The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "Enchante-," said the handsome French officer, with a charming smile. Mac had poured a glass for the master of the Thuringia and offered it to him.

  "To these lovely ladies, sir," Mac said, referring to his companions, dressed much alike, as if sisters of the blood, their dark apparel very becoming in the candlelight of the dining room. "To these lovely ladies, sir," repeated Mac, "who—whom—" he corrected himself, feeling again the pang of sorrow that memories of May evoked. Tears appeared in his eyes, thereby instantly evoking compassion from his innocent guests, ". . . whom," he repeated, "I've convinced of the pleasures o' life and ..." He paused, touching his nose confidentially, articulate, but definitely drunk. "... who have convinced me" he emphasized, "o' the damnation o' the hereafter."

  He held his glass high and touched it to the three others. The Captain smiled at the two nuns, Sisters of Charity, bound eventually for New Orleans and, perhaps, the French Captain observed, an incarceration not much different from that for which this gentleman was destined. That, at least, they shared; so the Captain drank his champagne, wishing all three happiness in the freedom they enjoyed at present but of which most certainly, within hours, they would be deprived.

  "You know, Captain . . ." came a whisper in the officer's ear. He bent to catch the hushed words, given in confidence. ". . . before I—pop off," Mac went on, "there is one thing I'd always promised myself I'd do." The Captain could only raise his eyebrow to discourage the thought, spoken with a candor he envied—the thought had, he must admit, not been a stranger to his own wishes at one time in his young life. He looked at the two nuns, who were most attractive physically, and in view of their inebriated state, what Mr. MacDonald was suggesting, he could see, was not inconceivable.

  He coughed, censoring further images, stood up and took his leave, bowing only to the single lady beaming toward him; the other was too concerned in adjusting her habit to relieve a hot flush.

  Mac had already begun reaching out a hand across the table, earnestly addressing the woman before him who now so reminded him of May.

  "I am a worthless fellow—squandering my life in the service of greed and pleasure—instead of—higher things." He smiled into the young nun's eyes, and as she quite obviously responded, the Captain could bear to watch no longer. He knew that the two nuns were simple, unsophisticated, and under such circumstances as travel, when they were thrown into the world, religious rule was allowed suspension. For the duration of the journey, they were able to live—so far as food and drink were concerned—as did those with whom they associated. But the ways of the world only begin in a public dining room; aboard ship, as the most delicate heart knew, anything was possible.

  The Captain strode purposefully across the room, nodding right and left to those diners still lingering. After all, he thought (before the image of a hot toddy, warm bridge and blast of cool night sea air came to him), in all probability (and as a result, one had to forgive the young American's intentions) this would be—in civilized surroundings, at least—Mr. MacDonald's last supper for some time to come.

  What Mac did that night, history has not revealed, but beneath his large brass bed, which was secured firmly to the cabin deck, a middle-aged Irish cleaner, some hours after Thuringia had docked, found what might, she thought, in the light of the gentleman's being "wanted an' all," have been a valuable piece of evidence. A clue of some sort, at least: a bodice garment that was used to strap down large breasts— with a French marking! The Irish cleaner finally decided to say nothing to the authorities. She realized what Mac had discovered, and the original owner knew well enough: that the "find" was too useful.

  §

  All day on Wednesday, April 2, in New York it had been clear sky and bright sunlight but cold, with a biting northeaster blowing hard. For anyone—venturing out for pleasure rather than necessity—who was well wrapped with thick coat, boots, scarf and firmly placed hat, the freshness of late afternoon (when the wind abated somewhat) could certainly have been described as healthy.

  At sea, some miles out from her destination, soon after five o'clock with the day fast fading, the sun low in the west, Thuringia was emerging from squalls that had marred her journey for several days, and now the duty watch on the bridge strained to be first to catch sight of New York's unmistakable skyline. The long blasts from both foghorns reverberated in the ship, creating excitement, anticipation and, for some, apprehension.

  Thuringia had been passing the long shore of New Jersey for several hours. On the horizon a steamer from the South, perhaps Carolina or Florida, was making smoke, also in her final approach as was Thuringia, engines racing as if eager to be inshore and at rest. A fishing fleet was sailing eastward, where twenty or thirty miles out to sea the crews would lay nets for the night's catch, to be inward bound again, come morning, for the markets of a great city.

  Some small but powerful tugs idled low in the water, breathing out clouds of steam. One by one they hooted briskly at Thuringia, obviously in need of no assistance as she cut through the smooth swell, her wake churning out foam that splashed the gunwales of the compact little ships. Already showing, despite the early hour, the twin lights from the heights of Neversink twinkled seaward. With these astern, at a fair rate of knots, in only a matter of minutes the white spit of Sandy Hook came abreast, and here the Thuringia cut to half ahead as a fast steam pinnace, bobbing up and down in the sea swell, ran in alongside to deposit the agile pilot, who leaped onto the hanging ladder and pulled himself, hand over hand, to the deck.

  Overhead, sea gulls wheeled, mournfully demanding (in the first American cries some of the passengers had heard) sustenance against the bitter wind in which they swirled, above a sea that was hardly more inviting. The clear sky belied sleet and the last snow (remaining from some lost winter clouds) that had fallen in the city on previous days. As the great harbor entrance appeared, all the passengers who had decided to brave the cold of the deck saw white patches against the dark land mass.

  The Narrows' channel was negotiated with the confidence of an experienced pilot, and the Thuringia's master again blasted on the horn—a noise echoing across the expanse of water to the small homesteads either side. Staten Island could be seen clearly; the Heights of Brooklyn and a distant view of the Hudson River's densely populated outskirts spread now in all directions.

  Hats clasped against the wind; excited smiles; arms extended, fingers pointed at the broad bay and its numerous tributaries to the north and east; then the tall spires and lofty warehouses of the city itself. To all points of the compass were the close-packed hulls, entangled masts and elegant smokestacks of shipping from all over the world.

  Bells rang throughout the ship. In the wheelhouse the clang, clang of slow ahead sounded out, and Thuringia began to lose speed. More blasts on the horn indicated to all, ashore or aboard, that destination was made and with thanks to God's mercy, a ship had arrived in a port many called home.

  Mac lay on the bed in his cabin, propped against a pillow, looking out the porthole, nervously exhaling smoke from a cheroot. The Thuringia went from half to slow ahead; he felt the change of speed, and as the horn's blast sounded out across the cold water, Mac shivered in anticipation of just about anything—and none of it good.

  r

  §

  Johnny Dobbs squinted into the distance from the pier at the foot of Robinson Street, crowded with drays and drivers. The slush and mud was well trodden by thousands of ill-clad local inhabitants, all having discovered that it was here that the Thuringia would finally dock.

  The New York papers had made a field day of the single passenger whom the gathering crowd had come to see. For many, this American was already a hero (those in poverty seeming always to accept the loss of others' capital without sympathy). Many were expecting to leave quite hoarse with cheering, and shouts of anticipation began as the Thuringia came into sight.

  Johnny Dobbs pushed his way along the quay until he was free of the packed masses and began walking quickly along to the
small jetty with steps leading down to a sleek steam pinnace thirty feet long, mahogany and brass gleaming in the shafts of sunlight that fell on the wharfside through gaps in the tall buildings.

  A carriage was waiting at the head of the steps beside two bollards; seated within, Irving, Stanley and White said nothing, but Johnny Dobbs grinned and wished them a good afternoon—no more. Then, tipping his hat, he stepped gingerly down into the steam pinnace and made preparations to cast off.

  The carriage jerked away and, turning in a slow arc along the north side of the wharf, clattered away over the cobbles, threading between* derricks and cranes in the direction opposite to the waiting crowd. The carriage was making for the dockside where, in the distance, a large steam tug, paid for by the detectives, was straining at her hawsers. The rendezvous, her Captain had been told, was with the approaching steamer from France—Thuringia.

  §

  At this season in Cuba, such intense humidity in early evening was unusual, as all twenty of Austin's guests knew quite well. What little movement of air there was only added heat to the atmosphere, whose heaviness was more akin to / that of October storms. Normally April had a delicious balminess, warmth, relieved by cool sea breezes.

  Austin's staff had become lax in his absence, and what Elizabeth had planned as an early dinner was fast becoming a supper party, the several hours' delay compensated for by alcohol. Drinks were served constantly by two servants, dressed in livery, chivvied along by Austin, whose nerves could be calmed only by constant champagne. Although he was not, by eight in the evening (late when the usual hour for dinner was between five and seven thirty) most of the assembled guests were not merely hot and garrulous, but drunk.

  Austin, alone in the large dining room, walked down first one side of the long table, then the other, checking the seating arrangements and name cards. On the Gulf side, six huge French windows were opened onto the wide balcony that ran the length of the villa. Their diaphanous lace curtains billowed slightly as the breeze strengthened to a light wind.

  Austin stood for a moment at the head of the table, where he would sit, and surveyed the tableau before him, lacking only his guests—all, as Elizabeth said, "brand-new best friends." He smiled and, for the first time in days, relaxed completely. Ahead lay a new life, to create as they wished. The one word—Mexico—was now, in his mind, full of the promise he had anticipated of Cuba; if Elizabeth and he could live even half as well elsewhere, he knew, they would remain happy.

  Austin stepped away from his tall chair, high-backed and superbly carved; then, taking a Havana cigar from the inlaid silver box atop a Spanish oak sideboard which stood against the wall between two large doors, he walked the length of the other side of his lavishly laid dining table, made of dark polished rosewood, but covered this evening with an intricate lace cloth, almost twelve yards long and four wide, that fell in exquisite folds nearly touching the floor.

  Austin moved toward the adjacent French windows of the side wall of the villa, high over the sloping garden that fell away below. He lit his cigar and stepped through the open doors onto the small curved balcony. This side it was not joined to the long balcony that ran the length of the hacienda on the Gulf side. Looking over the darkening vegetation and, beyond, to the western lights of the city, he breathed deeply. By God, he thought, I'll miss this place.

  Austin beckoned to the four Cuban musicians waiting in the garden below to come up, then stepped back into the large room. He would put them, as Elizabeth had suggested, here, he thought, looking immediately about him. In front of these windows at the end of the table, where I can catch their eye if they become too loud, he mused. Austin put the cigar firmly between his teeth and used both hands to close the windows and lock them tight. It will throw the music into the room, he decided as he turned the key; besides, the breeze is becoming a wind, he went on, knowing that although the northern Gulf side was protected, a south wind would blow right into the room from the west wall. He checked the French windows once more to satisfy himself that they were secure, then went out of the room by one of the large carved oak doors and closed it quietly. He had thereby made one mistake that evening which would afford few others.

  §

  In downtown Havana, John Curtain looked at his pocket watch and replaced it in his waistcoat. He was a civilized man, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin a dinner party. He rose from the bar in the small hotel run by an American lady and went into the foyer, where his four associates stood up immediately.

  A rare combination, John Curtain; he was both likable and easygoing, yet commanded respect with a glance: "A good man to have working for you," Pinkerton the elder had many times told his sons.

  The group—Curtain and four New York Pinkerton employees—began walking the short distance from their hotel to a building which housed both the police and the local militia.

  It had become familiar to all of them these past twenty-four hours, and the "speedy" issue of a warrant for arrest had been a grueling business.

  The five men entered the building at ten minutes after eight o'clock, exactly as Austin Bidwell, in his villa above the city of Havana, stood proudly at the head of his table. His admiring guests, cooler now on the upper floor of the hacienda, saw the obvious effort in the magnificent display. They murmured approval.

  Austin indicated to the Cuban quartet that they could begin, snapped his fingers at the six servants in attendance and with a smile to the assemblage, poised now, all having found their allotted places, said simply, "Please—sit."

  G'A'M'E

  EDINBURGH was built on seven hills near the sea. From the esplanade beneath the famous Castle, perched on its dominating rock, to the palace of Holyrood House, past St. Giles Cathedral, John Knox House, Cannongate tollbooth and the Abbey Church ruins, the direction is straight; this is known as the Royal Mile. Above this rise the romantic buildings of the old town. Below, beyond what was once a loch, drained to create Princes Street Garden, lay (spreading north) the neo-Georgian "planned town."

  Here George Bidwell had decided to lie low. Having eluded his hunters, and whilst, he believed, they backtracked in Ireland to discover a clue overlooked or discounted, George began to relax; slowly he regained his confidence and nerve, which had been tried to breaking.

  On his arrival in Scotland, the dismal city of Glasgow (shrouded in rain) had made a poor impression. George had taken a train to Edinburgh, stayed one night in a temperance hotel, maintaining his French identity; the following day he had taken a room in a lodging-house for medical students, at 22 Cumberland Street. George had declared to his landlady,

  Mrs. Laverock, that he was not in the best of health and would like to be disturbed as little as possible.

  Mr. "Coutant," although foreign, appeared to be an agreeable gentleman, and Mrs. Laverock assured the "Monsieur" that she would do her utmost to see him right. Their brief conversation was on April 2, two days after George had departed Belfast.

  That afternoon, George walked to the intersection of Cumberland and Dundas streets, turned south and continued almost to Northumberland Street, crossing Great King Street, until he arrived at the news agent's, where he bought the London and Edinburgh papers from an old man with half glasses on his nose, little hair oh his head, hardly any light in his shop, but with a canny look in his eyes.

  His sycophantic smile and almost unintelligible language decided George on the least possible conversation between them. He had come for the papers, nothing more, and if he wished to repeat this each day he remained in Edinburgh (the shop being, Mrs. Laverock had assured him, the "only place for a mile or more"), George would start as he intended to go on.

  He paid the man, grunted a farewell and left the dark little place, stepping out into sunlight breaking through heavy clouds that lowered over the city. George had spent an entire day scrutinizing a street map of Edinburgh, so he decided to test his knowledge and walk the long way back to his lodgings, along Northumberland into Howe Street, passing the Royal Circus
entrance into Vincent Street and thence Cumberland, with a right turn.

  George glanced at the front page of the day-old London paper, which revealed "the death of the White Star Liner Atlantic." Astonished, he became impatient to read more; he quickened his pace and was back at Mrs. Laverock's inside ten minutes. His narrow escape from the shipping disaster added amazement to the tone of a letter he began to write to Austin, recounting his adventures in Ireland. George smiled as he wrote his signature, then addressed it to Austin Bidwell in Havana. He sealed the envelope and stood up—about to make his way to the post office when he was shaken by his own stupidity. He sat down heavily. He crossed out Bidwell and had actually begun to write Warren when he threw down his pen on the small table. What was he thinking of? In buying a stamp and mailing the letter, he would have provided the vital information for the capture of both himself and his brother. Dumbfounded and aware now, more than ever, of his total isolation, he sprawled onto his bed. Physically he was exhausted, mentally in turmoil. Only at dusk did he fall into a troubled sleep.

  §

  Last rays of sunlight danced behind the tall buildings of New York City, then were there no longer, leaving only ominous silhouettes against a pale and lifeless sky—sunset colors of the day's end drained away as if blood from a severed artery.

  Mac, on deck of the French liner Thuringia, could not share the exuberance of all those around him, clad in furs and heavy topcoats, leaning on the rails, hand luggage beside them, watching buoys below in the dark waters pass by slowly as the ship negotiated her way nearer to the Robinson Street pier. Finding himself at the davit where, far out to sea, he and the Captain had shared a moment of peace and the fateful message in Morse, Mac looked up.

  The Frenchman was again out of the wheelhouse, standing on the flying bridge, binoculars about his neck. A seaman came out of the wheelhouse, buttoned his short winter coat tight about him, then pulled across the iron gate at the top of the short flight of steps to deny access during the delicate docking procedure.