiting when they checked into an elegant suite at
the Hope House, where they would be spending two
weeks as guests of the owner. Carter's note said
he'd meet them for luncheon next day,
In
the Grill Room of the Palace Hotel on
Market Street.
Will was nervous about the coming encounter with his stepbrother,
though he tried not to show it. He and Jo arrived at
the Palace half an hour early and were already seated
at a choice table in the mirror-paneled
Grill Room when Carter walked in. Jo
recognized
him
immediately from Will's descriptions.
Carter had stopped at the head waiter's podium and
was chatting with two of the formally attired members of the
staff. He whispered something-a joke, to judge from his
smirk-and then all three men laughed uproariously.
He spied Will and Jo; grinned and waved. Will had
to admit his stepbrother looked splendid. He was
wearing a dark gray hopsack suit, obviously
expensive, and a contrasting emerald-colored
waistcoat. He had a gold-headed stick tucked
under his left arm. A heavy ring with a large
white stone flashed on his right hand as he strolled
toward them. Will was wearing a new suit and cravat,
but he felt shabby by comparison.
Carter paused and bent over the gem-crusted hand of a
double-chinned dowager, stopped again to exchange
pleasantries with a couple of burly men who
appeared to be both very wealthy and very coarse. He
visited four other tables after that. There were no
important-looking people in the room whom he didn't
know. As for the rest, he ignored them.
When he reached Will and Jo, Carter
grinned and said, "Sorry to be late. Boss
Buckley is encountering some trouble from a crowd of
self-appointed reformers. It's taking extra
effort to keep the faithful in line-so this is Jo!"
The transition from one thought to another was almost as
swift and smooth as his move around the table. He
lifted Jo out of her chair; clasped her in a
brotherly hug. She blushed. Will saw that she
enjoyed being the center of attention comz did Carter.
"Marriage seems to be agreeing with you," Carter
said when he'd taken a chair. "And it's Doctor
Kent now, isn't it?"
"That's right. I managed to squeak through Harvard."
Proudly, Jo said to Carter, "He won't boast,
but I will. He didn't squeak through. He was fifth
from the top of his class."
"Congratulations!" Carter exclaimed, beaming.
"Now all you have to do is sit back, peer at a
few sore throats, and watch the gold roll in,
eh?"
"Not quite," Will answered with a guarded look. Even
though his plans had been firm for more than a year,
he hadn't shared them with his stepbrother. Each time
he'd written to him, he'd avoided any mention of
Jo's background and the practice waiting
for him in the Bend. Even now, he was apprehensive
about raising the subject of Drew and the Bend. But
he wouldn't have a clear conscience until he did.
It had to be done privately, though. Jo knew
nothing about the promise Carter had extracted during
that walk on the Common so long ago.
A waiter offered elaborately printed menus.
"Thanks, Maurice," Carter said without so much as
a glance at the man. "There ought to be something here
to please you two.
Kirkpatrick, the food manager, tries
to satisfy everybody from the gourmand to the silver
millionaire who ate his own shoe leather while he
was making his pile. What looks good? Grizzly
steak? Local venison? I'm told the grilled
sand dabs are fine-Iv-every never had them-was
"So much to choose from!" Jo said with an
appreciative sigh. Will closed his menu and smiled
at his stepbrother:
"Looks like your work's agreeing with you, too."
"Absolutely. I love politics, and I
love San Francisco. My old Harvard chum
Willie Hearst is here. He publishes a
morning paper."
"Oh, yes, Hearst is very well known in
the East," Jo told him.
"Especially in the Kent household," Will said.
"Papa keeps track of all the stunts he
pulls. Like sending a couple up in a balloon
to be married, or having a man jump off a
ferryboat to see how long it takes the crew
to rescue a passenger who falls overboard. He
disapproves of things like that. He's getting pretty
conservative in some ways. On the other hand, I
think he's taken with the idea of hiring women to write
about sensational subjects. What do they call
reporters like that?"
"Sob sisters."
Carter removed the wrapping from a long green cigar.
He clipped one end of the cigar with small gold
scissors. He rolled the cigar between his fingers, then
clenched it between his teeth. "Willie's sob sister
is one of the best. Her name's Winifred Sweet, but
she uses the byline Annie Laurie. She was a
chorus girl whose show got stranded here. Hearst hired
her-thanks, Maurice," he said again as a flaring
match appeared from over his right shoulder.
He bent to the match. When the cigar was lit
Maurice blew the match out and stepped back like a
soldier at attention. Carter continued:
"Willie comes in for a lot of criticism because of his
stunts. On the other hand, he makes no secret
of the reason for them. The news is often hellishly
dull. And there's one other problem with it. Rival
papers can print it too. But manufactured
material is exclusive. That's why Willie
likes it. Right now, for instance, he and Annie are
trying to figure out how a woman can get committed
to the Home for Inebriates. Willie thinks there's
a fine expose lurking there."
"You must see a lot of him," Will said.
Carter's smile and nod said that was correct.
"Willie and I have a lot in common. Neither one of
us could get through Harvard. He played one prank
too many and they booted him out at the end of his
junior year. He has a fine house over in
Sausalito, and he found me one nearby. He
keeps a jolly young lady named Tessie Powers
who-oh, forgive me, Jo," he said, pretending
to be conscience- stricken. "Shouldn't be saying such
things in front of a husband and wife."
Will gazed at his stepbrother. "Sounds like you really
admire Hearst."
"I do. He already influences public opinion and
government policy in this part of
California, and he thinks he can do it nationally,
too. He's anxious to acquire a paper in New
York. There's no limit to his ambition."
Carter puffed his cigar a moment. "That's one of the
ways we're alike. Shall we order?"
Carter opened his menu. For a moment he seemed a
total stranger. In a sense he was. He was
living in high style while working as a trusted aide
of the city's Democratic boss-a man Gideon
claimed was wholly corrupt. The paths and
viewpoints of the stepbrothers had obviously
diverged without either of them being fully aware of the
changes brought about by time, circumstances, and
differences in character.
Still, a bond remained. The bond of affection Will
felt for the Carter Kent of yesterday; the Carter
who'd given him confidence when he had none, and even
fought his battles until he was old enough and clever enough
to fight them for himself.
Carter chose a slab of venison with a side dish of
salad that incorporated a generous portion of
California artichokes. Will and Jo took the
waiter's suggestion and ordered a Grill Room
specialty, Pacific coast oysters baked into a
savory pie with a crackling light brown
crust. Carter insisted on selecting the wine.
Pouilly Fuisse for them; an expensive claret
for himself. He finished a whole bottle while they were
each drinking half of theirs.
As the meal progressed, Will grew increasingly ill
at ease. The cause was partly what remained to be
said, partly some things he was noticing which he'd
overlooked in the first flush of the reunion. As always,
Carter smiled a lot
But it struck Will that much of his spontaneity was gone,
and that when he did smile, very little humor showed in his
eyes. His behavior seemed studied, every detail
pointed toward creating a carefully calculated
impression.
After they'd eaten, Carter lit another cigar.
"Jo, perhaps you'd like to refresh yourself while Will and I
stroll off some of this food."
"Fine," Jo agreed, starting to rise. Carter
leaped to pull her chair out. She smiled in
appreciation.
"Well meet you on the promenade of the grand
court," he said. She nodded and left. He
followed her with admiring eyes.
"I applaud your choice, W. She's a charming
girl. Very bright, too."
"A trifle overawed by you, I'm afraid," Will
said, folding his napkin.
"I must say I was surprised when you wrote
to tell me you'd dumped the other girl. The one with the
pedigree who was going to make Ward McAllister
forget you were Gideon Kent's son-was
They started out of the Grill Room. Carter added,
"I assume the social standing of Jo's family
is equally good."
"They have no social standing. They're shopkeepers in
Hartford, Connecticut."
"Oh."
For a moment Carter seemed intensely interested in the
glowing end of his cigar. A passing woman distracted
him.
"Althea! What a treat to run into you again."
"It's been too long, my dear," the woman said,
her tone faintly reproving. She was an
attractive woman, buxom, expensively
dressed, and obviously older than Carter. He
kissed the hand on which she wore her wedding ring. Then,
as she moved on, he returned his attention to Will, and
said in a low voice:
"That woman has the most incredible body I've ever
seen-and vast experience in using it.
Otherwise, she's a stupid creature. Bitchy
temper, too. I overlook it because of
her-ah-professional expertise."
Will forced a smile, but it was uneasy: "You make
her sound like a-like a thing, not a person."
Carter gave him a puzzled stare. "She's a
woman. She has servants to cook and keep her
eighteen-room house. With those feminine functions
taken care of, what else is she
u
good for except lying flat on her back? I was
enjoying her a couple of times a week till her
husband got back from a European business trip.
It was doubly pleasant to cuckold him because he's a
Republican."
They left the restaurant and made their way to the
marble-floored promenade. The promenade
overlooked a large interior court protected from the
weather by a glass dome. Hacks and private
carriages came and went through an arched portal
leading to the street. The place had a lush smell.
Plants grew in tubs, and there were trellises
heavy with tropical flowers. In the distance, a string
ensemble played a frothy waltz.
Will said nothing. He was assimilating his
stepbrother's last remarks, and finding that he
didn't like them. Carter's unfeeling cynicism
angered him; hurt him, too, somehow. Of course his
stepbrother was showing off a little. But it was sadly
evident that he'd changed.
"You said Jo's family isn't socially
prominent," Carter resumed. "If that's the case,
I assume they're at least respectably
wealthy. It won't hurt to have one fortune added
to another."
Will turned to face his stepbrother. "I didn't many
her for money. She doesn't have any."
"Contacts in Hartford, then?" Carter responded with
another smile. "That's it, isn't it? She has the
sort of contacts that enable you to practice
successfully right away."
Slowly, Will rubbed a palm across his mouth. He
didn't want to provoke an argument. And yet he
couldn't remain silent.
"Carter," he said softly, "try to understand something.
I didn't marry Jo to use her. I married her
because I love her. She's the most important thing
in my life now."
It was Carter's turn to look sadly puzzled:
"Surely not, little brother. A man's
ambition comes ahead of everything. Or should. That's a
fundamental lesson I-learned long ago. Beyond
that,
if
you care too much for a woman, you'll find it will
distract you from your ambition." --.
A sour, quirky smile spoiled his good looks
for a second. "You'll also find you've been a
fool. Women should never be worshiped, or trusted.
Just used."
Will drew a long breath. "I don't agree."
"I see." Carter's repertoire of smiles was a
large one; this
variation was icily dismissive. "Well, it's not my
affair any longer."
"Yes it is."
"What's that?"
"It is your affair."
"How so?"
"I made you a promise once."
Carter responded with a slow, thoughtful nod. "That's
right. A promise that you'd be somebody and make
sure everybody knew it."
He drew smoke from the cigar, turned away, and
sat down in one of the deep upholstered
chairs with which the promenade was furnished. He
crossed his legs, gazed up at his stepbrother, and
finished his thought:
"I've rFever forgotten. But I was beginning to think
you had."
ii
'This is very difficult for me-was Will began.
"Don't feel that way, little brother. I
suspected something was on your mind. Whatever you came
to say, say it. Let's not spoil our reunion
any longer than absolutely necessary."
The bitter note was unmistakable. What hurts
had Carter suffered in all those years since Will had
last seen him? What wounds was he trying to cover with the
scar tissue of cynicism, mockery, indifference?
Noting Will's hesitation, Carter continued:
"Perhaps I can make it easier. I gather from what
you've said about Jo that you don't think as you did at
the time I left Boston. You don't think it's
important to be successful comor recognized as
successful."
"It isn't important to me."
"Then we no longer think the same way."
Sadness overwhelmed Will when he saw the contempt in
Carter's eyes. A moment later, though,
he found himself growing annoyed with his stepbrother.
"No," he said, "I don't believe we do."
Carter studied him. "What happened, may I
ask?"
A truthful answer would have been, still
started listening to my conscience instead of you.
But he couldn't say that.
The string ensemble was playing "Tales from the Vienna
Woods." Further down the promenade, a woman
laughed. With a ring of hooves and a rattle of
traces, a spendid victoria arrived in the
court. He could only hear his stepbrother's voice
prompting him:
"What happened, Will?"
"I went my own way, that's all. Circumstances
change as you grow up. You encounter new people. New
ways of looking at things-was
"Granted. But only a fool loses sight of his
goal. On my first night in San Francisco,
I wandered the street I was sick, feeling low, and
wondering how the hell I'd ever get anywhere in
life. But I never forgot where I
wanted
to go. That night I met a man who put me to work in
politics, greased me into the local
Democratic machine, and made it possible for me
to hobnob with Willie on an equal footing again.
The point is this. A chance meeting opened a door
I hadn't seen before. But if it hadn't been the right
kind of door, I'd have stepped back. No one's
committed to poverty or obscurity except by his
own choice."
"I recall some letters you wrote when times were hard.
You sounded a lot less positive then."
Anger flickered on Carter's face before he
looked away.
"Anyway, I disagree with you," Will went on. "I
know people who will struggle all their lives, but they'll
never be able to escape poverty and obscurity."
With a scornful shrug, Carter said, "Who are you
talking about? People in the slums?"
"Exactly. I'm going to practice in a slum,
as a matter of fact. Possibly the worst slum
in New York."

So there It was. Out at last. Carter couldn't
maintain in* derisive smile. His stunned
disbelief was too strong: "For your own good, I
refuse to take you seriously." "Ask Jo. It's
her brother's practice that I'm
joining." "Good God. I can't believe this. Not after
the promise you made me."
"Carter, please-understand. It was the wrong kind of
promise. Wrong for me, anyway."
He hated to say that. He saw the glacial look
jt brought
to his stepbrother's face. "You really have changed,"
Carter said.
"We all do."
"Not I!" Carter blustered, as if he weren't quite
sure of that statement. He stabbed his smoldering cigar
into a sand urn near his chair, then rose. "I still
want what I wanted the day I left Boston.
To give orders instead of taking them. I've found the
way. I've learned a lot in a year's time.
I've learned how to buy votes, and when and how
to force others to do what I want. I've watched
Willie use a newspaper to turn the public
against the Southern Pacific or any other person
or institution he dislikes. I've taken every one of
those lessons to heart-and a lot of others that might
shock you. And I'll tell you this. I won't be
buried in a political grave in this town. The
reformers are yapping after Buckley like hunting
dogs, but they won't catch me."
With uneasy admiration, Will said, "You have it all
planned, eh?"
"Indeed I do, little brother. Obviously you
don't."
Will thought of his wife, and his voice grew stronger:
"To the contrary. I know how I'm going to spend my
life. I'm afraid it's a much less
impressive plan than yours."
"I agree." Then the mockery was quickly replaced
by an intense concern: "Will, you had every chance-chances I
never had-and you've thrown them all away. The
slums, for Christ's sake!" He shook his head,
starting to pace. "Who's responsible? Is it your
wife's doing? Apparently she's not as bright as I
first thought-was
Will stiffened.
"Carter, please don't say any more."
He didn't seem to hear: "I'm afraid something
must have beclouded your mind-was
"Carter."
his
comwhen you decided she was the person you should marry. You
were certainly wrong about-
ahl"
Afterward, Will could recall little about the moment
except his sudden surge of rage. He'd lunged
out of his chair, run at his stepbrother, and driven a
clumsy punch into the green waistcoat.
Carter's midsection was solid. But Will had taken
him by surprise. After his outcry, he doubled,
dropping his stick. It rolled on the marble,
clattering as he staggered away.
He braced himself against a pillar to keep from falling.
Heads turned, A hotel bellman rushed toward
them. Carter's slashing left hand ordered
him
back. The bellman hesitated, then walked off.
Will was still trembling. "You can say anything you want
about me. But never say a single word against Jo.
Never."
Carter straightened, composing his face. He dusted his
waistcoat; retrieved his stick. Only then did
he speak:
"If it were anyone else but you, little brother, I'd
probably send a couple of rockrollers to break
your head for what you just did. This meeting has been a
terrible disappointment. I always thought you'd amount
to something. Obviously someone's filled your head with that
pious garbage the Kent family has been
purveying for several generations."
A word about your duties
-
"Yes, that's partly it."
"Well-was The cynical smile crept back.
"It's very nice stuff for newspaper editorials.
Unfortunately it has damn little relevance in the
real world. If you've swallowed it, I'm sorry for
you."
Silence for a moment.
"Carter-was
"What is it?" he said without looking up. His gaze
was fixed on his right sleeve, which he was carefully
brushing with his other hand.
"I was feeling apologetic in the Grill Room.
I don't feel that way any longer. What you say
is wrong. I don't know what's made you so
hard-was
Carter raised his stick as if it were a pointer.
"Practical, my boy. Practical!"
"comb I think you should be on notice."
"About what?"
"If you ever do go to Washington-was
"You can count on it."
"comand if I have anything to say about the policies of the
Union,
you'd better not expect automatic support from
me, or the family. America has enough exploiters
and manipulators already. We don't need more.
Especially not in the government."
Carter snickered. "My God, how naive you are.
What do you think a government is-a city government,
a county government, any government-except a
pack of
manipulators and exploiters? The game is
to get all you can from the trough while convincing the rest
of the hogs to be high-minded instead of hungry."
Disgusted, Will turned away. He saw Jo watching
from the entrance of the promenade. How long had she been
there? Had she seen him strike his stepbrother?
The sight of her eradicated his anger. A weary
sorrow overcame him again. "I think we'd better
call a halt to this."
"I agree." "Look,
I'm sorry I hit you. If we can't be friends,
at least we needn't be enemies."
Carter's hostile expression softened slightly.
"That isn't how you sounded a minute ago.
Obviously the past no longer means much to you."
"It means a" great deal. It always will. You helped
me stand on my own feet. I couldn't have
done it alone. I can't begin to repay that debt-*
r
"You could by amounting to something. By refusing to swallow
all that rot about Kent family
responsibility-Kent family idealism. It's
bullshit, W. Pure sentimental bullshit. I
tell you again-it has no application to the real world."
Will shook his head. "I think it's the only thing that
makes the real world bearable. And maybe a little
better year by year."
"You're wrong. Forget it, I tell you!"
"I can't." He drew another breath. "And if
that's the price you put on friendship-was
"Yes?"
"The price is too high."
With a grieving look at his stepbrother, Carter said,
"You poor damn fool."
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Will
managed to say. With great effort, he held out his right
hand. "Friends anyway?"
Carter looked at him; seemed on the point of
shaking hands but then used his stick to tap Will's
outstretched palm.
"I'm afraid not, little brother. Friendly enemies
is the best I can do. Goodbye."
Will watched him go. In the court, Carter approached
a liveried doorman, his old, charming smile in
place. As Will
walked down the promenade to rejoin Jo, he heard
his stepbrother call out cheerily:
"Whistle up my rig, will you, Trevor? I'm
late for a meeting of the county committee, and someone's
got to tell the simpletons how to vote."
IV
With an anxious look on her face, Jo came
rushing to meet him.
"I stayed away because I saw you and Carter
quarrelling. What went wrong? You were looking forward
to this reunion so much-was
"Not as much as I pretended. I'll try to explain
what happened, but I'm not sure I can."
How do you explain that to live comwith yourself, you had
to break a promise

to 
"Will we see him again while we're here?"
"No." He realized he was immensely relieved.
"But you always thought so much of him-was
"That was a long time ago. We all grow up."
He flexed the fingers of his right hand. He
would feel a lasting regret about hitting his
stepbrother. But Carter had, after all, invited it with
his churlish remarks about Jo.
Well, they had served warning on each other. If
there was friction in the future, so be it. The Carter
Kent of yesterday was not the Carter Kent of today and,
sad though that was, Will would accept it.
Jo would make it much easier. Looking into her eyes
with boundless affection, he leaned forward and scandalized
two elderly ladies by kissing her on the mouth.
"We all grow up," he said again. "Thank
God."
The following weekend, William Randolph
Hearst's yacht
Aquila
left San Francisco harbor and steamed south
toward Senator Hearst's 48,000-acre Piedra
Blanca ranch. The ranch was an old Spanish
grant in San Luis Obispo county; it had
been raw land when the Senator purchased it, but now
there was a spacious ranch house on a slope
above the sea, and even a sturdy wharf jutting
into San Simeon Bay.
Since the run down the coast was just about two hundred
miles, Willie frequently took
excursion parties there for long weekends. It could not
be said that his guests were his friends. He had few;
Carter was one of the chosen. Mostly-as on this
occasion-those traveling aboard the superbly appointed
yacht were associates and employees from the paper.
They had weighed anchor at eight in the morning.
As
the yacht steamed south in the light Pacific chop, a
splendid breakfast including broiled trout,
chicken in wine, and rum omelets was served to the
ladies and gentlemen in the main saloon.
Competitors, and even the Senator, often called the
free-spending young publisher Wasteful Willie, but
when it came to generosity to his employees, their
permanent mistresses, or temporary female
friends, no one minded that he was extravagant
After consuming a third glass of champagne, Carter
rose from the table. Willie had told him earlier that
he wanted to speak privately. As they left the
saloon, the waspish Mr. Bierce was explaining his
employer's theories of journalism to a reporter
from Seattle:
"comy see, Templeton, the difference between your
indifferently successful paper and ours is Mr.
Hearst's understanding that stupefying news
events do not happen every day. Yet what we wish
to publish-every day-is stupefying news. We therefore
create it."
The guest looked skeptical, while a pretty,
genteel and well-dressed girl seated near
Bierce watched admiringly. She and Willie
exchanged glances as the young publisher went out with
Carter. Willie had found Tessie Powers
waiting tables in a Cambridge restaurant. He
had kept her during his undergraduate days.
Following his dismissal from Harvard, he had brought
her West and installed ker in his fine house on a
Sausalko hillside.
On deck, Willie swung his walking stick in a
relaxed way. He had a whole collection of them,
including a trick one which whistled. Carter had
adopted the fashion for himself. Two elegant young
gentlemen, they strolled forward to
Aquila's
bow. Willie looked little different than he had at
Harvard. More prosperous, perhaps, but physically, he
had hardly changed.
Carter felt nervous. What was this all about? The
flawless morning, the spectacularly beautiful
California coast slipping by, the sense
of being surrounded by fine, influential friends-all these
paled because he knew something was on Willie's mind.
At last Willie said:
"I don't want to spoil the trip with an endless
discussion of the city we left behind, so let's conclude
our business now and enjoy ourselves."
Frowning, Carter said, "I didn't know we had
business to conduct."
"Well, ah-was That shy, nervous smile. "I have
some." He looked closely at his companion.
"Because we're friends I must issue a warning to you.
I'm going to get the Boss."
Carter chuckled, although in a nervous way. "That's
hardly news. You've been after Buckley for
years. I think he got that idea when you helped
defeat the city charter revision he and that
Republican, Bill Higgins cooked up."
"It was a fraud," Willie said, squinting at the
ocean. "It would have resulted in even stronger boss
rule-why are you smiling?"
"Because sometimes, I'm damned if I can figure you
out. Willie the millionaire-Willie the
aristocrat-Willie the workingman's friend. It
doesn't fit together."
"No, it doesn't," Willie
acknowledged with a slight smile. "I don't know where
I came by that streak of democracy. Probably
my father picked it up wandering around the desert searching
for a mother lode. You don't meet princes or
plutocrats in the diggings, and you soon come
to appreciate how hard most men work for the little they
get. But you're quite right, I do stand with the grip-
man." He was referring to the mythical San
Francisco cable car worker who set the standards for
what the paper would publish, and how it would publish
it. Carter had frequently heard the litany:
"If it wouldn't amaze the grip- man, don't
print it. If he wouldn't understand it, rewrite it.
If it's against his interests, I'm against it too."
"In any case," Willie went on, "I'm
compelled to tell you that powerful forces are forming an
alliance against the Boss. It isn't merely a
newspaper crusade." "Yes, I've caught
hints of that." Willie bent forward, a queer,
stork-like figure in the
splendid sunshine; he seemed to be peering at his
friend to make certain he understood:
"Buckley's going down, Carter. The machine will
fly apart. Don't get hit by the pieces."
Carter took a deep breath. "I
appreciate the warning. And I won't. First and
foremost, I look after Carter Kent."
Willie coughed. "I really am not comfortable in this
role-was
Carter frowned. "What role?"
"Middle man. I was-asked to approach you."
"By whom?"
"Certain gentlemen who must as yet remain
anonymous. Certain influential people organizing a
reform coalition whose object would be Buckley's
ouster."
He understood then. "You're talking about
Democrats. Members of the Boss's own party."
After some deliberation, Willie said, "I won't
deny that assertion. These gentlemen are wondering how
badly you want to protect yourself from a debacle that
will surely destroy a great many careers. Enough
to cooperate, perhaps? Pass along information if it's
ever requested?" Hastily he raised his hands. "This
is all theoretical, you must appreciate -"
Carter gazed at the sunlit water and the wild,
lonely coast running into the south. This was something new;
something disturbing, and not at all clear cut.
Democrats were conspiring against Democrats.
Willie was clearly interested in seeing
Carter save himself, yet at the same time was
uncomfortable over the treachery that would be involved.
He thought of the past. Of all the hard lessons
he'd learned. Would he ignore those lessons now?
When the question was framed that way, it took
him
only an instant to make his decision.
"I'd be happy to have an exploratory discussion with
these gentlemen, Willie. At some safe,
confidential location, naturally. I'm not saying I
would cooperate. But I'll discuss it."
With a relieved smile, Willie whacked his stick
on the rail. "Splendid. That's all I need
to know. You have a promising future, and I hate
to see it cut short, though I was hesitant to make
the overture. You've served old Chris Buckley
well up to now."
Willie murmured something that sounded like, "Mmm," and
leaned his elbows on the rail, scanning the sea.
Astern, members of the cruise party were coming out of the
saloon, laughing and talking loudly. Carter tried
to subdue the remorse he felt about his decision.
Buckley had befriended and trusted him, and now he
was preparing to betray that trust if it became necessary
to save his own hide.
Well, what of it? The lifeboat analogy was
valid. Even if it did make him feel
guilty.
He fought the guilt and, ironically, just as he was
beginning to overcome it, Willie caused it to flood
back by saying:
"A shame your stepbrother couldn't join us."
"Oh-was This shrug was far too studied. Willie
noticed. "comhe preferred to stay and see the sights.
Besides, wives are never comfortable on these little trips.
"YouVe seen very little of your stepbrother."
"That's true." Anger welled up, but Carter forced
a brittle smile. "We don't have much in common
anymore."
"I think you told me just before he arrived that he was a
doctor."
"That's right."
"Quite ambitious, too."
Carter's face hardened. Eyes fixed on the
immensity of the Pacific, he said, "I was wrong
about that."
Then the past, and the ties of blood, obliterated
cynicism and tore the next words from him.
"My stepbrother is the decent one in our family.
I'm afraid 111 have to be content being the
successful one."
Willie turned his head sharply, and started to speak.
But he didn't know how to answer such a strange
remark; one so filled with pain.
As was Carter Kent's face.
"I
78He's gotten value for what he's paid,"
Carter said. "He's old enough to know that on a sinking
ship, one man doesn't ask another for permission
to jump into the lifeboat."
caret Epilogue *, was And
Make a Mark
A
FEW DAYS BEFORE Christmas that same year,
Gideon was moved to compose a year-end editorial
for the
Union.
On the evening he went into his office at home
to work, the house on Beacon Street was already
festively decorated. The rooms were fragrant
with the smell of pine boughs, candle wax, popping
corn, and the spiced apples Julia was preparing in
the kitchen. A special effort to give the house a
holiday air had seemed desirable since all
three of the younger Kents would be arriving
by train to spend the week between Christmas and New
Year's. Carter was coming all the way from the West
Coast
While Gideon located paper and a pen, he tried
to banish thoughts of his failing health. Of late the
pains in his chest had become more frequent and more
severe. Just the short walk from the dining room to the
office left
him
winded.
He laid his writing materials on the desk, then
warmed his hands at the fireplace. The office felt
cozy. A heavy snow had fallen during the afternoon,
settling in large, loaf- like mounds on the sills.
The storm had passed rapidly out to sea and now the
evening was clear and starry. Distantly, carolers
sang.
It would be a treat to have the entire family together,
even though there were definite signs of strain. It was
no secret that Will and Carter had quarreled when Will
and Jo were in San Francisco on their wedding
trip. Will took all the blame. And he'd sent
Carter a formal apology. Neither of them would go
into detail about the cause of the quarrel -Julia had
questioned Carter in several letters-but both young
men let it be known that they had fundamental
disagreements which would forever keep them from being as close
as they once were.
Perhaps that kind of tension and separation was to be
expected, Gideon thought as he walked slowly
back to his desk. He and his brothers, Matt and
Jeremiah, had taken separate paths. The country
was becoming a sprawling, diverse place too-so why
think it unusual for an American family
to display some of that diversity?
The Kents were certainly doing so. Will, for example,
showed every sign of becoming a reformer; the kind of man
damned in public and feared in private by those he
opposed. In the short time he'd been in practice
in the Mulberry Bend, with his friend Drew as his partner
and his wife managing the office and serving as a
visiting nurse, Will had become a friend and staunch
ally of Jacob Riis. Riis's book on the
New York slums had created a powerful movement
for reform. Will helped that movement by writing to, and
testifying before, any state or municipal agency
responsible for enacting and enforcing health or real
estate laws.
Once Gideon had feared that Will cared about nothing
except personal security and
prestige. How wrong he'd been. Will's decision
to marry Jo Hastings had wrenched the young man around a
full hundred and eighty degrees. Gideon was
immensely proud of his son. Eventually, in his own
way, Will would live up to the family tradition, and
carry it on. He would make a lasting mark.
Carter was another matter. He was still working for Boss
Buckley, but watching local developments very
closely. In a recent note to Julia, he'd
said that Buckley's enemies were trying to empanel a
special grand jury in Sacramento. The jury's
stated purpose was to investigate the activities of
San Francisco's paid lobbyist. But that was only
a diversion. Buckley, and the Buckley
organization, were the true targets of reform elements
in the Democratic party. Carter claimed the
reformers really wanted Buckley's power for themselves.
The worsening situation, as well as Carter's own
ambition, had prompted
him
to think of moving to a larger- and safer-arena.
Washington.- By means of his friendship with young Hearst,
he thought it might be possible to gain the notice of
Senator Hearst and, through him, some kind of
political appointment in the nation's
capital. Once there,
he'd have a whole range of new options available.
But he had to protect himself until it all worked out.
He'd hinted to Julia that he had made a secret
overture to the San Francisco reform group.
He closed his letter by saying that some might consider his
plans a betrayal of his employer, but he did not.
It was a matter of survival. He was sure
Buckley would have done the very same thing in his
position.
In Gideon's opinion, Carter was not precisely
dishonest, but he was a young man who savored power, and
wanted more. Whether that power would corrupt him
completely, Gideon couldn't say. It corrupted
many politicians-and Carter already showed signs of
being tainted.
Yet politics might be the only arena in which
Carter could accomplish anything even remotely
worthwhile. He'd evidently made a good
record in San Francisco. He'd risen
rapidly in the local party organization. Gideon
suspected that his stepson would make a mark, though
whether it would be an entirely admirable one remained
to be se caret not. If he went to Washington-a
pit of trimmers and
privilege-seekers-the outlook was doubtful.
Make a mark.
The words which came to mind so easily, were a painful
reminder of his own shortcomings.
Another constriction in his chest bent him over his desk
for half a minute. After the pain passed, he took
several deep breaths, nearly gasping to get them.
When his breathing became more or less normal again,
he glanced at the portrait of the family's founder.
As always, the determined set of the jaw and the faintly
truculent expression in the painted eyes brought a
smile to Gideon's face. How he wished he could
have spent even five minutes with old Philip.
He knew they would have liked and understood one another.
Yet thoughts of Philip, and Philip's remarkable
life-so well summarized by the briquet, the tea
bottle, and the Kentucky rifle-only served
to reinforce Gideon's feeling of inadequacy.
Soon he turned away from the painting.
Eleanor would be home for Christmas too, along with
her husband. The remodeling of
their
theater, which Eleanor had proudly named the
Goldman, was going well. She was starting to plan
her opening cycle of plays. Ibsen,
mostly. She'd come in for a lot of criticism because
of that choice. She seemed to be thriving on it.
be
The change in Eleanor was a distinct one. He'd
realized it the last time he'd spent a few days in
New York. His gamble that afternoon following the
disastrous luncheon with the vice president had come out
in his favor; Eleanor certainly wasn't locking
out the world any longer. She'd joined the women's
movement, and started organizing producers and
performers to fight a threatened theatrical monopoly
scheme. Gideon was overjoyed to see a new,
thoughtful, and militant Eleanor emerging.
Her only setback of late was a happy one. Just
a few days ago, in a letter bubbling with good cheer,
she'd revealed that she was expecting a baby-and
eagerly looking forward to it, even though the
pregnancy would keep her from performing on her own
stage in the fall.
Gideon felt confident of the family's future
now. Carter might not be a trustworthy steward of the
Kent traditions, but Eleanor would be, and so would
W. At long last, both young people were developing an
understanding and appreciation of those traditions. That turn
of events would help make it a fine
Christmas. Only one thing might taint the
holiday-
Make a mark.
Not many days hence, it would be 1891. The year in which
he would turn forty-eight; the start of a new
decade.
Tune was rushing on. The industrial nation was expanding
and changing at a furious rate. The changes, the
swift passage of time, and the certainty that his health
was failing all heightened the gloomy feelings which had
tormented him of late.
Inevitably, his eye was drawn back to the
mementoes- those symbols of the family's strength,
and the source of his desperate discontent. He studied
the tea bottle. What could he leave that was truly
his own contribution? The splinter from the mast of Old
Ironsides was someone else's; he had merely
rediscovered it. Matt could leave his paintings, and the
Renoir cartoon. But everything Gideon thought of-a
copy of the
Union;
a book from Kent and Son-struck
htm
as too ordinary.
The problem still unsolved, he turned to the
work which had brought him to the office. He reached for the
old Bi- tggle-his father's pulpit Bible-which he
kept on the corner of his desk. He opened to the
New Testament.
For his editorial he planned to write a few
paragraphs on
the decade just ahead, taking as his text Acts 2,
the nineteenth verse, in which God said,
And 1 will shew wonders in heaven above, and signs in
the earth beneath.
The signs referred to were dire ones. Blood;
smoke and fire; the signs of the last days of
mankind. Gideon meant to use the text in a more
positive way,, to characterize his vision of the coming
ten-year period and the new century just beyond.
Of course his pessimism had not been removed
overnight by the happy changes in the family. He
still saw too much materialism in America; a
materialism that threatened to corrupt too many of its
citizens, as it had corrupted the Fennels. Last
summer the patriarch of the Fennel family had been
found hanging from a bedroom chandelier in his We/chester
mansion. A day or two later it had become
evident why he'd taken his own life. A
shopgirl had gone to a West Side
abortionist, been irreparably hurt, and had
dragged herself to a charity hospital. Before she bled
to death, she had summoned a reporter and named
Thurman Fennel as the man who'd paid her
to destroy his child.
Fennel's daughter was currently living in St.
Louis. Hester Davis of the
Union
had told Gideon that after Will had jilted her, the
girl had been unable to find another suitor of
quality. So she'd married a man of considerable
wealth but no social standing; a Midwestern hardware
merchant twice her age. Presumably she was now
a ruler of whatever passed for Society in St.
Louis. Mrs. Fennel was reportedly bedridden in
a Long Island sanitarium for the nervously
disturbed.
Gideon felt sorry for the Fennels now. Yet
compassion didn't eradicate his feeling that they were
worthless, venal people. People unmoved by principle,
indifferent to corruption, driven by greed and concerned
only with whether or not others admired and envied them.
In Gideon's opinion there were too many people like the
Fennels in America. Perhaps it was merely part of a
cycle which would reverse itself if the
electorate again turned to leaders of substance; men
who put principle above the kind of conventional thinking
typical of party hacks. Among the
Republicans, Gideon considered young
Roosevelt such a man; a potential leader able
to inspire people to heed their highest impulses instead of
their lowest. On the other side of the political fence
there was an impressive though rather shy professor of
jurisprudence and political economy at
Princeton. Gideon had met him recently. His
name was Wilson.
Other things contributed to Gideon's hope. One was
the country's incredible productivity. Year after
year, America was setting records for industrial
output-and doing it despite depression and
political infighting.
Another strong point was the wondrous flood of
inventions for which the American system provided a
strong material incentive. A week earlier,
he'd taken one of his infrequent forays as a working
journalist and had visited the expanded West
Orange, New Jersey laboratories of
Thomas Edison.
Edison had showed off the machine with which he was
currently tinkering. It was a device for
rapidly projecting a series of still photographs
so as to create the illusion of motion. Amazed and
impressed, Gideon went on to New York with a
valise full of notes which he turned into a
report on the current activities of
America's foremost mechanical genius.
Signs and wonders.
He glanced up, pen in hand, but the first word of his
editorial was still unwritten. A dozen carolers"
had stopped beneath the office window. He listened to their
song. "Ad- este Fidelis," the old, familiar
hymn of praise and faith. He caret found himself
softly singing a phrase or two. Inspired by the
song, a sudden insight flashed into mind. Faith was not
only the essence of the great Christian holiday soon
to be celebrated-the essence, indeed, of all the
world's religions comx was the essence of America as
well. What but faith in the goodness and uniqueness of
its essential principles could unite and sustain a
country as diverse as America? What but faith could
have enabled the country to survive the trials of the
Revolution, the chaos and grief of a civil war-or
the rapacity of a small class of men such as Louis
Kent and Thurman Fennel?
Faith was the essence of the family, too.
Faith-its other name was hope-had brought young
Philip from Auvergne to Boston. And now that the
family was becoming diverse just like the nation, faith in
commonly shared principles was all that could hold it
together in the coming years.
Other Kents before him had left tangible symbols
to show their faith in the family and in its future. That
was
what bothered Gideon most. For months, he'd
been trying to think of what he could leave. He
didn't know.
He looked from the potrait of Philip to the little
bottle containing the thin layer of dried tea. He
examined the other mementoes one by one, feeling a stab
of jealousy when his eye came to rest on the box of
earth from the Union Pacific. Even the Irishman
Michael Boyle had contributed something, and he
hadn't been born a Kent-
"Gideon?"
"Oh-Julia."
He hadn't heard the door open. Smiling, she
glided toward him, her skirts rustling. She bent
over the desk:
"What are you writing, dear?"
With a rueful look, he held up the
blank sheet. "Nothing. It was to be an
editorial, but I can't even get started."
Her faint frown showed she knew something was wrong.
She walked to the window, gazing out at the snow-
covered Common. As he followed, she said, "I'm
so looking forward to the children coming home. Even if Will and
Carter find it hard to get along any more, I'll be
glad to have them here. Sometimes I feel so-*-oh, so
decrepit and worthless without them-was
She turned, her lovely dark eyes tinged with
melancholy. She put her hands on his shoulders.
"We're old, you and I."
He smiled. "Getting there. Getting there. But the
family's in good hands."
"A little over a year ago, you didn't believe
that."
"True. But things are working out."
She leaned back against him and gazed at the snow.
"How beautiful it is." She heard him draw a
quick, sharp breath, and turned. "What's wrong? Is
it the pain in your chest again?"
"No, there's nothing-was
"Gideon Kent, don't try to deceive me. This has
gone on far too long. You must see someone! Your
own son, preferably. He knows about the
pain, by the way."
"He does? How?"
"I should say he suspects. He told me so."
"How did he find out, Julia?"
With a smile that didn't hide her concern, she said,
"Why, I suppose it has something to do with his being a
doctor. He claims he's been aware of certain
symptoms you've been exhibiting for months. I
want you to speak to him the moment he arrives,
Gideon. I won't hear of you saying no this time."
Gideon laughed. "Well-I know better than
to argue with a determined woman. Ill let him look
me over. But I assure you there's nothing wrong.
I won't permit anything to be wrong."
He slipped his arms around her from behind and pulled her
gently against him as the fire crackled and filled the
room with warmth. In his mind he heard bugles
blowing; Stuart singing; cannon roaring. Quickly the
sounds began to fade, just as the song of the carolers was
fading-
"I'll be around ten years more at least," he
promised. "I want to see the Kents safely
into the twentieth century."
"Spoken like a father. You forget your children are grown."
"Yes, I do, don't I?
Constantly."
"They really don't need your protection any
longer. They can get along very well on their own."
"I know." The sadness in those words was relieved by a
smile. "I will, however, fight to the end to keep them
from guessing that I know." He pivoted slowly to the
mantel, the feelings of inadequacy overwhelming.
"I wonder what they'll add to that collection?
I've added nothing."
She turned to face him.
"Is that what you've been thinking about lately? At
times you've seemed very troubled."
He answered with a nod.
"But you've given the family a great deal,
Gideon. Most particularly, three children to carry the
Kents well into the next century. Even Carter will
make his mark, though it probably won't be a
spotless one. Your accomplishment is as real as any
of those objects on the mantel. Don't you see
that?"
"No."
"A few years ago, you doubted there was anyone in the
family to carry it on as you thought it should be carried
on. You admit you've changed your mind-was
"Yes. Because the children have changed."
"Changed and grown. With your guidance! They're
strong, capable people. That's what you've put into this
family. It may not be as visible as Philip's
sword and gun,
or the piece of mast you found. But it's every bit as
substantial."
He thought about that. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she'd
identified the best-the only thing-he could leave behind;
the best that could be left behind by any man. Children who had
been brought up to behave responsibly, and
to believe in something beyond their own self-
gratification.
A bit reassured, he squeezed her arm. A
moment later he said:
"Would you mind if we walked a little?"
"It's very cold, dear."
"We can bundle up. I'd like to go to the
waterfront. I always feel closest to old
Philip down there. A dock was the first piece of
America he felt under his feet. I don't know
whether you understand-was
"Certainly I do. But are you sure you're feeling
up to it?"
"I'm perfectly fit. I tell you I intend
to be around for a good many years yet. Count
on it."
"Oh, Gideon-I will. I love you so much."
"I love you, Julia."
They kissed, long and ardently, while the fire
popped and a log broke and fell. Then the tall,
bearded man and the lovely dark-haired woman left
the room, and the watching eyes of the family's founder.
They donned old coats, scarves and gloves and
overshoes, and stepped into a bright winter night that was
surprisingly windless. Arm in arm, they strolled
slowly through the melting snow, listening to sounds of
Christmas merrymaking behind brightly lit windows, or
catching the occasional music of carolers. Soon they
reached the piers where dark vessels lay creaking in the
cold. The harbor was not yet frozen. A rising
moon glittered on the water that had been witness to so
much history.
During the walk, Gideon had been turning
Julia's remarks over and over in his mind. His
children-and her son-were the legacy the two of them would
leave behind. Will's idealism, and Eleanor's-and
whatever conscience he and Julia had managed
to instill to temper Carter's opportunism com^th were
the mementoes they would add to the family's heritage.
It had taken Julia to make him see
that. Lord, how he
loved her. She was the one who always pulled him through the
hardest times, and made him perceive light in the
darkness. His sense of inadequacy began to fade, and
he was able to fix his attention on the quiet sea
stretching away eastward into moon-silvered darkness.
Out there lay Europe. Philip Kent's
beginnings. The beginnings of the family. A feeling of
tranquility and confidence slowly fell over
Gideon as he stared at the sea. The family was
secure. It would go on, and it would thrive despite
the inevitable reversals that were a part of life.
Eleanor was already carrying still another generation. What
signs and wonders would that child see? Many, dishe was
sure.
How wisely old Philip had chosen. How
wisely and how well. The Kents had grown up in
a good land, and they had contributed in a small way
to that growth and that goodness, Gideon thought as he gazed
at the ocean separating the creaking pier from the great
unseen land mass of Europe. All at once he
was absolutely certain of one thing Julia had said.
He was no longer necessary to the family's survival.
There was a touch of sadness in knowing that, but there was also a
release, and peace.
All at once a worm of pain began to gnaw the
center of his chest. He sat down on a bollard;
drew a labored breath. Then:
"You know, Julia, I never thought I'd live beyond
my forty-seventh year, and now I've nearly made
it. Only a few more days to go."
"Forgive me, darling, but what's so special about
forty- seven?"
He spoke with difficulty, the pain more intense all
at once. But he wasn't alarmed; it had been
almost as intense many times before.
"That's an average man's lifetime. Ten years
longer than it was the year I was born."
"And you didn't think you'd make it?"
"No."
"Well, I'm glad you did. But you should have known you
would."
The pain was crushing. He sat perfectly still.
"Should have known? Why?"
With her voice full of love, she said, "You've
never been an average man, Gideon. You've
made a mark on this fam-
ily that your children and their children will remember forever. Be
proud of that. Be proud of them."
He didn't answer, but he gave an
almost imperceptible nod. In his mind he heard
bugles blowing; Stuart singing; cannon roaring. How
quickly it had all gone. Too quickly-
The lights on an outward bound steamer held
Julia's attention for a moment or so. She didn't
see Gideon stiffen briefly, then appear
to relax. When she looked at him again, his good eye
was closed.
He sat motionless. The wind stirred his gray hair
and beard. She touched him and only then realized he
wasn't asleep.
*
She clasped his shoulder to verify her suspicion.
"Oh, my dearest-was she whispered.
But as the first tears came to her eyes, she saw that
he was smiling.
Afterword
This novel brings to an end a personal adventure
that began with the ringing of a telephone in Dayton,
Ohio in March of 1973. What has happened
since is stunning new proof, in a cynical time,
that the American dream still works.
When
The Bastard
appeared in October 1974, no one had
heard of the book-and quite a few people didn't want
to speak the name aloud, let alone be seen with a copy.
Not a very auspicious beginning.

Yet in this country, miracles can and do happen still.
I take very little of the credit. I continue to maintain
that the success of the American Bicentennial
Series-now the Kent Family Chronicles-was
created not so much by the books themselves as by the countless
readers who, one by one, told other readers about the
series. No publishing company's computer can foresee
such a circumstance, nor any editorial committee
duplicate it at will-though publishers devoutly
wish the reverse was true in each case.
In writing
The Americans, I
was faced with a problem common to all the novels in the
series-too much fascinating background material,
and too few pages to contain it. The front matter
of
The Bastard
still haunts me. In it, I stated that the series would
carry the Kents to 1976, which of course was the
original plan. But just as human beings have a habit
of doing, some members of my fictional
family went their own ways, too. Thus, as this is
written, another ninety-plus years of American
history await the imprint of the Kents.
After the final book was announced, a good many readers
wrote to ask that the series be continued. A couple of
faithful fans of my old science fiction even
suggested carrying the Kents into the next century. And
in 1976, one youngster sent me a letter containing this
idea. In the
1920's, a metal cylinder carrying a
super-powerful infant from another planet is
discovered in a field by a kindly farmer named Kent,
who is shown to be Philip's descendants. The
farmer and his wife adopt the child, christen him Clark,
and ... the rest is delightful speculation.
It's not inconceivable that one of these days the story
of the Kents might be resumed. But eight long
books in a little over five years represents a
sizable piece of work. It's time to step back,
take a breath, reflect on the past and consider some
alternatives for the future.
Institutions that were helpful while I was researching
certain sections of this novel include the New
York Public Library, the Newport
Historical Society, the Francis
A. Countway Library of Medicine at Harvard
Medical School, and the Widener Library,
Harvard University.
For guidance to valuable source material, I am
indebted to Professor William Bullough of the
History Department of the University of California
at Hayward, and Jim Eason, who put me in
touch with Professor Bullough.
Special thanks are owed to Mrs. Anne
Donate, Curator of the Waring Historical
Library, Medical University of South
Carolina, who opened the library's fine collection
of old texts and equipment for my use, and
coordinated the vetting of one key section of the
manuscript by a number of experts.
Thanks are also due to Verne H. Dodson,
M.d.; Bernard Ferrara, M.d.; Mrs.
Rose Ann Ferrick; Ms. Debra
Kordansky; Signorina Anna Pani;
Professors Vincent Serpa and Cornelius
Van Zwoll; and Mrs. Nancy Topcik and her
father-in-law, A. A. Topcik, M.d.
It would have been impossible for me to locate and
obtain many of the necessary research materials without the
unstinting help of the Beaufort County,
South Carolina, library system, and especially the
Hilton Head Island branch under the able and friendly
direction of Mrs. Lucille Muir. I cannot
say the following too strongly, however. None of the
institutions or individuals mentioned is in any
way responsible for errors of fact or judgment which
the reader may find in
The Americans.
Beverly Lewis of Jove Books provided
deft editorial guidance along the way. And this is
an appropriate place to extend thanks
to Sondra Ordover, formerly of Jove, and to Stan
Newman of MCA Publishing. Their patience

and good counsel were most helpful during the unsettled
days during which Jove was being acquired by MCA.
And, of course, I continue to owe thanks to the
producer of the series, Lyle Kenyon Engel for a
fruitful association.
It's been gratifying for me to chart the kind of
readership the Kent Family Chronicles have
attracted. Some novels are read mostly by women,
others largely by men-but if incoming mail is any
guide, the Kent novels have drawn an audience
divided just about equally between the sexes.
Readers come literally from all walks of life-career
women to homemakers, corporation presidents
to prison inmates. No one age group
dominates. Students write me, and so do men and
women far older.
Nothing could give me more pleasure. The story of our
country, which I have attempted to research and present
accurately in these eight novels, belongs to all of
us.
And so, to the millions of Americans who have
adopted the Kents as a sort of second
family-as I have-my everlasting thanks.
JOHN JAKES
About the Author
JOHN JAKES was born in Chicago. He is
a graduate of DePauw University, and took
his M.a. in literature at Ohio State. He
sold his first short story during his second year of
college, and his first book twelve months later.
Since then he has published more than 200 short
stories and over 50 books-chiefly suspense,
nonfiction for young people and, most recently, science
fiction. With the publication of
The Furies,
volume four of the Kent Family
Chronicles, he became the first author in history
to land three novels on the best seller lists within a
single year. The author is married, the father of four
children, and lists among his organizations the Authors
Guild, the Dramatists Guild, and Science
Fiction Writers of America. In both 1976 and
1977 he was awarded honorary doctorates for his
contribution to the Bicentennial observance. He
says the most satisfying aspect of the phenomenal
success of the Kent family novels is "the mail
which reports that a reader has been motivated
to seek out some good nonfiction in order to read about
American history in greater detail. That kind of
direct response is what writing is all about-
and it makes all the hard work worthwhile."