by John Jakes
Michael scowled, pointing at the darkening skin just below the boy’s hairline. “It could be dangerous to move him—”
“It’ll be a lot more dangerous if he stays here! Get him to a doctor! Now!”
“I can’t leave you to face—”
“Michael, I’m not going! You can carry Louis better and faster than I. There are things here I have to protect—”
The front door splintered. Scraps of wood fell inward. The disembodied hand, bloodied by the broken glass, was still groping for the bolt. Michael’s face showed his agony as he tried to decide what to do.
“I’ll be all right!” She held up the revolver, turned the cylinder. “I’ve four more shots—and I’m sure the neighbors have already summoned the police—”
From the portico came another strident yell: “Shoot the fuckin’ horse, Mickey!”
An explosion. A wild scream of animal pain.
“There goes the driver! Catch him—!”
With a grind and crash, the carriage was overturned. Michel and Amanda heard the driver’s shrieks—
“Damn you, Michael, go!”
The young Irishman rushed to Louis, lifted him in both arms. With one last look at his employer, he hurried toward the dining room. He moved swiftly; yet Amanda was conscious of the extreme care with which he held the still figure of the boy—
Let him get away, she prayed. Let my son live—
The red hand found the bolt at last. As she retreated toward the library, the already ruined front door swung inward, wrenched off its top hinge by the force of the men crowding against it. In the drive, the coachman was still screaming.
Just as she started to close the library doors, she glimpsed a lick of flame. The carriage set afire—
Burly, oafish, the men spilled into the long front hall.
One who was faster than the rest leaped at Mr. Mayor. The frightened torn started to run. The thug caught him by the tail.
The white cat yowled, claws slashing. The thug swung him hard. The cat’s head broke open, spattering the wall—
Amanda saw that an instant before she locked the doors. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wood, listening to the sounds of the carnage: shouts, filthy language, furniture breaking, windows smashing, draperies being ripped down—
She stumbled around behind the desk. She put the Colt on a pile of papers, picked up the display case containing Jared’s medallion. She carried it to the mantel and set it up beside the tea bottle. She retrieved the Colt, returned to the mantel and stood there, waiting—
Bart said it would come to this. Take up the sword—perish with the sword.
Perhaps if I hadn’t hated Stovall so much—or wanted Kent’s so badly—Louis wouldn’t have attacked Kathleen—
Nor this mob come—
And Stovall wouldn’t have hit my son—
If, IF!—the complexities of cause and effect tormented her as she waited for the first onslaught against the library doors—
Shoulders slammed the outside of the panels. Her heart beat frantically as she positioned herself two steps out from the mantel.
The bolt housing tore loose.
The doors swayed.
Buckled—
“There’s the bitch!”
“Give her what-for—”
“For Kathleen McCreery!”
She had a wild glimpse of half a dozen men milling in the hall. One had his penis in his hand, urinating on the carpet—
The men charged her across the wreckage of the doors. She shot the first one in the chest.
He screamed and slapped his frayed jacket, slammed backwards into the arms of his companions. While she revolved the cylinder, the thugs retreated into the hall again, yelling and cursing as they tried to free themselves from the weight of the dead man. One thug stepped on Stovall’s head.
“Mickey, damn ye, where are ye, boy?”
“Mickey, bring your gun—!”
The whole house thundered: heavy boots slammed the ceiling; glass crashed and tinkled; great thumps and thuds and splintering sounds built to a deafening din.
The thugs advanced cautiously outside the library doorway, using the walls to hide themselves from Amanda. One bearded face suddenly peered around the splintered frame. She aimed the Colt. The face disappeared. In the distance, bells clanged. Police wagons. Blocks away, but coming fast. Distracted by the sound, she failed to see the hand that snaked around the doorframe clasping a small, shiny-plated pistol. The moment she did see it, the pistol gave off a loud pop.
She started to duck behind Michael’s favorite chair. Something struck her below her left breast. She glanced down, faint all at once. Her dress was stained dark red.
She dropped to her knees, one hand on the chair so she wouldn’t fall. The wound began to hurt.
“You got ’er, Mickey!” a man howled, charging into the room. “Let’s tear the fuckin’ place apar—”
She shot him between the legs. The bullet lifted him off his feet and hurled him on top of the man she’d shot in the chest.
The library was smoky now. She gasped for breath, stood up despite the pain, stretched out her left hand, groping for the mantel—
The pain was constant, hard to bear. But she wouldn’t let them reach her. She wouldn’t let them pull down the sword or the rifle. Wouldn’t let them smash the green bottle or the case with Jared’s medallion—
Another man tried. He almost had his hands on her before she blew away half his face.
That sent the attackers fleeing back into the hall, out of the line of fire.
The bells clanged louder. Hoofs rattled on concrete.
Iron-tired wheels screeched. Under the portico, someone yelled: “Police—!”
There were panicked cries, the sound of pounding feet, a last crash of glass from somewhere at the rear of the house—
Amanda held on to the mantel with all her strength. The left side of her dress was soaked red from breast to hip—
I killed Stovall, she thought, gazing down at the blood. And what did Jephtha say?
Without blood there is no remission of sin—
Her blurring eyes moved to the wall clock.
Fifteen until ten.
Fifteen minutes more and the steamer would put out from North River bound for Canada—
She almost smiled.
She let go of the mantel and the Colt revolver at the same time, unconscious before she struck the carpet.
Chapter XI
Judgment
i
AMANDA KENT DE LA GURA LIVED seventeen days after the attack on her home. She lay in her bedroom on the second floor, conscious for short periods, and in relatively little pain at first. During one of the brief periods of wakefulness, Michael Boyle told her eight men had been caught and arrested by the police; the rest had escaped. No connection between any of the eight prisoners and Isaiah Rynders could be established, he informed her somewhat cynically.
Occasionally Amanda heard unfamiliar voices, the faint rasp of saws on the first floor, the rap of hammers. Workmen had already begun repairing the damage, estimated at eighty thousand dollars.
In Amanda’s room, there was no evidence of the attack. The draperies had been replaced. The damaged furniture had been removed. The thugs had destroyed furnishings throughout the house, smashed great holes in the plaster, ripped up carpeting and defecated on the floors. But while Amanda slept, Michael supervised the quiet work of making it seem as though her bedchamber hadn’t been touched.
Sometime on the second or third day, a doctor bent over her. She didn’t recognize him. Since moving to New York City, neither she nor her son had ever required a doctor’s care. In fact she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been seriously ill.
Now, however, it was a different matter. The doctor told her the pistol ball had lodged in or near her left lung, and couldn’t be removed. She knew from his expression she was going to die.
“I’ve also been attending your son,” h
e said.
“Where”—at times, speaking even a few words was difficult—“where is—?”
“Mrs. Ludwig’s home. We’ll move him here as quickly as we can. Young Mr. Boyle got him to me in time. He suffered a wicked concussion but I believe he’ll pull through.”
She fell asleep weeping.
ii
On the fourth day, Michael brought her a Tribune with the account of Hamilton Stovall’s funeral, and a letter postmarked in the nation’s capital. She could barely find strength to hold the envelope.
“I can’t read it, Michael. The hand seems familiar—”
“I opened it, Mrs. A. It’s from your cousin’s son.”
“Jephtha? He’s alive—?”
“In Washington. He doesn’t think he can go back to his family.”
“Is—is there an address?”
Michael pointed it out. “A Methodist parsonage.”
“Write him. Tell him—to come here. Shelter—”
“What, Mrs. A?” He bent close to her.
“Shelter him,” she whispered as her eyes closed. “Help him—start again—”
iii
On the sixth day, Theo Payne arrived from Boston in response to a telegraph message Michael had sent. Amanda smelled the whiskey on Payne’s breath the moment he entered the bedroom, turning his hat brim nervously in his hands.
He sat on a chair at the bedside, listening attentively.
“Downstairs—there’s a manuscript. I want—Kent’s to publish it. I want—you to stay on as—the editor.”
“Stay on?”
“Mr. Benbow—has approached the Stovall estate. They are—willing to sell. The executors have no—have no”—she struggled to get the words out—“objections to my politics, and—and my money is as good as—anyone’s. I want you to teach my son all you know, Theo. I want the firm to—to stand for something again.”
“You know my position. I am strongly in favor of abolitionism. I would even propose starting a newspaper similar to the one Kent and Son once published.” Eagerness livened his voice. “I’ve had experience in that line, you know—”
“If you do start a paper,” she whispered, “it must do more than—than support freedom for the slaves. It must—it must stand for that and—preserving the Union too—”
Payne looked downcast. “I’m not sure both can be done together—”
A moment later he leaned forward. “What did you say?”
Silently, her lips formed two words: “Must be.”
After several minutes had passed, he assumed she wasn’t going to waken again soon. He began to tiptoe out.
“Theo—”
He started, unnerved by the unexpected loudness of her voice. He turned back. Her eyes were open, clear and alert.
“Theo,” she said, “clean the sign.”
“The sign? Oh—the one in front of the firm—”
“Better still, have—a new one painted. It’s a goddamn disgrace.”
He watched her eyes close again, then continued to the door, vaguely ashamed because he wanted to whoop with joy.
iv
Rose visited on the seventh day. It was a tiring experience for Amanda, because Rose seemed all bluster and profanity.
“Damn it, Amanda, you’ve got to—to get out of that bed—I don’t have—another friend who’ll tolerate my cigars or—or go out with me in public wearing—trousers—Jesus Christ, how horridly I’m behaving! I can’t help it. I can’t help it—”
She hid her face with both hands.
v
On the ninth day, summoned at Amanda’s request, William Benbow, Junior, arrived from Boston. With the door of the bedroom closed, the attorney showed her the papers transferring legal guardianship of Louis Kent de la Gura to Michael Boyle.
“Only one—mistake,” she said. “Scratch out—de la Gura. His name is Louis—Kent.”
Old Benbow helped guide her hand so she could write her signature. It was all but illegible.
vi
On the eleventh day, Amanda felt sufficiently alert to hold another short conversation with Michael. She wore a lavender bed gown that Brigid had helped her put on. Her hair, unpinned, lay fanned on the pillow, so nearly white that it was almost indistinguishable from the linen. From time to time, her wrinkled face constricted with pain.
“Michael—?”
“I’m here.”
She clutched his extended hand, treasuring its warmth.
“Louis is—?”
“Perfectly fine, though still sleeping a good deal.”
“I wish I could see him.”
“Why, you will, Mrs. A. You’ll be up and ab—”
“No, I”—she coughed—“won’t and you know it. I think I—forgot to ask before. Did anyone—find Tunworth—?”
“The night of the attack? No. I expect he was safely in the Astor House when it took place. He’s gone home minus one nigger.”
“About Jephtha—”
“I wrote him. I invited him here to live.”
“Good. Remember, all the Ophir money—is his—along with the profits of the issues I bought with part of that money—”
“I’ll see he gets every penny.”
“You—mustn’t—say that word again, either.”
“What word?”
“Nigger. I—don’t like it. You’re not a slum boy any longer, Michael. You’re—part of my family now. You are all I have to depend on—the only one who—can take Louis in hand—see that he grows up to be—straight and decent—and learns the business under Theo Payne—”
“I won’t say the word again, Mrs. A,” Michael whispered. “I don’t think I’m fit for the responsibility you’ve laid on me. But I’ll try to be worthy of it.”
She sighed, a faint, reedy sound. “I did so much that was wrong—”
“And so much that was right.”
“But”—she seemed not to hear—“at least Kent’s will be back in the family.”
“Yes. Benbow says all’s proceeding smoothly.”
“Michael—” Frantic pressure from her feeble fingers. “You must promise me—”
“What?”
“Never tell—Louis how—Stovall died.”
“I had already decided I wouldn’t. One of the mobsters was found dead with a pistol on his body. A copper whacked the fellow too hard with his stick. So the story is, the dead chap’s the one who shot Mr. Stovall. The press has already printed it that way. The ball from your Colt was of much larger caliber. But the police over-looked that. I—I’m afraid I bribed them to do so. There’s little point in them prosecuting a woman who—”
He stopped abruptly.
“Who is going to die?”
A long silence.
“Michael—?”
“Yes?”
“When you put up a headstone—in Watertown—”
“Oh, Mrs. A, what’s this morbid talk of headstones?”
“Listen to me. Along with my husband’s name, I want the name Kent on it. Amanda Kent de la Gura—” She began to drift off, murmuring it over and over, “Kent. Kent—”
Crying silently, Michael Boyle held her hand long after she was unconscious.
vii
One the fifteenth day, she thought she had begun to hallucinate. She saw a familiar face, gray eyes, hair whiter than she remembered it—
“Bart?”
“Yes, sweet, it’s me.”
“How—how is it possible?”
“Why, the story of the mob’s attack has been telegraphed to papers all over the country. Along with the account of how you probably helped a nigra girl escape to Canada. You should hear them cuss you in Charleston! That’s where I read about it—”
“Charleston! I—tried to write you in London—”
He shook his head. “I went home. Damned if I can altogether explain why—unless it was the feeling of starting to grow old among people I didn’t know very well. The folk in Britain are marvelous. Polite. Hospitable—and the Royal Sceptre
captaincy paid far better than I’d expected, once I added in the primage. But after I lost you, somehow I came to feel I—I didn’t have anything. Not even a home. If a man doesn’t have a woman—and I swore I’d never fuss with another until I met you—I suppose he should at least have a home. I never figured I’d do it, but one day I gave notice to Royal Sceptre and walked out. I confess I damn near bawled when the steamer sailed in past Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie and I saw the Battery in Charleston again. I’m running a little cotton packet up and down the coast—”
She tried to laugh; it came out as a faint rasp. “You—took sides after all.”
“Guess I did, in a way.”
“So did I—” An image of Jared’s medallion drifted into her mind. “You were right, no—no one can stay out of it.”
“Listen, you’ll never get me to a political meeting, sweet! I’m content to savor the southern climate as is—I stay far away from platforms where Yancey and Rhett and some of the other secessionist fire-eaters puff out their sulfurous rhetoric—”
“There’s—so much hate on both sides now—”
“Yes, there is.” He looked at her with forlorn eyes. “It’ll tear this country apart.”
“The Union has to survive. The country has to survive—”
“Not certain it can, sweet.”
“There’s too much that’s good at stake. Too much that was hard-won—”
“But it’s a matter of principle on both sides. And the voices keep getting louder—”
“There are other voices. Kent’s will be one soon. Against slavery—”
“Well, there you go!”
“But against bloodshed too—”
“Amanda,” he said, “it’s an impossible problem. The north will never countenance slavery, and the south will never give it up. Each wants its own way. That always leads to but one conclusion. ‘Perish with—’ ”
Abruptly, he cut off the sentence, realizing it had a closer and more painful meaning.
She recognized his discomfort. “You were right about that too. Stovall’s dead. I shot him. He attacked Louis—might have killed him—”
