by John Jakes
Jackson is married. He and his wife are the only persons in Lexington willing to welcome me into their home occasionally. It is true that his habits are peculiar. To prevent distraction when he is pondering problems in military tactics, he will turn his chair to the wall and sit motionless for long periods of time. But I am comfortable with him, and can share my thoughts freely—my sadness over Fan’s continuing refusal to allow any contact between myself and the boys—and my growing certainty that the south’s system of servitude will bring its own dire harvest
Compromise will never avail—it is too late. We have sinned as a nation—I firmly share this belief with the noted abolitionist and Free-Soil advocate, John Brown of Ohio. Sin is always punished. So the nation will be punished. And not lightly. In the words of Paul the Apostle to the Hebrews—“And almost all things are by the law purged with blood. And without shedding of blood is no remission.”
The gloomy prediction disturbed Amanda, because there were already signs that Clay’s compromise bills had bought nothing but a temporary peace.
The Fugitive Slave Act, designed to mollify the south, had generated an even greater militancy on the part of the northern abolitionists. And influential Congressmen were toying with a doctrine which could renew sectional antagonism.
The doctrine’s chief ideologue was Stephen Douglas of Illinois, a Senator whose combative temperament and slight stature had earned him the title Little Giant. Sometimes the doctrine was called popular sovereignty, sometimes squatter sovereignty. Basically it stated that people in a newly organized territory had the unqualified right to determine what form their government would take, specifically, whether the government would allow or forbid slavery.
To Douglas, this was nothing more than the working of the principle of democracy. To the abolitionists, it was betrayal. If the doctrine were followed to its logical conclusion, a territory could adopt or reject slavery whether the territory lay above or below the Missouri Compromise line. Not only did the doctrine run counter to the 1820 Compromise, but by its very nature it denied Congressional right to limit the spread of slavery.
Whig opponents abused Douglas as the south’s toady, claiming he was advancing the scurrilous philosophy to enhance his own chances as a future presidential candidate on the Democratic ticket. Others, less partisan, said Douglas acted only out of a solid belief in the rights of the majority. But whatever the Little Giant’s motives, the papers had been filled with the debate over his doctrine.
There was bound to be a test of it in the Congress in the next year or so. Legislators were already talking of the need to organize one or two large territories between Missouri and California. There had even been discussion of a transcontinental railroad, and for this to become a reality, the western lands had to be under some form of government.
If the intellectual debate led to a practical attempt to put the doctrine into effect in the organization of new territories, the Missouri Compromise would be severely threatened—and all of the efforts of Clay and Webster to secure peace might come to nothing. Some pundits predicted that if popular sovereignty ever passed into law, abolitionist groups would launch open warfare—
Open warfare. Remission of sin through the shedding of blood—
Sometimes it seemed to Amanda that the nation was heading inevitably toward it—and toward the even more grave Constitutional crisis that might be precipitated. The crisis was implicit in the south’s traditional response to harrying by its enemies: secession.
Did one section have the right to separate itself from the rest to protect and preserve what it believed? Though she was no great expert on government, she thought not. If it did, the words United States would become a mockery.
Yet how to stop the quarrel before it brought disunion? Jephtha’s church had broken apart over the slave issue. Even his own household was divided. How could the nation hope to fare any better?
Clearly, Jephtha didn’t think it could.
The issues underlying the letter in her hand—and the letter itself—had upset her. She concentrated with great difficulty on the closing paragraphs:
Unhappiness is my lot. But I consider it God’s will that I remain in that state; and I do what He has commanded. I continue to be engaged in certain activities at which I have hinted before, though the fugitive slave bill has made the labor increasingly difficult. Previously used points of refuge in the north are now under the closest scrutiny by southern sympathizers. We grow desperate for safe destinations for certain freight, and may be forced to call upon some we would otherwise not burden or endanger.
Amanda gazed over the lines she’d just read, noting that the word freight had been heavily underscored. In previous letters, Jephtha had indeed alluded to mysterious activities, leading her to believe he’d involved himself in the work of what was popularly called the Underground Railroad.
The letter concluded with a few phrases containing her cousin’s wish for her continued health and prosperity. Her eye was drawn back to the quotation from St. Paul.
And without shedding of blood is no remission.
She believed the slave system had to be done away with eventually. But was bloodshed the only course left open to accomplish it? She couldn’t imagine that people of good will in any part of the country would want that kind of a solution—
Yet every paper she read told her the positions were hardening dangerously. The furies were loose on both sides. What if the Compromise of 1850 ultimately proved unworkable? What if the threat of popular sovereignty proved real, and its advocates widened the chasm again, until it could never be bridged?
She shuddered. The white cat yowled when she jumped up, startled by the loud, interruptive ring of the telegraph gong.
iii
Amanda had taught herself Morse’s code so that she could send and receive messages when Michael wasn’t present. She seated herself at the table, a steel-nibbed pen poised over a pad on which the young man had noted the times of the evening’s previous transmissions. A moment after she acknowledged the query from Boston with a tapped-out A. K. D. G. READY, the operator at the Rothman Bank began to send:
APOLOGIZE LATE HOUR. SERIES OF MILL ACCIDENTS REQUIRED SPECIAL MEETING. BLACKSTONE BOARD DIRECTORS DEADLOCKED THREE FOR THREE AGAINST EMPLOYMENT TWO PHYSICIANS TO TREAT INJURED WORKERS ONE A CHILD. OPPONENTS ARGUE STEP UNNECESSARY AND EXPENSIVE. SAFETY AND WELFARE OF WORKERS NOT MANAGEMENTS CONCERN. MR. ROTHMAN VOTES AYE HOWEVER. URGENTLY SOLICITS YOUR VOTE ON MATTER. END.
Amanda’s pen flew across the pad, copying down the final words of the message. She chewed the end of the pen for perhaps ten seconds, then began to work the key:
EXPENSE NOT FACTOR. BELIEVE WE HAVE CLEAR RESPONSIBILITY. MR. ROTHMAN AUTHORIZED TO CAST AYE VOTE FOR A. K. D. G.
The library doors opened. Michael came in carrying several papers and a ledger. While the sounder chattered out ACKNOWLEDGED WITH THANKS, he took Amanda’s pen from her fingers and scribbled on her pad:
12,875 shares as of last Wednesday afternoon—representing 38 percent of outstanding shares.
She nodded, aware of Michael lingering just behind her as she rapped out the signal for a further transmission, then began to send the dots and dashes:
SPEED UP ACQUISITION STOVALL WORKS STOCK BY BOSTON HOLDINGS. URGENT REPEAT URGENT WE REACH FIFTY-ONE PERCENT OWNERSHIP SOON AS POSSIBLE. END.
In a moment, the sounder replied with words Amanda didn’t bother to copy:
ACKNOWLEDGED ROTHMAN’S BANK.
Satisfied, she stood up.
“You think Stovall will attempt to block your purchase of shares?” Michael wanted to know.
“Of course he will—if he finds out who I am before we have a controlling interest. I’m sure he’s aware of movement in the issue. He may not realize the individual blocks have been resold to Boston Holdings, but he could certainly track down that fact if his suspicions were sufficiently aroused.”
“You’re quite right. The bank that acts as the registrar of the stock h
as the information. There’s no legal way to prevent them having it. You’re gambling they’ll neglect to inform Stovall—”
“I’m gambling they haven’t yet. Joshua Rothman and I have already agreed to the final step. When Joshua’s intermediaries have acquired the shares representing the last thirteen percent, those shares won’t be transferred to Boston Holdings in small batches, as we’ve done in the past. They’ll all be held and transferred in a single day. It’ll be too late for Stovall to do anything about the takeover then. Still, you’re right—the risk has always been high—” She paused only a moment. “I think it’s time we developed an alternate plan. Just in case the stock scheme’s uncovered.”
Michael looked wary. “What sort of plan, Mrs. A?”
“You told me some nasty gossip about Stovall—that he’s spent time with a brother and sister on Mulberry Street—both of whom are prostitutes?”
Glumly, Michael nodded. “Yes.”
“What are their names?”
“I fail to see how their names could be of any—”
“Tell me anyway.”
His face had lost its cheerful look. “The Phelan twins. Joseph and Aggie.”
“Are they still—what’s the term for that sort of thing? Practicing?”
In a clipped voice: “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“I really don’t inquire too deeply into such matters—”
“Well, I want you to inquire. I want you to see whether you can get a deposition from them. Concerning what goes on during any one of Stovall’s visits. In detail, Michael. Such complete detail that there can be no doubt of the—the customer’s identity. Or his intention.”
She tried not to see his stunned look.
“Christ!” he whispered. “You don’t mean that—”
“I do.”
“Manipulating stock is one thing. But mucking around in slime is quite another—”
“Are you telling me you won’t do it?” A long silence. Amanda said, “If you won’t go to the Five Points, I will.”
He studied her face for a sign that she was bluffing him, saw none. With a shake of his head, he said softly, “All right. I suppose I’m obligated to do whatever you ask as long as I’m in your employ.”
“And you are still in my employ—”
“For the moment.”
The dull-voiced threat didn’t even make her blink. “Can these Phelans be persuaded to give you the information I want?”
“Mrs. A, listen! You mustn’t soil yourself in this sort of—”
“Answer me, Michael!”
He sighed. “Yes, I think the information could be gotten—if the Phelans were given enough money, and frightened a little in the bargain.”
“Would they speak to you in front of a notary?”
“I tell you it’s all a matter of how much you pay them—and how much they imagine they’re threatened. I could take not only a notary, but a couple of pretty tough lads I knew on the docks. If I were to go,” he added.
“You’ll go. Because I’m willing to pay the Phelans five thousand dollars—and whatever it takes above that to relocate them in another city. Someplace quite distant—out of Stovall’s reach. New Orleans, St. Louis—”
Dourly, he said, “For five thousand, I imagine the Phelans would climb in your bed and put on a performance that would stop your heart with shock—and if you were still alive afterward, they’d hand you their souls in a white hanky.”
“Go see them. Get me the statement. Prepare two identical copies.”
“What are you going to do with the copies?”
“For the moment, nothing.”
“But if you were to use them, how—?”
“Why, I expect one copy would go to Mr. Stovall—with a suggestion that the other might soon be delivered to his prospective bride. I just heard about her this evening. A very proper young woman, I’m told. He’s in desperate need of her father’s money.”
He stared at her, disbelieving.
“I find your reactions damned annoying, Michael!”
“Be as annoyed as you please! I can’t reconcile that”—he pointed to the display case holding the medal—“with what you’re proposing. You told me once the Kents always took the high road—”
“There are times,” she said angrily, “when the high road won’t get you where you must go. I want Kent’s! The statements are only insurance. I really think we’ll be successful with the stock, so let’s not quarrel—” She fanned herself. “My God, I can’t stand this heat a moment longer. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“Well—”
“Speak up before I suffocate.”
“It—it concerns Louis. I think I know why he’s behaving oddly. I tried to suggest as much a while ago, but you were all caught up in Mrs. Ludwig’s gossip.”
“Go on.”
“Professor Pemberton wishes an appointment. He sent round a note. Your son isn’t performing satisfactorily in school.”
“You mean he’s failing?”
“It’s not that he lacks interest or aptitude—he simply doesn’t wish to do the work. So he doesn’t. He’s also indulged in a bit of scrapping—”
“A bit or a lot?”
“Well—the latter. You can read the professor’s note. He says that when Louis doesn’t get his way in some trivial dispute with his classmates, he swings a punch. Rather a mean one, too, I gather. You can be thankful you’re not raising a coward, anyway—”
He tried to smile. The effort failed. The dispute about the Phelans had soured his mood.
She wondered sadly whether her own pattern of living was responsible for the way Louis was developing. The change in him dated from the time she’d tried to explain why she’d shot the man in the mining camp. Ever since, she’d had the uncanny feeling that her son was imitating her behavior, doing exactly as he pleased—just as she appeared to do. He didn’t realize that every action she took had one motive: to see Kent and Son restored to its rightful owners. She’d have to try again to make him understand she was working toward a goal—a goal that mattered almost as much as life itself—
She glanced up, aware of Michael studying her. He said nothing. But she felt accused. In concocting the scheme with the Phelan twins, wasn’t she acting just as irresponsibly as her son? Taking what she wanted, regardless of the means—and regardless of who might be injured?
No! There is a difference! she thought.
But she was uneasy with the conclusion.
She didn’t want Michael to see that. She spoke briskly. “Does Louis know about Pemberton’s note?”
“No. When the boy dropped in here a while ago, I asked him one or two questions about school, that’s all.”
“How did he answer?”
“He said he was bored.”
“Let me have the note.”
He rummaged on the desk. “Oh—here’s one more that arrived with the late mail. A solicitation of funds from Mr. Thurlow Weed in Albany. He’s the newspaper publisher, isn’t he?”
“And the power behind the Whig Party in the state—he and Seward. Should I read that?”
“It depends on whether you want to contribute funds to support the party’s convention in Baltimore in June.”
“I suppose I’m closer to a Whig than to anything else,” she said. “I can’t quite bring myself to be as rabid against slavery as the Free-Soilers. But I’ll be damned if I’ll give a penny to a party when I can’t vote for it. Put that in a letter to Mr. Weed. Tell him the moment the Whigs support votes for women, he’ll have my contribution.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course I do!” She looked rueful. “I also know it’s impractical as the devil.”
“You are a somewhat contradictory creature, Mrs. A.”
“Did you ever know a person who wasn’t?”
He inclined his head again, almost smiling as he agreed. Then: “Shall I or shall I not write Mr. Weed?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, write him a polite note,” she sighed. “Enclose a draft for a hundred dollars.”
“Very well.”
“And don’t forget your trip to the Five Points.”
“That would be impossible,” he said. “May I plead with you once more not to—?”
“No.”
“You can be a hard woman, Mrs. A.”
“When it’s necessary.”
“You’ve never been hard with me before. Demanding, but not hard.” He rubbed his knuckles across his upper lip. “You know how much I hated the tenements—and the crookedness on the docks. You know very well I’d sooner die than be forced back to either. You’re taking advantage of that. Still, that isn’t what bothers me the most. So far, everything you’ve done to get the firm is legal. Surreptitious, but legal. The Phelans, though—that’s something else.”
His steady gaze frightened her, blunted her anger. Her mind echoed with Bart’s biblical warning, and Jephtha’s—
For remission of sin, the price was blood.
“That’s my worry, not yours.”
She started for the door, then swung back.
“Oh, yes—I’d better take Pemberton’s letter. I want to read it before I talk to Louis in the morning.”
“Here. Mrs. A?”
“Yes, Michael?”
“I really am glad you got home safely. That storm’s growing nasty outside—”
With a dispirited smile, she held up the note from the headmaster. “It appears we’ve one of our own brewing inside, too.”
iv
Amanda climbed the stairs slowly. She stopped on the landing to catch her breath beside the stained glass window. The window contained a small portrait of Lord Byron set above a pattern of figures representing the muses.
Under the gas fixture, she read what Pemberton had written. It was every bit as grim as Michael had hinted. Louis was willfully refusing to settle down to his studies—