Lawless

by John Jakes

  Hubble again understood perfectly. By using the plural, his employer meant the consortium. The small, informal and highly secret group of railroad presidents chaired by Tom Scott of the Pennsylvania and including Jay Gould of the Erie, John Garrett of the B & O, and several others. Courtleigh had been invited to represent lines based in the middle West.

  The consortium met from time to time at Newport or White Sulphur Springs or Saratoga to decide policy matters pertaining to the welfare of all American railroads. No decisions were binding, yet the consortium’s so-called guidelines had a way of being widely observed, first by lines that were represented within the group, then by lines that were not.

  “No one thought that son of a bitch Ammon would be so successful,” Courtleigh fumed. “Is he in Martinsburg?”

  “Our operatives haven’t seen him, sir.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Traveling, we presume.”

  It outraged Courtleigh that the current trouble had been caused not by some low-class Jew radical, but by the college-educated son of a prosperous insurance executive. God knew where Robert Ammon had acquired his dangerous views. But in just a little over a month, he’d caused unprecedented damage.

  Since early June, he’d been traveling from state to state organizing what he called the Trainman’s Union. It was something wholly new and very dangerous in the labor movement—an umbrella organization covering all railroad workers, from senior engineers with years of experience to the newest, lowliest switchman.

  Courtleigh’s agents said the T.U. was spreading like a lightning fire on a dry prairie. The union’s actual size was very difficult to ascertain, however. The wily Ammon had taken note of how earlier brotherhoods had operated on a more or less public basis and thereby come under attack, their members threatened or harassed until the brotherhood collapsed. To prevent that, he’d instituted a policy of absolute secrecy in the T.U., complete with passwords, secret oaths and hand grips. Still, it was almost a certainty that radicals from the T.U. were behind the unlawful strike that had hit the B & O in West Virginia.

  The strike had come about as a result of the implementation of a ten percent wage cut for all B & O employees earning more than a dollar a day. The cut had gone into effect the preceding Monday, July 16. Strangely, there had been no strike when Tom Scott had instituted the same sort of cut on the Pennsylvania back on June 1. Oh, there’d been complaints—even a grievance committee. But Scott had met with the committee and glibly talked away all of its objections.

  Or so everyone in the consortium had thought, congratulating Scott on his victory.

  The wage cut had been one of the agreed-upon strategies of the consortium. To offset shrinking profits caused by the nationwide depression, the cut was to be put into effect line by line all across the country. Courtleigh’s chief bookkeeper had already drawn up confidential schedules which would reduce the pay of all W & P employees down to the brakemen who even now received only $1.15 for a twelve-hour day—well below the brakemen’s national average of $1.75.

  Obviously the Pennsylvania situation had been atypical. This past Monday, some B & O workers had walked off the job to protest the cuts. By midafternoon, however, less militant workers had gotten a few trains running again. Then, just during the past forty-eight hours, strike leaders had reached and persuaded their more timid brethren and the disruptions had begun to spread.

  There were more and more walk-offs and resulting interruptions in service. Quarrelsome mobs of trainmen converged at Martinsburg, one of the B & O’s main junction points. Courtleigh believed that all the turmoil was a harbinger, the lightning visible before the storm. If matters weren’t brought under control, and quickly, Ammon’s damnable new organization could well launch the first national strike in American history.

  And once there was that kind of precedent for other unions to follow, the gates of hell were open.

  The telegraph message from Governor Mathews to the White House was encouraging, however. Courtleigh and his fellow owners believed they had a friend in President Hayes. The three-time Republican governor of Ohio had in effect lost the ’76 election to the former Democratic governor of New York, Samuel Tilden, who had campaigned as a vigorous foe of corruption; he’d helped smash the Tweed Ring.

  Last November Tilden had piled up slightly more than 4,284,000 popular votes as opposed to a little over 4,036,000 for Hayes. But those totals didn’t represent the end of the story. While Grant was preparing to leave office and publicly apologizing for errors of judgment, four different states—Oregon, Florida, Louisiana and South Carolina—had come up with disputed sets of electoral ballots. If accepted, the ballots for Republican electors could overturn the outcome of the popular vote.

  The question of the contested ballots was thrown to Congress for resolution. Behind the scenes, the Republicans got busy. Promises were quietly made to a number of Southern Democrats.

  If the dispute broke in favor of the Republicans, they’d see that the last Federal troops were withdrawn from the South. There were other, less specific pledges, including one whose vague language seemed to hold out hope of Federal financing for a program of industrial improvements in Southern states. But Courtleigh knew it was Tom Scott’s railroad lobby that had carried the day. Scott’s men had swung the needed votes by persuading Southern Congressmen that approval of a proposed rail line from East Texas to the Pacific depended on their decision in the matter of the disputed ballots. And so, a special Electoral Commission chosen by Congress had certified election of a new president—Rutherford B. Hayes—on March 2. Tilden’s followers cried fraud in vain.

  There was no direct evidence that Hayes would be in sympathy with the railroad men, or would cooperate with them. The President had a reputation for integrity, and a spotless one. Still, he was a Republican—and so were Courtleigh and his colleagues. Most auspiciously of all, Hayes had received the news of his certification while a guest aboard Tom Scott’s private railcar “Pennsylvania.”

  Hubble saw that his employer was agitated, and tried to calm him.

  “Perhaps we’ll locate Ammon in a day or two, Mr. Courtleigh.”

  It helped a little. The W & P president sat down opposite the lawyer. “All right, let’s not worry about that. Let’s look at the whole picture. You’ve a good feeling for the mood of the scum we hire to run our freight and passenger services. Where’s this strike going? Will it spread?”

  “I believe it will, sir.”

  “Will it go nationwide?”

  Hubble hesitated only a moment. “If it isn’t nipped, I think it may. First, the times are ripe because they’re so bad. No man can afford a ten percent cut in his pay. Second, Ammon’s caught us unprepared. He’s built a secret brotherhood faster than anyone thought possible. I think he’s incited the workers on almost every line from the Mississippi east—including ours. Those men are ready for violence. And there will be violence—perhaps a little, perhaps a lot—before this is all over. It’s a watershed, Mr. Courtleigh. Laboring men want to test the feasibility of a national strike.”

  Courtleigh muttered an obscene word.

  A sycophantic smile spread over the lawyer’s suet-like face. “I’m happy we aren’t living in the ancient world where they killed the messenger who brought bad news. You pay me for candor, however—”

  “And for successful execution of important assignments,” Courtleigh retorted. Hubble’s grin disappeared. His employer never let him forget the Philadelphia failure for long.

  The consortium had expected isolated protests over the wage cuts but not anarchy—and certainly not the widespread support for the strike that was becoming evident on the B & O.

  Depressed, Courtleigh said, “If those damned troublemakers are indeed looking at this as some kind of test, it’s even more important to have it resolved in our favor. If this is the first national strike, it must also be the last. I’m sorry the issue must be decided in our industry, but I suppose it’s a tribute to the importance of railroad
s—in any case, we’ll deal with it. We must hasten our own preparations.”

  “I’ve already taken steps.” Hubble nodded, anxious to please. “In fact, pursuant to our last chat, I’ve been out in the dives most of the day, with two assistants—”

  “Hiring?”

  “Yes. You were absolutely right, Mr. Courtleigh. There’s no need to pay the Pinkerton mark-up. My helpers and I got all the men we needed. The W and P now has almost four dozen blacklegs on call, ready to go instantly if the trouble spreads to Chicago. Among those I myself interviewed—if you can call a conversation with a drunkard an interview—there was one real find.”

  “Oh?” Courtleigh clearly wasn’t interested, but Hubble sat forward, eager to tell.

  “Quite by chance, I hired a man who once had a pretty big reputation out west. His name’s Jason Kane.”

  iii

  Courtleigh replied with a shrug, “Never heard of him.”

  A tolerant smile. “No, sir, of course not. You don’t read the National Police Gazette. He was famous for a year or two. Then he dropped out of sight. I can understand why. He’s a sot. But he’s tough. Killed nineteen men, they say.”

  Something in Courtleigh responded to that. Hubble took note and pressed on. “I think I can keep his drinking under control. He seems almost pathetically eager for a job.”

  “What’s he doing in Chicago?”

  “He was traveling as a supernumerary—you know, one of the Indians—in The Red Right Hand.”

  Another blank stare. Courtleigh never attended popular entertainments.

  “That’s the new play Buffalo Bill’s touring in, sir. This Kane used to know Bill Hickok. That’s how he landed the job. Before Wild Bill got blown to hell in Deadwood last year, this Kane talked him out of a letter of introduction. Kane said Hickok owed it to him because of some trouble they had in Abilene. Kane booted around down South for a while before taking the letter to Cody. He worked for him for four or five months, fetching Cody’s liquor and women. But he started fuc—” A withering stare from Courtleigh changed that word hastily. “Fooling with a wardrobe girl Cody liked, and Cody fired him. Stranded him in Chicago with just a week’s wages. Kane drank and gambled that away in one night. I tell you, Mr. Courtleigh, I have a hunch about him. A hunch that we can use him. I gave him two dollars for a meal, a bath and a decent bed and he damn near promised to do anything I wanted. I think he’s a little touched in the head. When I started talking to him, he was pretty drunk. He babbled that he was being hounded by some Sioux Indian curse—I didn’t quite get all of it. But if I can use his drinking habit to control him—you know, give him a little money every day, but not too much—I’d like to try him on the staff. A guard for the office. I’ve wanted to hire someone for headquarters ever since that lunatic switchman showed up three weeks ago with those nonsensical grievances and that homemade infernal machine—”

  Which, thankfully, had failed to detonate when the crazed man threw it into the working area outside Courtleigh’s office. Chicago police had been paid to haul the anarchist away and break both his legs. The man was now in jail awaiting a trial that would send him to state prison for life.

  But Courtleigh understood Hubble’s point. “You’re quite right. We should have guards downtown. I’m not anxious to be blown up in my own office. There could be another attempt, especially these days. This man you described might be just the sort we need.” Courtleigh gave the lawyer another piercing glance. “Perhaps he can also undertake the assignment you failed.”

  Hubble’s cheeks darkened. “I’ll take care of that, don’t you worry, Mr. Courtleigh. As a matter of fact, I intended to bring it up later this—”

  Courtleigh interrupted. “First let’s concentrate on the strike.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hubble’s fat white hand fluttered over the various notes and documents he’d laid out. “In case of widespread violence, we’ll have the newspapers on our side, of course—”

  Courtleigh pointed to the copy of the Union. “With a few notable exceptions.”

  Hubble picked up the sheet with great delicacy. “Our New York informant telegraphed that Kent is still following his practice of covering certain stories himself. He’s wired for his western correspondent to immediately come in to Chicago in case of trouble here. The paper’s editor dispatched another of the regular reporters to Baltimore. But Kent himself went to Martinsburg.”

  “Are most of the Eastern dailies sending men there?”

  “Yes, sir, nearly every one.”

  That was good. As a group, newspaper owners were generally opposed to unions and to strikes. They considered themselves owners first and newsmen second. Of course there was a dangerous and misguided minority that included such men as Gideon Kent and his editor, Payne, who had been caught in the Tompkins Square riot and been a labor partisan ever since.

  Hubble held out the newspaper. “This contains a dispatch Kent sent from Martinsburg. But I thought you might be more interested in his editorial.”

  The W & P president stared at the proffered paper. “I’m not interested in any of the swill Mr. Kent spews forth. You should know that by now.”

  Hubble’s pink tongue crept across his bow lips as if to lick away some unclean speck. “But the editorial is strongly pro-strike, sir—”

  Courtleigh guffawed. “Well, of course. And the sun also rises in the east. Why the hell are you wasting my time, Lorenzo?”

  “The editorial discusses the wages on several typical lines—including the W and P.”

  “What?” Courtleigh fairly leaped to grab the Union. Hubble sat back, vindicated.

  “Yes, sir. As you’ll see, it cites your estimated worth of thirty million, and notes that our average conductor’s wage is twenty percent less than that received by an apprentice bricklayer.”

  Thomas Courtleigh said another filthy word he’d never used in front of any of the members of St. Margaret’s. With shaking hands, he opened to the editorial. He grew livid when he saw the title.

  A MATTER OF DIMES AND DECENCY

  He read the paragraphs with mounting rage. Kent was attacking the Baltimore and Ohio wage rollback, and the one on the Pennsylvania before that. He was also lending his newspaper’s endorsement to a peaceful strike by the members of the Trainman’s Union who worked for the B & O. Their demands were fully justified, he said, because they were “wage slaves” of the men who had imprisoned them in what he floridly called “a cage without bars, a cage of poverty and injustice without hope of redress.”

  Logically, the editorial should have confined itself to affairs in the East, but it did not. Kent had chosen to vilify Scott and Garrett—but he’d also chosen to drag Courtleigh in. All three were characterized as “bloated profiteers” determined to profit even more by plucking dimes from the pockets of already desperate workingmen—thievery that was akin to snatching bread from a child’s plate, he said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Courtleigh whispered. Hubble gaped. To his recollection he had never heard his employer utter blasphemy within his hearing.

  Courtleigh’s hands were shaking as he read the slanted, vitriolic prose to the finish. The owners of almost every other paper in America considered themselves capitalists, like Jay Gould or Tom Scott or Courtleigh himself. But not this damned, insufferable bastard who’d helped destroy Gwen’s mind and sent her to an early death.

  Why had he permitted business to distract him for so long? Why had he permitted Kent to remain alive? He redoubled his determination to see him dead—and soon.

  iv

  Hubble was almost afraid to speak. “Any instructions, Mr. Courtleigh?”

  Courtleigh flung the paper aside. He stood up and began pacing, each long step testifying to his anger.

  “Yes. Telegraph Scott in our regular cipher. Say I urge an immediate implementation of the scare plan. Tell him I believe the editors of all the friendly papers must be contacted at once. Use those words. At once. Say that if we wait, most of the impact of the plan will be lost.�
�

  “I have that.” Hubble nodded, scribbling rapid notes with a pencil.

  The plan to which his employer referred had been devised as a contingency, and had been developed and refined during the last three meetings of the consortium. It played on the fact that the average American was terrified of Marxist socialism—or Communism, as it was now coming to be called. The “Communards” of 1871 had become “Communists” six years later.

  Courtleigh knew full well that there were only a relatively few Communists within the ranks of railroad workers. Yet he felt that, with the cooperation of the press, it could be made to seem that virtually all the workers favored riot and revolution for achieving their objectives.

  So far as Courtleigh knew, never before in American history had there been a planned campaign to frighten the public with a straw man. He was convinced the plan could work, given the mood of the times, the willingness of the railroad owners to play on ignorance and fear, and the attitudes of those who owned American newspapers—Kent and a few other lunatics excepted.

  Hubble finished his note taking. Courtleigh checked what the fat lawyer had written, nodded.

  Hubble said, “If there’s nothing else, I have something on my mind—”

  “There is something else.” Courtleigh was thinking of Gideon. “But go ahead.”

  “Thank you. I just wanted to make a suggestion regarding Gideon Kent.”

  Courtleigh burst out laughing again. Hubble grew worried until Courtleigh assured him nothing was wrong, and urged him to continue.

  “Very well, sir. As you know the strike will probably intensify. Perhaps spread to major junction points such as Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Newark, Ohio, or even Chicago. I could have Kent followed. If he should chance to be close to even minor violence, a couple of trustworthy men could perform the job I failed to take care of in Philadelphia. During a melee, we could eliminate Kent quite—ah—naturally. And without a shred of suspicion.”