Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty

by Johnstone, William W.

  But what drew the ogling attention of young men was her fully developed body, especially her bust that was large and high, and the lovely straight line of her slender back.

  Shannon, eager to escape the gloomy confines of the tenements, often strolled the streets alone, trusting to daylight and the constant crowds jostling for space on the sidewalks.

  On one such day, a brewers’ dray, drawn by two shire horses, accidentally mounted the sidewalk in front of her and Shannon stepped into an open doorway to avoid getting crushed.

  “Watch where you’re going!” the driver yelled at her. “Damned daydreamer!”

  Shannon was about to yell back that it was his fault, not hers, when a large, hairy forearm clamped around her throat.

  The man dragged her backward into a dark stairwell and said, “Shut your trap, girlie, and do as your told or I’ll rip your heart out.”

  It was an Irish accent, but born of Five Points, not the home country.

  “She’s prime, Bill,” another man said.

  “A beauty, lay to that,” said a second, talking through a grin.

  Both were Americans, and sounded like seamen.

  “Get her upstairs, Bill,” the first speaker said. “And ye can have the first go.”

  The man called Bill dragged Shannon up stone steps that led to the upper floors of what was an abandoned warehouse.

  The stair well smelled of piss and stale vomit and was so dark the girl couldn’t see her abductors.

  But she knew what was in store for her and she screamed.

  Who in Five Points ever paid heed to a woman’s screams, a sound as familiar as the wails of hungry children or the chirp of a house sparrow?

  The men hauled the terrified girl into a top floor room. Its windows were boarded and the room was as black as ink.

  One man lit a match and touched fire to a candle stub stuck onto a chipped blue plate that lay on the floor.

  A couple of rats scuttled from the light as Shannon was thrown onto a pile of rags in the corner.

  She lay on her back, stunned for a moment, and then got up on one elbow.

  “Let me go and I’ll give you a dollar,” she said, her lower lip trembling.

  “You don’t have a dollar,” the man called Bill said, slipping his suspender off his shoulders.

  “I do so,” Shannon said, frantic now. “My father has a dollar and he’ll give it to you.”

  The man pulled down his filthy long johns, exposing himself.

  “After you’ve had a taste of this, you won’t talk of dollars,” he said.

  By the feeble, guttering glow of the candle, Shannon Cotter was raped.

  The rats gathered in the corners and looked on, their whiskered noses twitching, and men breathed heavily, saliva glistening on their chins, and waited their turn.

  A quick rainstorm showered, passed on, and the eaves ticked water. A train bell clanged in the distance and then a man gasped, spent.

  Shannon knew this ordeal would inevitably end in her death.

  And as a second man threw himself on top of her, she wished fervently to die very soon, without more pain . . . just close her eyes . . . and . . . let . . . herself . . . go . . .

  The man rolled off of her.

  “Now she’s all yours, Tom,” he said, getting to his feet. He looked down at Shannon and said, “Enjoying it now, ain’t you, girlie? Well, there’s more to come, lay to that.”

  The man called Tom, drunker than the others, swigged down what was left of his whiskey and tossed the empty bottle into a corner where it smashed and startled the rats.

  He fumbled with his buttons, tried to pull down his pants and fell over onto his side. A heavy man, the floor shook, and his companions laughed.

  “You’re too drunk, Tom,” Bill said. “You’ve lost your turn.”

  The man got to his knees and then struggled to his feet.

  “Damn you, I’ll do her,” he said. He pulled a Bowie from the sheath on his belt. “And by God, I’ll gut any man who stands in my way.”

  “Step aside, Tom,” Bill said. “If there’s any gutting to be done, I’ll be the one that does it.”

  Tom grinned, his face a devilish mask.

  “You’re a rum one, Bill, rum as ever was,” he said. “But don’t stand in my way or I’ll cut your whore, then no one will have her.”

  Bill pulled a knife, as did the third man.

  “Two against one, is it?” Tom said. “Then let’s be having you.”

  Tom lunged at Bill, who parried and cut back, drawing blood.

  The fight then became general and the three men stabbed and slashed at one another, fighting for the sheer love of it.

  Shannon saw her chance.

  She grabbed the dress they had torn from her and made it out the door. She was halfway down the stairs before she tripped and tumbled to the next landing.

  Knowing what horrors lay behind her, the girl scrambled to her feet and made it to the doorway.

  Shannon hurriedly buttoned herself into what remained of her dress, and ran into the street.

  Her cries for help went unheeded.

  What the passersby saw was just another whore beaten by her pimp.

  It was no concern of theirs, or the law.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Shannon got home she managed to contrive a story to explain the ruination of her dress and the bruising and abrasion of her body.

  “A man tried to rob me,” she said. “I fought him off, but he tore my dress and threw me to the ground.”

  Patrick Cotter accepted the explanation, an everyday occurrence in Five Points, but Kate looked into her sister’s wounded eyes and saw something much more serious.

  She later took Shannon aside and said, “Now tell me the truth about happened.”

  “I told you the truth,” the girl said.

  “Shannon, did a boy try to abuse you?” Kate said.

  Shannon heaved a great shuddering sigh.

  “Not a boy,” she said.

  Her stomach tying itself in knots, Kate waited.

  It took a while before Shannon spoke again.

  “Three men,” she said.

  She threw herself into Kate’s arms.

  “Two of them . . . they dragged me into a room and . . . and . . .”

  Kate said nothing.

  She hugged her sister close, her beautiful face like stone.

  “Name them,” she said.

  Shannon drew back and looked at her sister in surprise.

  She’d never before heard ice in Kate’s voice or seen the black flame in her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Shannon said.

  “Give me names,” Kate said.

  “One was called Bill, I think he was Irish. Another was Tom and I didn’t hear the third man’s name.”

  “Tell nothing of this to Father.” Kate said. “He’s a good man, but he’s not cut out for this kind of work.”

  “Kate, what kind of work?” Shannon said.

  “The work that now falls on me,” Kate said.

  Two days later, walking through rain, Kate sought out Sam Sullivan.

  The big cop wore a rain cape and stood in the doorway of Nathan Goldberg’s used clothing store on Swan Street.

  “Have you come to fight me, then, Kate Cotter?” he said, smiling.

  The girl did not smile back, but she stepped beside him.

  “I need your help, Constable Sullivan,” Kate said.

  “Now it’s Constable Sullivan is it? You must need my help real bad.”

  “I need to find three men who run together, probably were sailors at one time.”

  “Now why would you be seeking out men like that, Kate?”

  The girl ignored his comment.

  “One is called Bill, an Irishman, another is Tom. I don’t know the third one’s name,” she said.

  “Why are you asking me this?” Sullivan said.

  “Why is she asking you this?” said Nathan Goldberg who was standing at Kate’s shoulder.<
br />
  “This is no business of yours, Nathan,” Sullivan said.

  “It is my business if a huge policeman is standing on my doorstep, blocking the way of my customers.”

  “It’s raining, Mr. Goldberg. You don’t have any customers,” Kate said.

  “And what if the reason is that a huge policeman is standing in my doorway?”

  “Then I’ll move on,” Sullivan said.

  “Yes, take yourself off,” Goldberg said. “But come back for coffee at three, Sam.”

  “Who’s in charge of the coffee today, Nathan? You or your wife?”

  “Rachel is here today, minding a store with no customers.”

  “Then I’ll come back,” Sullivan said.

  As he and Kate walked away, Goldberg called, “We’ll have rugelach. So bring your young lady, Sam.”

  The rain grew harder and the ominous black and gray clouds that filled the sky over Five Points promised a lot more to come. In the distance thunder rumbled.

  “You never answered me, Kate,” Sullivan said. “Why are you asking me about mariners?”

  “I can’t tell you, but it’s a serious matter and of the greatest moment.”

  “You’re soaked to the skin,” Sullivan said.

  “That’s how important it is that I find these three men,” Kate said.

  “Under the awning here,” the big cop said.

  For a few moments he stared at the rain making startled Vs all over the cobbled street, his face frowning in concentration.

  Then he said, “The only three men I can think of are Bill Wooten, Tom Van Meter, and Chauncey Upsell. They were sailors on the same ship and now they run together, whore together and, if the truth be known, roll drunks together.”

  Sullivan turned his attention to Kate and said, “Come to think of it, I saw Chauncey and Bill yesterday and they were cut up some.”

  Shannon had told Kate about the knife fight and she knew she had found her men.

  “Where do they drink?” she said.

  “Always at the Cross Keys on Kelley Street. They can go in the book there.”

  Sullivan shoved an arm out from under the awning and let the rain fall on his hand.

  Without turning, he said, “What happened, Kate?”

  The girl knew that now was the time for the truth.

  “Two of them, I believe Wooten and Upsell, raped my sister. Van Meter was too drunk to try.”

  “Young Shannon says this terrible thing?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Saying and proving are two different things, especially in Five Points.”

  “I know that.”

  “Kate Cotter, I’ll try to find out what I can. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to ask my help?”

  “Yes,” Kate said. “Yes, it is.”

  “Then I’ll see if I can get a detective interested in the case,” the cop said. “But I warn you now, a rape in this area usually goes without investigation.”

  Kate hesitated, fearing that Sullivan might suspect something, but she had another question to ask.

  “Is Ben Hollister still in town?”

  “Goodness, girl, what do you want with such a man?” Sullivan said.

  “He was a friend of my father’s,” Kate said, which was true.

  Hollister was a gambler who’d worked the Mississippi steamboats, then fell on hard times. He used to visit Kate’s father regularly since they both had an interest in literature, but she hadn’t seen him in several months.

  It was said that Hollister was a notorious dueler back in the old days and had killed eight men, but her pa said that number was probably exaggerated.

  “Yes, he’s still in Five Points,” Sullivan said. “He firmly believes he can outrun a losing streak that started years ago, but of course he can’t. The toughs and gangs around here leave him alone, though. He has a reputation as a bad man to tangle with.”

  The cop stared hard at Kate.

  “And a bad man for you to tangle with,” he said.

  “My pa wants me to return one of Mr. Hollister’s books,” Kate said. “That’s all.”

  “He still lives on Birmingham Lane, but bring the book to me and I’ll give it to him,” Sullivan said. “The lane isn’t a safe place for a young lady.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Kate said. “And you’ll let me know . . .”

  “If anything comes up? Yes, I will.”

  The girl whispered her thanks and stepped into the rain.

  “Kate!” Sullivan called after her.

  She turned and waited.

  “I’m sorry, Kate, so damned sorry.”

  Kate Cotter nodded.

  “And so am I, Constable Sullivan.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Birmingham Lane was a narrow alley between four-story tenements, the upper apartments accessed by outside, rickety wooden stairs. It was a foul, impoverished place where pigs still roamed and its people lived lives of quiet desperation.

  As Kate Kerrigan remembered, Ben Hollister lived on the ground floor and his door was splintered by three bullet holes, now healing over thanks to time and weather.

  Kate recalled her father telling her that Hollister had killed a man attempting to steal his brass doorknocker. The three holes made a clover shape that could be covered by a silver dollar and bore eloquent testimony to the gambler’s aim and temperament.

  Her heart thudding in her chest, Kate used the polished knocker and a moment later a man’s voice reached her from inside.

  “Go away.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Kate said. “This is Kate Cotter and I demand to speak with you.”

  “Patrick’s daughter?”

  “As ever was.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  Locks clicked and chains rattled, then the door opened and a tall, slender man, somewhere in the far side of his forties, stood smiling at her.

  “I declare, it’s young Miss Cotter,” he said. “I haven’t seen you, in what? A year, at least. You’ve grown prettier.”

  Kate gave a little curtsey.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m desirous of talking with you.”

  “Then enter, and welcome,” Hollister said.

  With considerable Southern charm, he bowed Kate into a small parlor, sparsely furnished but swept and clean. A hand-tinted lithograph of a Mississippi steamboat hung over the fireplace.

  “I apologize that my present circumstances do not allow me to properly welcome such an honored guest,” Hollister said. “But I can offer you a glass of port, if that is to your taste.”

  “A glass of port would be most welcome,” Kate said.

  “Then first let me divest you of your coat, Miss Cotter. It seems you’ve walked far in the rain.”

  “Indeed I have, sir,” Kate said.

  After the girl was seated with her drink, Hollister smiled at her, waiting for her to speak.

  He was a very handsome man with a refined Anglo Saxon face, a carefully barbered shock of brown hair and a fine mustache. His clothes were much patched but had once been expensive and spoke of people and places beyond Kate’s imagining.

  Finally Hollister broke the silence.

  “How is your father? It’s been a while since my last visit.”

  “He is well, sir.”

  “And your sister?”

  Kate fumbled for words, hesitated, and stayed silent.

  Although he detected something amiss, Hollister’s breeding as a Southern gentleman would not allow him to press the matter.

  “Then, what can I do for you, Miss Cotter? Consider me your obedient servant.”

  Kate took a bolstering sip of port.

  “I need to borrow a pistol, Mr. Hollister,” she said. “I know you have such a thing.”

  The gambler was surprised and it showed in his shocked blue eyes.

  “Good lord, young lady, whatever for? What a most singular request.”

  Kate recalled a phrase she’d read in a newspaper, one that Hollister would understand
.

  “It’s an affair of honor, sir,” she said.

  Hollister was silent for few moments, then spoke.

  “I suspect that this is an affaire du coeur that involves your lovely sister Shannon,” he said. “But I will not pursue the matter.”

  “May I have the pistol?” Kate said, her chin determined.

  The gambler sighed, like a man recalling a bad memory.

  “Miss Cotter, have you ever killed a man?”

  Kate shook her head,

  “No, I have not.”

  “There’s no going back from a killing,” Hollister said. “After the deed is done, not all your tears, not all your prayers, can bring a man back again.”

  Kate said nothing.

  “For the rest of your life you live with it,” Hollister said.

  “I protect mine,” Kate said. “And when I fail to protect them, I will exact vengeance for them.”

  “Your father knows of this?”

  “No, he does not.”

  “Patrick is not a violent man.”

  “He is a poet,” Kate said. “Poets do not make good . . . avengers.”

  Hollister rose and stepped to a dresser. He opened the bottom drawer and brought out a rectangular walnut case.

  He opened the case and revealed the contents to Kate.

  A beautiful blue revolver with an elegant side mounted hammer nestled in red velvet along with a powder flask, percussion caps, round balls, and paper cartridges.

  “This is a Model 1855 revolver designed by a Colt gunsmith named Elijah Root. It shoots a .31 caliber ball and I had the barrel cut back to three inches.”

  “Will it suit my purpose?” Kate said.

  “I don’t know what your purpose is,” Hollister said.

  “I think you do, sir,” Kate said.

  “God help me, I guess I have an idea,” Hollister said. “I have other revolvers, but they are far larger. The Root can be easily concealed.”

  The gambler closed the case lid.

  “I’ll load it for you before you leave. Make sure the powder stays dry.”

  “I appreciate this, Mr. Hollister,” Kate said.

  He shook his head.

  “My God, you’re only a slip of a girl.”

  “As I told you before, I fight for what’s mine,” Kate said.

  “The Root is not a man killer. You’ll need to be close and aim for the broadest part of a man’s body. Don’t try a headshot, it’s too difficult and you only have five shots.”