by John Jakes
Gradually they did. They gathered around Gideon, beginning to speak more freely. Then, over one man’s shoulder, Gideon saw Julia take a cheroot from her reticule. She studied it a moment and put it away. He was relieved to see that no one else had noticed.
He had already decided to say nothing about his warning from Sidney Florian, or tonight’s encounter with Courtleigh. He was particularly afraid that a mention of Florian’s threats might dissolve the meeting before it began. But he did offer some heartfelt opinions.
“I don’t know Mr. Courtleigh as well as you, but I do know a little. It’s quite obvious he’s a nabob who lives in style while you and your families lack even the security of a few dollars’ income if you’re injured on the job or, God forbid, killed. I’m glad you’re starting out to change that tonight. I’m glad you’re organizing to get postmortem benefits, shorter hours and higher wages. Labor’s Beacon will be printing the story of your effort—and, I’m sure, its happy outcome.”
“Fine, just fine,” said a man with an Irish lilt in his voice. “But you won’t be printing all our names, now will you?”
There was laughter, loud but nervous. Gideon smiled. “No, I won’t be doing that.”
“Here’s the last of them,” Ericsson announced, ushering in two more shabbily dressed men.
“Hallo, Bengt. Hallo, Gunther,” the others called. Ericsson’s handsome tow-haired son followed the late arrivals into the barn. Again Gideon was introduced. Then Ericsson took a place in the center of the group.
“Fellows, you know there is no official speaker here this evening. Nor any program except us putting our heads together and deciding how we might start a yard brotherhood. I don’t think there’s much doubt we need one—”
“None,” growled the big man named Gunther. Most murmured agreement.
“Good.” Ericsson nodded. “I do want to remind you that we have a real honor conferred upon us by Mr. Kent’s presence. As he said, he’s going to write up the procedures we follow, in the hope they’ll be useful to other men working for other railroads around the—”
He stopped and heads turned. They had all heard a team of horses pulling into the alley which ran behind the barn, parallel to Taylor Street. Torvald Ericsson dashed to a back door and peered into the darkness. As the thud of hoofs and creak of axles grew louder, he spun.
“Express wagon, Pa. What are they doing delivering on Sunday?”
Ericsson scratched his graying hair. “I can’t imagine.”
But Gideon could. As the wagon ground to a halt, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. Someone gasped when he drew out the LeMat and stepped forward.
“Douse those lanterns. I’m afraid Mr. Courtleigh’s sent us a few visitors, and I don’t think they’ll be sympathetic to—”
He didn’t have time to finish. The alley door crashed back. One man managed to reach and blow out a lantern, but the rest were staring at the cadaverous figure bending to duck inside. Lamplight flashed on his small plated revolver.
Tonight Sidney Florian wore patched trousers and a castoff black jacket. He swaggered forward, glancing from face to face. The other men fell back. Most recognized Florian and were obviously terrified by the presence of a company man.
Footsteps thudded outside; other men were running along both sides of the barn, surrounding it. Florian’s eyes came to rest on Gideon.
“Hallo, Kent. Didn’t pay attention to what I said, eh?” His close-set eyes drifted to Julia. “Even brought a doxy with you. She must belong to you because she’s too finely dressed to belong to any of these unwashed sods.”
He dropped his free hand, licked at a silver canine tooth. “Well, we can figure out something to make her regret she tagged along.” He fingered his crotch and grinned. “Damn if we can’t.”
Gideon colored. Florian laughed loudly, then waved his revolver.
“Toss that gun to me. There are boys behind you. They’ll jam their stickers in your back if you don’t cooperate.”
Gideon’s belly ached. He was standing six or seven feet from the main door but facing away from it. Julia was on his left. Her frightened face and glances of warning said there were indeed men behind him, though he had difficulty sorting out the sounds they made; three more burly thugs were entering noisily by the alley door and spreading out around Florian. The W & P workers weren’t outnumbered by any means. But Florian’s blacklegs had knives and shot-loaded socks, and that made all the difference.
The switchmen showed signs of wanting to break and run so they wouldn’t be identified. But if they ran for it, Florian would shoot them down. Gideon decided it might be better to try to seize the initiative; that way, he might be able to help them get away safely.
Florian’s horselike face contorted. “Come on, Kent. Hand it over. No? Then I’ll take it.”
He stepped forward, ducking to avoid a lantern hanging from a beam. His revolver momentarily pointed at the ground.
Gideon nodded as if he meant to give in. Florian saw that and smiled. Gideon raised the LeMat in a swift, smooth motion. Too late, Florian realized what was happening. Gideon shot at the lantern.
The bullet nicked the oil reservoir. Kerosene and glass cascaded on Florian, who screamed like a woman.
“Run!” Gideon yelled. He lowered his head and raced toward Julia. The barn exploded into a bedlam of noise.
He whipped his arm around Julia’s waist, then pointed the LeMat at the two hulks who had indeed been poised in the barn door, long dirks in their hands. One of the switchmen dived through an open side window, then another. Someone in an adjoining house yelled a query about the shot. Ericsson was infuriated.
“Kent, we’re not going to run from a bunch of—”
Gideon shouted him down: “They want you to fight! If one or two get hurt, the rest will never organize!”
He hated saying it, but it was necessary. Ericsson looked baffled and hurt. The rest of the switchmen scrambled out the window while Florian’s hirelings waited for orders. The emaciated man signaled for them not to interfere with those who were escaping.
He’d regained his composure. He used a blue bandanna to mop kerosene from his cheeks and forehead. Torvald crouched near the blacklegs in the doorway, tense and angry-eyed.
“You’re smart, Kent,” Florian said as he put the bandanna away. “Smart or maybe yellow. Either way, we’ll let the rest go. But you’re going to be an object lesson for them. So are you, Ericsson. You loaned your premises for activities contrary to the company’s best interests. Communard activities,” he added for Gideon’s benefit. He wagged the revolver. “Lads? Chastise Mr. Kent and Mr. Ericsson first. The wench you can save for last. A little reward for a nice piece of work.”
The thugs in the doorway nudged one another and started forward. Gideon shoved Julia behind him as, somewhere outside, there was strident yelling.
Florian wet his lips, locked both hands on the butt of his revolver and aimed it at Gideon’s head.
“All right, Kent. Crouch down good and slow, and put the gun on the ground.”
Gideon obeyed.
“Now stand up. Fine. Boys? Bash him some. Then I’ll have my turn with a knife.”
Gideon was sure the thugs believed he wouldn’t resist because of Florian’s gun. So that gave him an advantage, albeit a very small one. The two burly men sidled toward him. One was slightly ahead of the other, tucking his dirk in his belt and balling his right fist for a bare-knuckled swing. Gideon watched the thug’s arm for a sign of sudden movement.
With a grunt, the man lunged in, lashing his fist back, then forward. Gideon ducked. The punch missed. He booted the thug in the stomach and shoved him sideways.
Just as he’d hoped, the man stumbled toward Florian and blocked his line of fire. Everyone started shouting except Gideon, who waited for the second assailant to come darting in with his knife. Before the man got within arm’s length, Gideon snatched up the LeMat and fired.
A thunderous explosion—smoke—and the man went shrieking and fl
oundering across the barn, blood streaming down his sleeve. Ericsson jumped another man armed with a knife. Gideon spun toward Florian. The stupefied ringleader shoved the thug who’d ruined his aim, then got off a hasty shot. The bullet chipped a big chunk of wood from a beam above Julia’s head.
Gideon was frightened but he tried to do what he’d learned to do in the war—let the fear heighten rather than hamper his concentration. He forced his right hand up, forced himself to take the time necessary to sight, though it seemed forever. Florian wanted to fire again. But Ericsson and his adversary kept reeling back and forth in front of him, locked in a fight for possession of the knife. Gideon finally saw an opening and pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck Florian’s right shoulder. The plated revolver dropped between the toes of his boots. With a groan and a dazed look, he sank to his knees, almost like a man praying.
He extended trembling hands toward the ground. The moment his palms touched the dirt floor, his arms gave out. He collapsed on his face, half conscious and trying to crawl toward the alley. He drew his left leg up and pushed with his boot. He pushed a second time. A third. He couldn’t move himself forward but he refused to give up. Gideon took no satisfaction from the grotesque sight.
A hurt cry from Ericsson made him turn. Most of Florian’s crew had taken a look at their fallen leader and scattered for the darkness outside—a darkness full of a rising clamor of voices. But the man with the knife had gotten Ericsson down, and was hacking at his face. The big man fended off the slashes, taking cuts on the backs of his arms and wrists. Gideon couldn’t get a clear shot. Torvald Ericsson rushed to help his father. He grabbed the thug’s left shoulder. The man drove his right hand across in front of his chest and plunged the blade into the boy’s ribs.
Torvald lurched back, gazing down with round eyes at his red shirt. Then, while his father cried his name, the boy fainted.
The knife wielder jumped up and fled for the door. Gideon fired but missed. He stood shaking while the express wagon rumbled away along the alley. Abandoned by the men he’d paid, Florian kept trying to crawl like some crippled crab. He’d managed to move about a yard, grunting and snuffling and leaving a swath of blood on the ground. But his movements were growing more feeble every moment.
Ericsson and Julia dropped to their knees on either side of the unconscious boy. Gideon’s guilt mounted. If he hadn’t fired the first time, perhaps Torvald wouldn’t have been stabbed. If, if!
Infuriated with himself, he whirled toward the barn door. Why were Ericsson’s neighbors shouting so loudly, yet not bothering to rush to the barn? Then he realized it wasn’t the fight causing all the commotion. It was a bright, ruddy light shimmering on the walls and rooftops of the cottages facing Taylor Street.
Gideon looked at Torvald. “How is he?”
Pale, Julia said, “I can’t tell beyond the fact that he’s badly hurt and needs a doctor.”
Ericsson’s face showed tracks of tears. He gazed at Julia, then Gideon, but saw neither one. “Why did I let him stay? Why didn’t I send him to my sister’s? Torvald’s all I have left—” Impotent rage made him leap up and shriek at the people yelling in the darkness. “Why are they making so damn much noise?”
Gideon staggered to the barn doorway. Instantly he felt the strong southwest wind blowing his hair. In the distance someone cried, “It’s DeKoven Street. Annie Murray’s shed or the O’Leary barn—I don’t know which.”
The wind tore through his hair and gusted against his face, hot and smoke-stinking. He remembered conversations overheard and had a strange feeling of dread. In a hoarse voice, he said, “There’s a fire.”
“Oh my God,” Julia whispered.
“DeKoven Street,” he added. “Where is that?”
Ericsson wiped his mouth, his eyes wild. “Only one block south.”
Chapter VII
Lucifer’s Match
i
GIDEON SHOVED THE LeMat back in his belt, gently moved the stricken Ericsson aside and lifted Torvald’s slashed shirt away from the wound. The cut wasn’t wide. But it was impossible to tell how deep it went. Though clotting had started at the ends, blood still oozed from the center.
Gideon raised his head and looked at Ericsson. “Is there a doctor close by? One you regularly use?”
The man shook his head in a vacant way, as if he couldn’t hear. It was growing hard to hear anything because of the shouting in the street and the bells of arriving fire equipment. Gideon shook the other man’s arm.
“I asked whether you have a doctor!”
New tears filled Ericsson’s eyes. “Oh, God—I’m responsible for what’s happened to my boy—”
“No! If anyone’s responsible, it’s Courtleigh. We’ve got to save your son and then make Courtleigh pay. Now do you have a doctor?”
He’d counted on Courtleigh’s name jolting the other man out of his daze, and it did. Ericsson wiped his eyes, then shook his head. “A midwife delivered Torvald, and the boy was never sick a day after that. My Helga died suddenly, with no one attending her.”
Julia touched Gideon’s arm. “My doctor lives in the country. A mile north of the Fullerton Avenue city limits. We could take the boy there.”
“Sounds like a pretty good distance, and I’m not sure we should move him at all.”
Julia gazed out the door to the sky above the houses. Clouds of sparks were blowing past, driven from the fire site by the wind. She said in an emphatic way, “Well, this place certainly isn’t safe. If that fire spreads, we’re right in its path. And it will spread unless that wind calms down—” She took Gideon’s arm. “What if we take the boy and his father as far as my house. Someone can go after Dr. Boling from there.”
Bits of burning matter whirled and danced over Ericsson’s house. As Gideon watched, several of them fell on its tar paper roof. He realized what the material was: some of the shavings and scrap lumber stockpiled in the neighborhood.
And wasn’t this near the scene of last night’s fire? Wasn’t this a district of lumber yards? Suddenly he remembered another remark overheard at the Dorset. Something about Lucifer setting the town afire with a single match.
He wasn’t a superstitious man, but for a moment he had a terrifying presentiment: This might be it. I think the match has been struck.
“All right,” he said. “Your house. Then I’ll go for the doctor.”
ii
“Torvald. Torvald—”
The sound of Ericsson’s renewed sobbing seized Gideon’s attention again. The big man was rocking the unconscious boy in his arms. Gideon ran to him.
“For God’s sake, Ericsson—don’t shake him that way!”
Ericsson kept swaying, cradling his son against his chest, heedless of the blood staining his own clothing. He was beginning to lose control. Gideon’s warning came as a shout.
“Don’t shake him!”
Ericsson turned his head, seemed to comprehend. He lowered his son to the floor. “What about my sister, Sigrid? She lives in a rooming house near here. Sebor Street—”
“You told me.”
“She lives by herself—” Ericsson finally seemed to be aware of the red sky full of flaming wood. “That fire looks bad. I must find Sigrid and make sure she’s all right.”
“How far is Sebor Street?”
“Just a few blocks north.”
“We shouldn’t go out of our way, Gideon,” Julia put in. “The more bouncing and bumping the boy takes before someone looks after him—”
But Ericsson paid no attention. He turned away from Torvald and, with a curious shine in his firelit eyes, walked out of the barn.
His erratic steps took him toward the back of his cottage. Gideon and Julia exchanged startled looks.
In the yards on either side of Ericsson’s property, people were shouting at one another as they hauled furniture from their houses. Sparks were landing on the roofs of almost every building on the block.
Ericsson tottered up the back steps. Julia gap
ed. “What the devil’s wrong with him? He’s going back inside!”
Gideon ran. He caught the big man just as he opened the cottage door. “Ericsson, don’t be a fool. These places will go up any minute. Help me get Torvald into the carriage!”
Ericsson swung around as a foot-long piece of burning wood went sailing overhead. It plummeted suddenly, struck the roof of the barn. Ericsson’s lips glistened. His eyes had an irrational light in them. He threw Gideon’s hand off. “Leave me alone.”
“Listen, you mustn’t—”
The big man shoved him. “There are things I have to save! Helga’s jewelry. Our wedding photograph. I have no other picture of her.”
“There isn’t time!” Gideon shouted, trying to drag the man off the stoop. Ericsson let out a deranged howl and clubbed him on the side of the head. Gideon sprawled in the yard. The rear door crashed. Ericsson vanished into the cottage.
Stumbling up, Gideon called his name one more time. Despite the noise around him, he heard Ericsson lumbering through the darkened house, overturning furniture and yelling unintelligible words. Names, perhaps. His son’s. His wife’s—
Well, first things first. He’d worry about Ericsson as soon as they moved the boy to the landau.
Back in the barn he smelled smoke. Wisps of it curled around the rafters. The roof was catching. The alley door banged in the wind. Gideon pointed at the floor. A snakelike path dampened by blood led to the rear entrance.
“Florian’s gone.”
“Good heavens!” Julia exclaimed. They both stared at the banging door, then at the trail left by Florian’s body. “He crawled out and I didn’t even notice.”
Gideon shrugged. “Good riddance.” He didn’t really feel as callous as his words made him sound. A man hurt as badly as Florian would be helpless out in that raging red darkness.
He handed Julia his revolver. “Hang on to it in case we have any difficulty. The street sounds like total bedlam. I need a long piece of your petticoat.”
