The Americans

by John Jakes

  Cigar smoke drifted slowly in the air. All around them, men talked and laughed. But it was suddenly quiet at the table where the three sat. Buckley’s eyes appeared to be fixed on his hands. For a moment Carter had the strange feeling that he could see them.

  “I did well in Vallejo,” the blind man resumed. “I worked my way in as secretary of the Solano County Republican Committee. But by seventy-two, I had a yen to come back to this side of the Bay—where there wasn’t any way to climb higher on the Republican ladder. All the rungs were filled. It took me about ten minutes to decide what to do. I walked out of Vallejo a Republican and into San Francisco a member of the Democracy. I’ve remained a Democrat, although Bill Higgins and I still close the door occasionally and strike a bargain if it suits our mutual purpose. A few minutes ago I said belonging to the Democracy was incidental. Now I hope you understand what I meant. Politics is the grandest game a man can play, but it isn’t the party organizations that make it so. It’s the power.”

  The quiet declaration sent a prickle along Carter’s spine. The ruddy man with the sightless eyes could teach him what Willie Hearst had talked about such a long time ago. How to hold the reins. How to run others, rather than letting them run you. The thought of taking orders didn’t appeal to him, but the advantages of the situation far outweighed that.

  Eagerly, he said, “I’d like to work for you, Mr. Buckley. I got to know Willie Hearst at Harvard. Willie once suggested that I think about being a politician.”

  For some reason the atmosphere at the table had chilled in just a few seconds. “Willie,” Gram repeated. “You call him Willie?”

  Baffled, Carter nodded. “Everyone did.”

  “They don’t do it anymore. Around the paper it’s Mr. Hearst or nothing! He’s a stuck-up young snob.”

  So that was it. Carter came to his friend’s defense. “A lot of people think he’s snobbish, but it’s really shyness—”

  He stopped. The explanation changed nothing. In fact, Buckley had a scowl on his face. “Mr. Hearst and I try to cooperate because of his father’s position in the party. On some things, we fully agree. He hates the Southern Pacific as much as I do. But newspaper publishers are a queer breed. Most of them are a menace to an established political organization. Young Hearst falls into that camp, I fear. He’s a crusader. Dangerously unpredictable. If you were to work for me, I’d want to be sure of where your loyalties lie.”

  Carter’s hands tightened on the empty schooner. This was the test. He didn’t dare fail it. “You’d be sure, sir. They’d lie with you.”

  “What if I asked you not to renew your friendship with Hearst?”

  Carter let out his breath slowly. “I’d refuse.”

  “Hell,” Gram snorted. “Why the hell are we arguing this? Hearst’s so snotty these days, he probably wouldn’t let someone as ordinary as Kent clean his privy.”

  “Let him finish, Alex.”

  “I don’t have much more to say, Mr., Buckley. If I work for you, I’ll give you my loyalty, and my word that you have it. But if Willie Hearst can’t trust me not to abandon him, how can you? Until he tells me otherwise, Willie’s my friend.”

  A silence. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Suddenly the tension left Buckley’s face. “Good. That tells me all I need to know about you. We don’t have to make an issue of Hearst. I’ve had no significant trouble with him so far.”

  Carter relaxed a little. But if he landed a job, it was obvious that he’d be wise to play down his friendship. That much he was willing to do. What Gram said might also turn out to be true. Willie might not want to associate with him any longer. He didn’t intend to explore that question for some time, not until he could afford a decent suit of clothes, at least.

  There was another moment of silence. Gram poured his fifth drink. Buckley’s hands began to move in slow circles on the table top. He seemed to think out loud. “I had in mind that you might join the push—”

  “I’ve heard that word several times, sir. What’s it mean?”

  “The push is a gang of rockrollers, mostly. Roughnecks from south of Market Street.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Exactly what the name says. They supply a push when a push is necessary. They push some to the polling place, and they push others away. The push is important to me. I pay every member handsomely.”

  The blind man paused, and though Carter knew he might be bringing a quick end to a relationship not even fully begun, he had no choice but to say, “I don’t want that kind of work, Mr. Buckley. I don’t want roughneck work.”

  That didn’t set well with Gram. He pulled his hand down from the bruise he was fingering. “What’s the matter? Not respectable enough for a Harvard boy? Or is it that Harvard boys don’t have the belly for it?”

  Buckley spoke softly but firmly. “In view of the help Mr. Kent gave us, Alex, those remarks are not only rude, they’re stupid.”

  Gram turned red. Carter looked him in the eye. “Mr. Gram, I don’t mean to insult your position as Mr. Buckley’s bodyguard. But it’s no use covering up how I feel. Violence only comes back to hurt the man who deals it out in the first place.”

  “Oh?” Gram was sneering. “You don’t think it’s ever necessary? It was necessary tonight.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “That son of a bitch Schmidt would have killed us all!”

  Carter shook his head. It was hard to do, considering all he stood to lose.

  “No,” he said. “I had him ready to run. If you hadn’t knifed him, you’d never have seen him again.”

  Gram uttered a curt laugh. “Sure of that, are you?”

  “Pretty sure, yes,”

  This time Buckley defended his employee. “You may be right in this case, Mr. Kent. But you aren’t completely right. Violence is sometimes the only means to reach a desired end. There are times when everything else fails and you’re left with no other choice.”

  At that point Carter felt he’d lost the battle. But he still tried a tactical maneuver. “Then if it’s necessary, I don’t want to be the one to do it. I’d hire it done, if need be, but I’d never involve myself. When I’m your age, Mr. Buckley, I want to be walking around enjoying the rewards I’ve earned.”

  Buckley raked a fingernail lightly along his lower lip. “Hire it done, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “For that answer and the ones about Hearst, I’ll hire you, Mr. Kent. Five dollars a month and all you can take from my free lunch counter.”

  Gram swung sideways in his chair, disgusted. Buckley laid a hand on his sleeve.

  “Alex, I can hear you fairly seething. Don’t. Each of us has his own calling in this life. You needn’t approve of Mr. Kent’s, or he of yours, so long as we all work together.”

  Gram replied with a shrug which only pretended agreement, as did his muttered “Sure, boss. You’re right.” Carter knew he’d alienated the bodyguard for good. He didn’t care. Buckley was smiling.

  “Boss,” Carter said, “do you mind if I order another schooner of this steam beer?”

  ii

  In a few minutes, Gram went off to his rooming house. Buckley called a bartender over and dictated a note to the night man at Hanratty’s Livery. He gave the note to Carter.

  “Come see me when you’ve had a good night’s rest,” he said as he ushered Carter to the door on Bush Street. “And don’t worry about Alex. He’s a fine fellow, but he has his limits. And you’re right, he’s in a bad trade. I expect both of us will outlive him. You needn’t fear he’ll cause you any trouble. He wants to keep on earning his high salary.”

  The blind man gave Carter’s arm an almost fatherly squeeze, but when he spoke it was without sentiment. “I’m getting older, Mr. Kent. I’ve been looking for a pupil in whom I could finally place some confidence. Perhaps I’ve found him. You’ll get your hands dirty working for me. But if you’re willing to do that within the limits we discussed— and if you’re willing to take my guidance—you ought to go far. I�
�m impressed not only with your talent for blarney, but with your attitude in general. I think you have the makings of a remarkably successful politician.”

  The cynicism grew heavier. “Beg pardon. Public servant.”

  He waved Carter into the fog like a doting parent.

  iii

  Blissfully soft, the straw in the loft of the livery stable sank beneath Carter Kent. There was no heat in the building, and it stank of horse manure and all the garbage and human slops dumped in the alley running along one side. But those smells were transformed into perfume by his sudden good fortune. Even the stinking horse blanket given him by the grumpy night man smelled wonderful next to his nose.

  He began to shiver again, alternately roasting and freezing. But he knew he’d get well, and work hard for Boss Buckley, and prosper. What if he did dirty his hands, as Buckley put it? Wealth could buy you a carload of soap. And then one day his hands would be holding the reins.

  Carter was sure of that now. He was exhilarated, happy for the first time in months and months. San Francisco had been Amanda Kent’s lucky town and it was going to be his. He was going to like its politics as much as he already liked its steam beer. And to think he’d jumped off that train in North Platte and wasted five whole years getting here!

  With that thought, he turned over and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER XI

  PUNCHER MARTIN

  i

  IN JOHNSTOWN AT EIGHT o’clock the next morning, the rain still showed no sign of slackening. Leo was awake and feeling fairly comfortable. Eleanor tucked the covers around him and went to the lobby to look for some rolls and coffee.

  From the bottom of the stairs, she saw young Homer Hack cranking the handle of the lobby telephone. Seven hotel guests—all men, and all commercial travelers, she suspected—were sitting or standing near the clerk, anxious looks on their faces.

  Hack spoke into the mouthpiece. Eleanor picked up her skirts to cross the lobby. The entire floor was submerged beneath a quarter inch of yellow-brown water.

  As she approached, one of the men was saying, “He’s calling the central telephone office for a late report.”

  On what? she wondered. The words late report had an ominous sound. Beyond the window, a wagon rumbled by, filled with a swaying pyramid of household goods. The street was covered with water, up to about ankle height, she judged by watching the wagon wheels.

  “Thanks very much, Imogene,” young Hack said, ringing off. He turned back to the others. “Most of the early shifts at Cambria’s divisions were sent home. Too much water on the floors. Morning, Mrs. Goldman.” He struggled to smile. “Bet your friends wish they were back here.”

  Politeness kept her from laughing at such a ridiculous statement. “Why is that?” she said, her attention drawn to the hardware store across the street. A man who looked like the proprietor was frantically motioning at the door. One after another, four adolescent boys appeared, arms laden with merchandise which they carried away down the street. Then the owner went in, presumably for another load.

  Hack’s remark turned out to be far from ridiculous. “Your friends went out on the New York Limited, didn’t they?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s stalled up at the mountain summit. According to the telegraph report, there’s some kind of obstruction on the tracks. Imogene at the telephone office just told me about it.”

  “Better to be sitting up there than down here,” one of the guests complained. “I walked over to the Little Conemaugh a while ago. Saw two dead heifers float by. And more tree trunks than I could shake a stick at. If it doesn’t stop raining, the mountains will slide right down on top of us.”

  “I do think we should all move to the third floor,” Hack said. “Can your husband do that, Mrs. Goldman?”

  “He isn’t supposed to move for another five or six hours. In an emergency he’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

  She started for the dining room, then saw that the gas fixtures hadn’t been lit; the room was dark and empty.

  “Isn’t there any food this morning, Homer?”

  Chagrined, he shook his head. “The cook didn’t show up.”

  “Or the owner of this damned rat trap, either!” another of the men exclaimed. “He’s probably moving his family to high ground.”

  “I expect that’s pretty close to the truth,” Hack admitted. “But we’ll be fine on the top floor. I’ve unlocked all the rooms. Take any one you like.”

  Panic began to gnaw at Eleanor then—panic fed by her weariness—she hadn’t slept—and by the incessant rain. The young clerk started away, but she caught his arm. “Is the dam all right?”

  “Far as I know. At least there haven’t been any reports of trouble.”

  “Would you get a report like that?”

  “Most likely. I’ve been calling the telephone company every few minutes. The central office is located in the same building as Western Union. Mrs. Ogle who runs the Western Union office keeps the telephone girls advised of any dispatches from up near the dam. That’s how Imogene knew about the Limited.”

  “That makes me feel better. Thank you, Homer.”

  “Surely, ma’am.”

  The clerk gave her a smile meant to bolster her confidence, then splashed toward the lobby counter in rubber fishing boots Eleanor noticed for the first time. He stepped behind the counter and found an old coat and cap. Then he splashed back to the main door, stopping there to say, “I’ll trot over to Konig’s Bakery and try to find a couple of loaves of bread. Meantime I’d appreciate it if all of you would go on upstairs.”

  Eleanor returned to the room. Leo asked about the situation. She tried to sound more cheerful than she felt.

  “There seems to be no danger from the dam. That nice young man who handles the desk is just suggesting we move to the top floor. I hate to make you do it, but I suppose we’d better be safe.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He swung sideways in bed and carefully lowered his left foot to the floor. “This may sound stupid, but all at once I wish I knew how to swim.”

  “Well, sir”—again she forced a smile—“if a rescue becomes necessary, you can count on me.” She bent and kissed the tip of his nose. “Provided you’re nice to me, never start your line before I finish mine, and never upstage me for as long as we both shall live.”

  He laughed. “Bargain.”

  “Let me help you stand up—”

  She took his arm. The sound of the rain on the window grew louder. She frowned as she went on. “Lean on me and don’t put weight on that leg—good, very good. A little effort and we’ll be upstairs and perfectly safe until this blasted rain’s over.”

  But statements like that, from her own lips or from others’, were beginning to have a decidedly false sound.

  ii

  From the room they chose on the top floor, they were able to see more of the downtown area. Quite substantial-looking, Eleanor decided. Its many brick and stone buildings looked sturdy enough to withstand a severe storm as well as high floodwater.

  Here and there she noticed abandoned trolley cars. Two young men on horseback went cantering through the streets, the hooves of their mounts shooting up geysers of water. Not a bad way to see the flooded downtown, she thought.

  Now and again the rain let up a little. When it did, she could glimpse the towering stacks of the Cambria Iron Company’s blast furnaces, and the cupolas of its Bessemer plant in the borough of Millville across the foaming water of the Little Conemaugh.

  She kept the door of their room open. Some of the other guests drifted in from time to time, the storm having cemented everyone in the three-story building into enforced camaraderie. One of the salesmen staying at the Penn had been raised in Ferndale, just a short way down the Stonycreek. The man knew a lot about the area. The population of Johnstown was around twelve thousand, he told Eleanor in response to her question. She soon wished she hadn’t asked it, because it brought a torrent of information she didn’t really
want, including the population of the nine surrounding boroughs and a capsule history of the development of Cambria Iron into an industrial complex producing everything from steel ingots and heavy track bolts to railroad car axles, plowshares, and of course the world-famous Cambria Link barbed wire.

  She and Leo nodded politely at each new fact or statistic. That encouraged the man to describe the large Pennsylvania Railroad marshaling yards up at East Conemaugh, between Johnstown and the dam. All at once Homer Hack appeared carrying three loaves of bread and a big blue enamel pot of lukewarm coffee; happily, the food ended the description of Johnstown.

  As the morning dragged on, she found the room increasingly confining. She began to pace. Leo suggested she go off by herself for a bit—downstairs, if the lobby wasn’t under water, or outside if the rain wasn’t too fierce and Homer Hack would lend her the boots he was wearing.

  “I don’t need boots,” she said, eager to get away.

  “The devil you don’t. Your feet’ll get soaked.” She tied her cape around her shoulders and picked up her parasol. “I don’t care. These are old shoes, and I’d love some air. It doesn’t seem to be raining so hard. I’ll walk around the block.” She kissed his cheek and hurried downstairs, holding her skirts high as she crossed the lobby. Young Hack came out of the lightless dining room, shaking his head when he saw her leave.

  The rain had indeed let up a little. Her parasol offered some protection and rain or not, she was glad to be outside. She put her head back, shut her eyes, and inhaled the damp air. How much better it smelled than the hotel, which already reeked of mold.

  She tilted the parasol outward from her left shoulder and started walking, staying close to the buildings on her right. The overflow of the rivers swirled and gurgled through the street, completely covering the raised wooden sidewalk with a half inch of yellow water.