Lawless

by John Jakes

  Behind him he heard heavy boots hammer, then stop. The stable hands? Evidently so. Courtleigh saw them, hesitated, finally gestured them back.

  Gideon held the shirt at arm’s length, down where Courtleigh could see it clearly. “One of your thugs put a knife in Torvald Ericsson. He died the same night.”

  White, Courtleigh could barely croak, “That—that is a foul piece of—character assassination, an—utter lie.”

  “Now we know how you protect your profits, Courtleigh. By killing children!”

  Courtleigh lost control and fairly screamed at Gideon, “You’re lying. You’re a filthy liar!”

  “Of course he’s lying,” a woman cried. “Tom would never do anything so despicable. The man’s mad.”

  “Mad or a Communard, it’s the same thing,” someone else yelled. There was more hissing and even some oaths quite out of place in the mixed company.

  Courtleigh heard his friends coming to his defense and skillfully took advantage of it. “I don’t deny I sent observers to that gathering of anarchists—”

  “Observers!” Gideon exclaimed, but now Courtleigh had regained some confidence, and outshouted him.

  “They had no orders to hurt anyone, and certainly no orders to hurt children. The very idea is ludicrous!”

  “That’s right,” a male guest bellowed. “Tom’s a law-abiding, God-fearing man. Throw that lying Communard out of here!”

  Other guests echoed it, surging to the foot of the stairs, their mood ugly. A feeling of defeat began to fill Gideon as he spread the shirt by the shoulders.

  Women turned away, covering their mouths with their fans or their gloves. Men cursed him even as their eyes were drawn to the knife slashes in the bloodied fabric.

  “I hear what you say, Courtleigh.” Gideon pitched his voice low on purpose. It stilled the angry outbursts and brought the crowd forward in macabre fascination. “I’m afraid this piece of evidence speaks louder. You note the size? Clearly a boy’s shirt, not a man’s. I took this from the body of Nils Ericsson’s son. Ericsson himself died in the fire, so you don’t have to worry about him. But you do have to worry about me. You can burn this. Bribe all your hired thugs to keep silent. Persuade a few of your fine friends to perjure themselves and testify to your impeccable character—”

  Growls from the crowd at that—an ugly, animal sound. Gideon was badly shaken. He hadn’t expected all of them to be on Courtleigh’s side, but they were.

  “Perhaps you can even convince yourself none of it happened. But I know it did. I saw it. And I can’t be bought or silenced. You’re a murderer, Courtleigh!”

  Gideon flung the shirt.

  Courtleigh leaped back, his eyes fixed on the garment as if it were poisonous. The shirt fluttered down next to the hem of Miss Strother’s ball gown. The sight of the ripped and bloodstained fabric was all it took to shatter her. She started moaning, softly at first, then louder. She stabbed her hands into her carefully arranged, hairdo, tearing it apart.

  Courtleigh shouted, “Get him out of here. Get him out of this house!”

  The crowd roared agreement. The stable hands, both burly young men, rushed Gideon from behind.

  He turned in time to gut punch one of them. The other slashed the edge of his hand across Gideon’s neck, making him stumble and bend forward from the waist with an exclamation of pain. A second chopping blow drove him to his knees.

  The two seized Gideon under the arms of his plum-colored coat and hauled him into the foyer. In the ballroom, a roar of shocked exclamations erupted. But loudest of all were two voices.

  Courtleigh’s fiancée, shrieking as she tore her hair.

  And Courtleigh yelling at her, nearly as hysterical.

  “Be quiet. What’s the matter with you? He’s a lunatic. Every word was false! Can’t you control yourself? Damn you, be quiet! BE QUIET!”

  iv

  The stable hands dragged Gideon to the front door and booted him down the steps. He landed hard. Coachmen formed into small groups. They stood by the pillars at the driveway entrance as he picked himself up and moved unsteadily toward the street.

  One of the stable hands took a threatening step just before Gideon passed. Gideon tensed, ready to defend himself even though he was groggy. The two took note of the glint in his blue eye and decided they’d fulfilled their employer’s orders. After a couple of obscene taunts they turned and strolled back to the mansion.

  Gideon dusted himself off as he reached the street. While he was crossing Twentieth, the orchestra resumed. Mingled with the melody he thought he detected a woman’s screams. But that quickly faded and only the lilting music remained. Hearing it played as if nothing had happened, he felt a stinging sense of failure.

  In the ballroom he’d gotten exactly what he wanted—for a little while. He’d gotten an acknowledgment of Courtleigh’s guilt through his violent behavior. Gideon supposed no one had ever dared to confront the railroad president that way before—in his own home and in front of friends of his own class.

  So perhaps a debt had been discharged in Torvald Ericsson’s name. But only a very small one.

  The music from the mansion swelled, and he asked himself whom he had persuaded. Courtleigh’s friends and cronies would remain that. They would remain the enemies of workingmen.

  What had he changed, then? Nothing. His accusation would have no effect on Courtleigh’s power, Courtleigh’s style of operation, Courtleigh’s determination to resist unions. He had seen Courtleigh squirm, but at best the whole thing was—in Julia’s phrase—a theatrical gesture.

  And instead of feeling good about it, he remembered the rage and loathing in the eyes of Courtleigh’s friends and felt terrible.

  He wiped his perspiring cheek. Time to think about the future—and to do it a little more realistically for a change. What if he kept right on just as he’d planned? What if he wrote about Courtleigh’s crime in the Beacon? Who would believe the charges, or act upon them?

  Again the inevitable answer—no one. Courtleigh would find and pay a score of witnesses to prove he’d never ordered the missing Florian to commit murder.

  The last of the stormy satisfaction vanished. He felt that he, not Thomas Courtleigh, was the loser this evening. He kept thinking of the hostility of the guests. The words with which they’d taunted him.

  Socialist.

  Communard.

  It was almost inevitable that people in Courtleigh’s crowd would believe that of trade unionists. No amount of editorializing would change their minds. But as he trudged up the front steps of Julia’s house, he sadly realized the great majority of Americans also held the same opinion. And he’d never change their minds or break down their prejudices by writing little articles in a paper no one bought.

  He lingered on the stoop, thinking about Julia’s remarks earlier in the evening. The ends for which he was working might be worthy, but the means were laughable. To change even a few minds about the movement was an immense job. The kind of job which required an instrument of great authority and influence, not a little penny sheet, as Julia so aptly called it.

  The answer seemed obvious. The immense task required an instrument like the New York Union.

  Quite without warning, he felt an eerie sense of his father’s presence, a sense of Jephtha being close by and struggling to communicate with him. The Bible verse suddenly came to mind.

  And the Lord said unto him, Surely I will be with thee, and thou shalt smite the Midianites as one man.

  Insights flooded into his mind with incredible speed. Perhaps Jephtha had marked that verse because he believed Gideon could bring about some meaningful changes in society. Perhaps his father had wanted to tell him that.

  Speak to G.

  And was that the end of it? Somehow, Gideon didn’t think so. He had a conviction that his father had believed he must go about his work differently. Julia had been the one to suggest that, just as she’d been the one to suggest the new approach—one which had been in front of him all the tim
e, yet hidden from him by his own narrow frame of reference. It had taken the scene in the ballroom to show him the need for a new means of attacking and overcoming the Courtleighs of America.

  He drew a deep, exhilarated breath. The evening might not be a debacle after all. Just the opposite. He rushed inside to find Julia and discuss the idea that was becoming more appealing to him every moment.

  As it turned out, Gideon was completely wrong in one judgment which he’d made. The effect of his visit to Mr. Thomas Courtleigh’s was not nearly so insignificant as he imagined, though just then he had no way of foreseeing the extent of its profound, even tragic consequences in Courtleigh’s life.

  And his.

  Chapter XI

  Decision in the Rain

  i

  LATE THE NEXT afternoon, Julia and Gideon were taking tea in the second-floor solarium on the south side of the house. Gideon was depressed by the thought of his departure the next day. She felt the same way. Both made a conscious effort to hide their feelings and keep their conversation animated as they discussed his conclusions about his future, and how he meant to implement them.

  “I realize you were right last night, Julia. It’s better to reach ten thousand people than ten. It’s the only way to get public opinion squarely against Courtleigh and his kind.”

  “Don’t be too sure it’ll be possible. At least not immediately.” He remembered Strelnik’s prediction that he would ultimately experience frustration which would vent itself in rage. “I’m not saying the effort shouldn’t be made, Gideon. It should.”

  “Yes, long as I remember one thing.” For a moment he saw a lifeless face in a railroad yard besieged by a winter storm. “The man I’m working for.”

  “The chap you first met on the southbound train after the war?”

  He nodded. “Miller.”

  “I’m sure you won’t forget him, or what he stands for. You’re not the kind to let yourself forget.” A moment’s silence. “Will you speak to Molly soon?”

  “As soon as I put a few things in order. It’ll take a couple of months to tie up the affairs of my penny sheet, as you called it.” He chuckled. “Did you realize that’s what I charge for Labor’s Beacon?”

  “Truly? I confess I’ve never paid much attention to the price.”

  “A cent a copy. I guess I’m living in the past. Inflation killed the penny press years ago.”

  She thought for a moment. “I suppose you realize carrying out your plan won’t be easy.”

  “I’ve found that very few worthwhile accomplishments are easy, Julia. In fact I can only think of one.” A grin. “Inheriting several million dollars.”

  She laughed. “But you’ve really marked out a huge piece of work for yourself. Changing careers—”

  “I can learn whatever I need to learn.” Even if I don’t have Margaret’s help and support any longer, he thought with sadness.

  She smiled. “Yes, I’m sure you can.”

  They looked up as a servant entered carrying a salver with a calling card on it. Julia picked up the card, gave it a casual glance, then sat absolutely motionless. Gideon set his cup on the silver tea cart as she said in a small voice, “Courtleigh.”

  “Here? I don’t believe it.”

  She showed him the card. Tension tightened his throat suddenly. To the servant Julia said, “Ask him to come up, please.”

  They exchanged anxious glances during the seemingly interminable time it took the servant to usher their visitor to the glass-enclosed room where October sunlight fell on potted plants, comfortable furniture and the bright surfaces of the tea set.

  Julia pulled her lace kerchief from her sleeve, twisted it in her fingers. He knew she was probably thinking thoughts much like his. Suppose Courtleigh considered Gideon’s behavior such a gross insult that it could only be repaid with an act of personal revenge. Suppose he’d come calling with a small hideaway pistol.

  He rose, patted Julia’s arm to reassure her and moved to a place near the expanse of glass overlooking open country to the south. The October light was pale because it was late in the day. A thin haze filled the sky, partly the result of the season, partly of the fire.

  Gideon fixed his eye on the solarium entrance. He heard Courtleigh approaching long before the man himself became visible. His tread had a measured, almost sinister steadiness. Finally he appeared.

  “Mr. Courtleigh.” Julia nodded. She rose and smoothed her skirt. Extended her hand.

  Courtleigh made no such effort at courtesy. His hazel eyes flicked over the outstretched hand. “Good afternoon,” he said in a curt way. Gideon went rigid.

  The railroad president was elegantly turned out in a beige tailcoat, waistcoat and trousers, and a maroon-banded hat and gloves of the same soft shade. He touched one glove to an errant lock of wavy auburn hair.

  “I’ll stay only a moment. I find merely being in this house extremely distasteful.”

  Gideon thought he could see Julia’s spine stiffen. “Hardly an auspicious start for a social call,” she said.

  “Not a social call, Miss Sedgwick. An unappealing but necessary visit.” For the first time his attention shifted to Gideon, who had rarely seen such hatred in a human gaze. The eyes reminded him of Tillotson, the sadistic Yankee jailer who had blinded him during his wartime imprisonment. “No matter what you term it,” Courtleigh went on, “I trust my manners will be better than this gentleman’s last evening. He gave a performance worthy of a stage melodrama.”

  Courtleigh’s lips compressed. His gloved fingers closed on the brim of his hat, crushing the rolled edge. “But my house is not a theater, and those at the ball were relatives and personal friends, not gallery hooligans. What you did, Mr. Kent, was insulting, disgusting, and unforgivable.”

  Gideon had trouble controlling his temper. “Shall we compare it to the murder of a ten-year-old boy?”

  Julia could sense the hate crackling between the two men. Perhaps out of instinct, she fell back on the stratagems of the good hostess.

  “Here, gentlemen! A little more politeness on both sides. Sit down, Mr. Courtleigh. Let me pour you a cup of—”

  “No, thank you. I want nothing from the hand of a woman of your questionable morals.”

  “You arrogant bastard!” Gideon strode forward. Julia stepped in front of him.

  “Let’s get this over, Gideon. Clearly it isn’t going to be pleasant.”

  Courtleigh slapped his hat against his trouser leg, squinting into the sunlight suffusing the room. “No, it isn’t. I might even manage to overlook your bizarre performance, Mr. Kent—overlook it and chalk it up to the lunatic zeal which affects all those of the Communard persuasion—” Gideon reddened. “I might, that is, except for the unfortunate condition of my fiancée. Your behavior had a most deleterious effect upon her.” Every trace of sarcasm was gone now. “Miss Strother has always had a rather delicate, even nervous temperament—”

  Just what Julia had said, Gideon recalled. The hazel eyes continued to accuse him.

  “And your threatening manner quite undid her. The sight of that rag purporting to be the shirt of some dead boy sent her into a state of complete nervous collapse.”

  The shrieks he’d heard when the music resumed? he wondered.

  “Her parents have dispatched her to a private medical facility up in Lake County. A facility for the disturbed. Quite a fine place, I’m told. Excellent staff, the best physicians in attendance. With a spot of luck she’ll be herself in just a few days. But what you did to her—the unnecessary suffering you’ve caused, the hell you’ve put her through—that, Mr. Kent, I cannot and shall not forget. Your kind are scum. Rabble bent on destroying every shred of law and order in this country—and the very concept of private property rights!”

  “Now see here—”

  “No, you see here!” Courtleigh retorted. “You hurt the young woman I intend to marry. I pray to God the damage you did to her fragile nature is not permanent, but—”

  “A man like you
praying?” Gideon scoffed. “That’s laughable.”

  Courtleigh went white, “It’s you who would be laughable if you weren’t so dangerous.” He started to draw something from the side pocket of his coat. Gideon tensed until he saw it was merely a piece of paper. He recognized a masthead torn from Labor’s Beacon.

  “You made a serious error in coming to Chicago on behalf of your gutter paper, Mr. Kent. You made an even more serious one when, for some reason I still cannot fathom, you chose me as the focus of your ill will. Not to mention your misguided crusade to see every foundation of society shattered—”

  Gideon snorted. “That’s the argument you always use, isn’t it? You and the rest of the bosses. Anyone who asks for a decent wage, or injury benefits, or shorter hours, or a safe, healthy place to work is automatically out to overturn society. Out to trample the American flag and raise the red one the Communards waved—”

  Courtleigh smiled in a frosty way. “Exactly.”

  “I’ll grant it’s a fine diversionary tactic. And it does work. But it won’t work forever.”

  The railroad man shrugged again. “I doubt you’ll be on the scene one way or another. I predict a very short life for you, Mr. Kent.”

  Julia stepped to Gideon’s side and took his arm. If Courtleigh had raised his voice, or a fist, Gideon might have borne it somewhat better than he did. Instead, Courtleigh kept his tone temperate. Only the hazel eyes showed his loathing for the younger man as he held up the scrap from the Beacon and went on.

  “But while you’re still with us, I am going to crush this rag out of existence.” He crumpled the paper and let it drift to the carpet. “I am going to crush your family, and your slut here, and I am going to crush you—though not necessarily in that particular order, and not necessarily at once. But I will do it, Mr. Kent. Before God, I will do it all. That I swear.”

  Trembling but managing a smile, he tipped his fawn hat, about-faced as smartly as a soldier and walked out of the solarium.