The Furies

by John Jakes

  The scar was the result of trouble on the piers. Michael Boyle had worked as a longshoreman since he was eleven years old. At twenty, he had joined a worker’s movement to increase wages five cents per hour during the twelve-hour day.

  The bosses who controlled the dock crews worked more on behalf of the ship owners than on behalf of their own men. Someone had informed on the leaders of the wage movement. One by one, those longshoremen had suffered mysterious accidents. On his way home one evening, Michael Boyle had been waylaid by unknown assailants and beaten until he could barely crawl. During the beating, a man had slashed at his throat with a knife. Michael had dodged. The blade cut his forehead open.

  After that, he’d never been able to get employment as a longshoreman. All the dock bosses knew him as an agitator. He had worked at odd jobs until a year ago, when Amanda had hired him over eleven other applicants who had presented themselves in response to a newspaper advertisement for a confidential clerk. The advertisement was one of the few in the paper that didn’t carry the line No Irish need apply.

  From all Louis could tell, Amanda was well pleased with her choice. Michael was self-educated, a voracious reader—something uncommon in the Five Points. His parents had come from a village in County Antrim, where his father had belonged to the Hearts of Steel—one of the gangs that harassed the English landlords. “A brawling boy,” Michael had once said of his father, without implying praise or admiration. “The village matched his temperament exactly. My father often repeated a joke—true or not, I can’t say—about one of the local ladies who walked out of her cottage one morning and said with a smile, ‘A lovely day—ten o’clock and not a blow struck yet.’ ”

  When the first of the famines devastated Ireland in ’22, the Boyles had removed to America—going no further than New York because they had no funds, and because they were soured on the idea of working land; the land in Ireland had already rejected them. Five years after Michael was born, his father had died in a bloody confrontation between two of the Five Points gangs. His mother had lasted only two years more. Michael had survived by determination and his wits.

  Louis admired the young Irishman’s obvious strength. He liked his quiet cheerfulness. At the same time, he occasionally resented Michael’s growing closeness to his mother.

  Now Michael leaned down and scooped up his white cat. Mr. Mayor was a huge, rather sinister-looking torn. He regarded Louis from the crook of his master’s elbow. The young man said, “You’re looking odd, Louis. Got a bellyache?”

  “No,” Louis replied, too quickly. “I’m fine.”

  Michael grinned. “Whatever you say. I’ve a plate of mutton in the library. Care for some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Come in and keep me company for a bit, at least.”

  Louis hesitated. To lull Michael’s suspicions, he’d better do it. “All right.”

  He followed Michael through the double doors into the overheated room.

  About half of the library’s wall space was filled with ceiling-high bookcases. Near the outer windows stood a desk uttered with papers and ledgers. Along the wall on Louis’ right, another table held the telegraphic equipment that connected the house with the Rothman Bank in Boston.

  Michael’s booted feet scraped on the carpet, a sound slightly louder than the hissing of the two gas jets over the mantel. Four logs burned in the grate. Beside Michael’s chair, a small taboret bore a platter heaped with slices of meat.

  Mr. Mayor jumped from Michael’s arms. The cat had come with the young man from Five Points, his only possession. Michael had christened him Mr. Mayor “because he’s ten times as intelligent as most incumbents, and could do a better job even without the power of speech—which in the case of a politician is usually a hindrance, since it permits his idiotic ideas to be heard.”

  The cat put his forepaws on the edge of the taboret, shot out his head as if to sample a bit of the mutton. Michael batted him away.

  Then, stepping carefully between two piles of manuscript paper at the foot of the chair, Michael sat down. He helped himself to a slice of mutton which he tore into smaller pieces, stuffing them into his mouth one at a time.

  “I’ve never seen one person eat so much, so often,” Louis said. “And how can you stand this heat?”

  “Because I spent the winters in the streets when I was growing up. Never felt the warmth of a fire—nor tasted decent food, either. I expect in forty years, I might get my fill of both.”

  Louis wandered to the mantel, gazing at the French infantry sword hung horizontally above the Kentucky rifle. The small green glass bottle half filled with powdery tea shimmered in the gaslight.

  He heard Michael riffling some of the manuscript sheets, then caught the distant creak of a floorboard overhead.

  Kathleen.

  Turning down the beds—

  He couldn’t stay here long. Not if he meant to do what he’d promised his classmates.

  “How is Professor Pemberton treating you?” Michael wanted to know.

  Louis turned, wondering why Michael had raised that subject. He avoided the young man’s eyes, gazing instead at the oil painting of his great-grandfather hanging on the outer wall. On a smaller table underneath the painting and behind the desk, a glass display case with wooden ends held cousin Jared’s medallion. The medallion stood vertically, wedged into a slot in a small velvet pedestal. Lying on the velvet in front of the pedestal was a frayed circlet of tarred rope.

  Louis answered the question carefully. “The school’s boring.”

  “Ah, but you must suffer through if you’re to go on to Harvard as your mother intends.”

  “I wonder if she’ll let me use my right name in college. I feel funny being called Louis de la Gura. Everyone thinks I’m a foreigner.”

  Bitterness crept in when Michael replied, “And foreigners aren’t the most popular souls in New York, are they?”

  “Michael, do you know why I’m not allowed to call myself Louis Kent?”

  “Why, how should I know that? I’m only hired help. What does your mother say when you ask her?”

  “Nothing that makes much sense. She just says it’s necessary to keep the Kent name hidden a while longer—” He shook his head, gesturing at the sword and rifle. “If she’s so proud of our family, you’d think she’d tell everyone who we are.”

  “I can’t give you an explanation. It’s not in my province,” Michael answered, his voice so flat Louis suspected the clerk knew more than he was saying. He’d brought up the subject with Michael once before, receiving the same sort of evasive answer.

  “I wish you’d stop your fidgeting, Louis. You’re making me nervous.”

  Louis forced his hands to his sides. “Was I fidgeting?”

  “You were. Are you sure nothing’s bothering you?”

  “No,” Louis lied. His eyes slid to the wall clock above the telegraph equipment. The hands had reached ten past the hour.

  I must go upstairs. She’ll be finished soon—

  “What is Professor Pemberton having you read these days?”

  “Plutarch.”

  “In Latin or English?”

  The boy grimaced. “Latin. I just can’t get the hang of it—the other boys have studied it for much longer—”

  “Don’t feel discouraged. I’ve listened to Latin mass for years, and I can’t get the hang of it either.”

  Mr. Mayor jumped up on Michael, purring audibly. After digging his claws in Michael’s trousers a couple of times—earning a gentle knock between the ears—the cat settled down in the young man’s lap. Michael slid the polished toe of a boot toward the stacks of manuscript.

  “If you need something to read, perhaps you’d find this a little more interesting. It came late this afternoon, delivered from one of the California Steamers.”

  Louis craned around to study the closely written sheets. “What is it?”

  “The autobiography of your mother’s nigger manager.”

  “I don’
t understand why she had him write it—Kent’s will never publish it, will they?”

  “Not under present management,” Michael agreed. “Your mother had the nigger go ahead because she’s confident she’ll own the company soon.”

  “How?”

  Michael’s eyes moved away. “Oh, she’s working on it in various ways—” Another evasion.

  “Is the manuscript any good?”

  “Not half bad, actually.”

  “Mr. Hope’s a bright man.”

  “Also an enterprising one. The parcel contained a letter saying the Ophir Combine’s about to begin work at the claim in the mountains. They’ve completed the flume that brings in water, and Hope and Mr. Pelham look for handsome profits.” He grinned. “You’re going to be richer than ever.”

  Louis didn’t answer.

  “I am a bit surprised a colored fellow could do so well in business,” Michael added. “And turn out an acceptable manuscript.”

  “You don’t care for the colored, do you, Michael?”

  Michael Boyle’s bright hair guttered as he raised his head.

  “I don’t hate them, if that’s what you’re asking. Neither do I think all this effort on their behalf is warranted. You see, Louis, the famines in the old country have grown worse and worse. You know how many boatloads of Irish dock in New York every year—”

  “Dozens.”

  Michael nodded. “I’ve read we may have two hundred thousand arrivals this year alone. Hoping for a fresh beginning—which includes work. To every such family, a black face means competition for the job that can spell the difference between survival and starvation. It’s not surprising abolitionism is hated in the slums. If the abolitionists had their way, there’d be just that many more free nigger laborers pouring into the northern cities. Poor white people are starving to death not twenty blocks from here, Louis! Yet some of the great thinkers can talk of nothing but the unfortunate colored man. They should look closer to home! To the babies who die out in the heat of Mulberry Street in the summer, put there because some girl can’t afford to feed her own mouth, let alone her infant’s when it grows. I’ve seen other babies who were gnawed to death by rats that got into their cradles. The babies were left alone while their mothers strolled Paradise Square to earn twenty-five cents with a man. Walsh knows the way it is, right enough.”

  He was referring to a colorful, audacious city politician. With the aid of a group of raucous roughnecks Walsh called his Spartan Band, he had finally forced recognition of New York’s Irish constituency by the Tammany Democrats, and gone on to represent the constituency in the State Assembly and, in 1850, the Congress.

  “Walsh told those do-gooders in Washington that the only difference between the nigger slave in the south and the white wage slave up here is that one has a master without asking for him, while the other has to beg for the privilege!”

  He was interrupted by the rhythmic clanging of a gong attached to the wall above the telegraph equipment and just to one side of the clock. He jumped up—ruffling Mr. Mayor, who stalked off to a corner.

  Michael crossed to the table as the Morse sounder clicked off a rapid series of dots and dashes. He scowled at the sounder until it was silent.

  “That’s the third time the bank’s telegraphed since five o’clock. I keep telling them she hasn’t returned—”

  Louis knew Rothman’s kept a telegraph operator on duty in Boston until midnight five days a week, and until noon on Saturday. His mother paid the operator’s wages.

  Michael pulled a chair up to the table, noted the time of the query on a pad between the sounder and the transmitting key. He wiped his fingertips on his trousers, then began to operate the key, a horizontal knife switch that opened and closed the circuit to form the dots and dashes. Louis walked quickly to the door—the interruption provided a good excuse—but Michael had trained himself so thoroughly in Mr. Morse’s code, he was able to keep sending his message and swing around to look at Louis at the same time—

  But Louis was already out the door. As he shut it, Michael’s golden brown eyes fixed on his, puzzled—

  He suspects something, Louis thought, flushed again.

  All at once he resented Michael’s curiosity. The young Irishman was just an employee, not a member of the family. It wasn’t his business if Louis had decided to—

  To—

  He couldn’t even complete the thought.

  Did he have enough nerve to go ahead? If only he hadn’t made those rash promises to his classmates—!

  But he had. So there wasn’t much choice, was there?

  All right, he’d take the first step and see what happened.

  He stole into the darkened dining room. At the sideboard, he pulled out a decanter of whiskey. He’d tried whiskey before, surreptitiously, and destested it. But he’d heard whiskey made a person bolder. He un-stoppered the decanter, tilted it and let a little of the liquor trickle down his throat.

  He winced, wiped his eyes, shivered in the darkness as the telegraph key went silent on the other side of the dining room wall. He listened. Heard Michael’s footsteps. Then silence. He’d evidently returned to his chair. Somewhere below, rattling crockery told Louis the servants had concluded their meal—

  Except for Kathleen. She would be finishing the bedrooms: lighting the gas, plumping the pillows, arranging the coverlets—

  One more swallow of whiskey set his head to aching faintly. He drew a deep breath, returned the decanter to the sideboard and, after a soft belch that burned his throat, started for the rear hall.

  As he climbed the steps, the brief headache passed. He felt warmer. Almost bold. What did he care if Michael Boyle wondered about his behavior? What did he care what anyone thought? His mother was a wealthy woman whose money permitted her to do anything she wished. He was no different—

  He felt the stiffness again, without shame. He’d have a juicy tale to report on Monday.

  iii

  Louis stole along the second-floor corridor toward the spill of light at the open door of his room. As he approached, he could hear small sounds: the rustle of bedding, Kathleen humming—

  He squared his shoulders and pressed his palm to his mouth to hold back another belch. The whiskey had produced a feeling of confidence that enabled him to smile as he turned in at the bedroom door.

  He was on the point of speaking when he noticed the curve of Kathleen’s hip. She was leaning over the large bed, adjusting the covers. Her shiny black skirt shimmered in the glare of the gas. Snow ticked against the far windows.

  The sight of Kathleen bent that way, the curve of her buttocks accentuated by her posture, brought him to full and painful rigidity. He knocked on the open door.

  Kathleen screeched and spun around. One hand flew to the bosom of her dress. She had coppery hair all but concealed by her cap, a blunt chin and heavily freckled cheeks. Her mouth was full, her eyes pale blue. Her black dress and over-the-shoulder apron fit her ample breasts snugly.

  “Good evening, Kathleen,” he said, taking a step inside but blocking the door.

  “Good evening, Master Louis,” she said, still red in the cheeks. “You came in so softly—startled me half to death.”

  “Thinking of something else, were you? A gentleman friend?”

  The girl was obviously stunned by his directness. “No, sir, I—I don’t have any—” She swallowed. “I’ll be finished in a moment.”

  “Good,” he said, pivoting away. Kathleen’s eyes had a peculiar, almost alarmed look. She hadn’t missed the telltale bulge of his trousers.

  Louis strolled to the window. His palms itched as he stared out at the snow-dusted roof of the mansion next door. But he didn’t really see it. He saw only Kathleen’s body—

  “All done, sir. I’ll be going now—”

  He turned around. “Close the door.”

  For a moment she appeared not to understand. She took a hesitant step backward. “Master Louis, did you say—?”

  “You heard very cl
early what I said. Walk to the door and close it.”

  Fright shone in her eyes. She shook her head. “Sir, that isn’t proper—”

  “I don’t care what’s proper. I want you to close the door!”

  He moved toward her. His hand shook as he raised it to her left breast. She closed her eyes and shuddered. With his other hand fisted and quivering at his side, he touched her breast with the back of his hand, then pressed upward.

  Kathleen appeared on the point of tears. “Please, Master Louis, may I leave?”

  “You may not. I’ve been taken by your looks ever since my mother hired you, Kathleen. I’ve wanted to talk to you—get acquainted—”

  Her eyes opened, tearful and angry. “And what else, sir?”

  “Oh, don’t act so innocent. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a man before—”

  “Jesus and Mary be my witnesses, I have not! I’m a decent person—”

  He guffawed, his dark eyes like black stones. “Come on! No Irish wench from the Five Points stays decent for long.”

  “That’s a nasty thing to say! I’ve taken no man, and I won’t till I’m properly wed by a priest.”

  “I think you’re going to change your mind very shortly, Kathleen.”

  “You’ve been at the whiskey!” she exclaimed, pulling away from the press of his hand, “I can smell it. The whiskey’s the reason you’re saying all this—”

  “I’m saying it because I like you.”

  She lunged for the door. “I won’t stay here another—ah!”

  She cried out when he caught her forearm and dragged her back, stretching out his leg to catch the door with his toe and set it moving. Softly, the door clicked shut.

  He maneuvered against her, his hands slipping around her waist. He drew her close. She shook her head and muttered incoherent syllables. She tried to pull away from the stiffness thrusting against her skirt but he held her fast, working his fingers in the fabric of her skirt—

  “I ask you for the sake of decency, Master Louis, stop this—”

  “I won’t”—he put his mouth near her left ear, aroused all the more by the tickling touch of her hair and the lace of her cap—“because I know you’re like all Irish girls. I know what you really want—”