by Peter Quinn
The Live Oak bellowed his heart out that night of Bill Poole’s funeral. His face was flushed with rage and grief, tears running down his cheeks as he drew the crowd around him.
“The scum,” Law shouted, “the slime-eating Paddy scum, they’ve gone too far this time, given us no choice but to return blow for blow. I haven’t a doubt this vile assassination was carried out by order of Morrissey and Hughes, Old Smoke and Dagger John, confederates in perfidy, and now they must be paid back, a pound of flesh for a pound of flesh. The Butcher died a True American! And that’s how he must be avenged. Blood must flow!”
The crowd cried in unison, “Blood must flow!”
Stark and the other gentlemen didn’t join in the yelling. They nodded and applauded politely. Although Stark had never said anything to Bedford about their purpose in visiting the lodge, it was obvious they had come not so much in memory of Bill Poole’s life as in anticipation of George Law’s future. Here was the spreading red glare of a rocket on the rise, the self-taught farm boy from Washington County who trod the plank road to Troy and found there the opportunities that would lead eventually to ownership of the Dry Dock Bank and of railroads and steamships, enterprises he tried to stamp with the mark of True Americanism, as he had the High Bridge.
The rush to California made his steamship business explode. But the Live Oak cared for more than profits. When the Spanish authorities in Cuba attempted to interfere with one of his ships and remove a passenger, he defied them, raised hell in Washington, called for war, invasion, the annexation of Cuba, Let’s finish what we began in Mexico and teach these monkeys a lesson once and for all. Soon after, rumors of a presidential bid started. In Pennsylvania, the Know-Nothing majority in the legislature voted him their choice for the nomination in ’56. “A combination of Croesus and Alexander” is how they described him, “with a true American heart.”
“Let’s not fool ourselves,” the Live Oak said through his tears that evening in the lodge. “Let’s speak the truth. Ireland has arrived in America, the entire nation transported here, lock, stock, and popery, and those of us who are descended from the brave Scots of Ulster, we know that can mean only one thing: War! Holy War! War to the death! No surrender!”
Stark left immediately after the speech, Bedford with him. They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Stark said, “Extreme language, but these are extreme times.”
“Do you think he’ll run?” Bedford asked.
“Who’ll run?”
“George Law. Do you think he’ll run for president?”
They were at the corner of Cortlandt and Broadway. Ahead was City Hall. Stark pointed at it. “That’s where his interests lie.”
“In being mayor?”
“In the charter for the Eighth Avenue streetcars. The company that possesses it is in default and is unable to proceed with the laying of the track, and I’m told the Live Oak has planted himself in the Common Council to spread his munificent branches and offer the members the protection of his green foliage. Before Bill Poole’s mortal flesh begins to molder and his earthy memory fade, our friend Mr. Law will bring his attentions to the business at hand, which will not wait, the winning of the streetcar franchises and their proper exploitation in conjunction with the franchises he already holds for the Grand Street, Roosevelt Street, and Staten Island ferries. A man can’t attend to these affairs and run for president at the same time, and it is my guess that Mr. Law is more Croesus than Alexander.”
Stark’s judgment was proven correct. Law had directed all his energies toward acquiring the goodwill of the Common Council. The franchises were given him. The talk of a run for the White House faded away. Bedford saw Law very rarely at the Exchange, where they had a nodding acquaintance, but while the memory of that night at the lodge had remained vivid, he could summon no recollection of Capshaw out of it.
“I was standing by the bar,” Capshaw said. “We was introduced by John Harper, and I remembered you clear as could be, because it appeared to me that we was around the same age. I was impressed by the company you kept, the company of gentlemen.”
Bedford tried to re-create the tableau, but couldn’t. Instead, he felt a burning awareness of missed opportunities, investments he should have made in ferries, streetcars, Manhattan real estate. It had all been there, in front of his nose, gold beneath his feet that was as real as any to be found in California.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t recall. I have a weak memory for such things.”
“I always heard a gentleman made it a point of remembering names, but maybe it’s just the names of other gentlemen he troubles himself with.”
“I think perhaps you have the wrong perception of me, Capshaw. I wasn’t born to wealth. I was born to circumstances best described as humble, and I earned everything I possess.”
“There are them say you used smooth manners to marry with advantage, that’s how you came by your money.”
“That’s a Goddamn lie, but I didn’t come here to argue my pedigree. You sent a note saying you wanted to see me. I’m here, let’s get done with your business as quickly as possible. I wish to go home and bathe.”
“Don’t ride a high horse with me, friend. You’re the one came seeking help, and I done what I can. But now seems people are poking around, putting pressure on me, asking questions, and I need your help to keep ’em at bay.”
“What people?”
“Maybe they was bulls, maybe friends of John Morrissey. Couldn’t tell.”
“And the help you need is financial, of course.”
“Yes.”
“How much worth of help?”
Capshaw looked in the direction of the river. “Fifty thousand ought to do it.”
“I don’t have fifty thousand.”
“Sure you do.”
The day before, on Friday, Bedford had sold almost all his holdings in gold. He had the proceeds, over seventy thousand in greenbacks, in a carpetbag in his closet at home. He doubted Capshaw knew of the sale. This was merely Capshaw’s attempt to determine the dimensions of his extortion.
“I have suffered severe losses on the Exchange, where most of my money is tied up. If I sold my stocks now, at their present value, I should incur a terrible financial reverse.”
“Don’t try poor-mouthing me, Bedford. I know where your losses have been, at Morrissey’s faro palace and in the Coal Hole, and if you can’t help me out, others can. The clients of Stark and Evans, for example, who would undoubtedly appreciate someone tellin’ ’em to take a look at the firm’s books. And Old Smoke, too, I’m sure he’d be interested to know that his number one client has gone and squandered that which properly belongs to the House of Morrissey on a losing speculation in gold. And the coppers, them also, they might confer a reward on him who turned in a man who steals securities.”
“I can give you ten thousand on Monday, but that’s all, I don’t have any more.”
“I got the afternoon to myself,” Capshaw said. “Once I’m through watching the ball game, maybe I’ll take the ferry back and pay a visit on Mr. Morrissey. Not a man with mercy or manners, none of the Paddies are, but a man of his word. When John Morrissey makes a promise or a threat, it’s as good as gold. You can put it in the bank.”
Capshaw stood gazing at the river, his hands pushed down into the back pockets of his pants, his hat at the same cockeyed angle as before. Bedford took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Blood from his mosquito bites streaked the white linen. His heart raced. He felt like he might vomit. He grabbed hold of the trunk of a sapling and pulled himself to his feet. As he stood, a baseballer’s bat that had been leaning against the tree fell to the ground. Neither Capshaw nor he had noticed it before. Perhaps it had been left behind by some baseballer who had come to Sybil’s Cave with the girl of his affections, put down the bat that he might entwine her in his arms, and led her to a shadowy clearing in the woods, all but love erased from their minds. Or perhaps it belonged to a lone visitor who had come
to enjoy the view and, lost in his own thoughts, had walked away without remembering what he had brought with him. But there it was, and as soon as it fell at his feet, Bedford had no doubt or hesitation about what to do with it. He reached down, picked the bat up, and raised it high above his shoulders. Capshaw had turned when the bat made its small thud on the ground. In the instant he saw Bedford pick it up, he reached behind himself, into the sheath hidden in the small of his back, and drew out a knife. “You Goddamn son of a bitch,” he shouted, “don’t come a step closer!”
Bedford swung at the hand that held the knife and hit it squarely. The knife sailed off into the bushes. Capshaw howled with pain. Bedford brought the bat down on the side of Capshaw’s head. Capshaw staggered backward, his knees wobbling as if he were about to fall. Bedford had the bat up again, but Capshaw suddenly seemed to come to his senses; he turned and ran. Picking up speed and showing no signs of the blows Bedford had landed, he sprinted down the path. Bedford ran after him, as fast as he could. The distance between them didn’t diminish. Capshaw raced down into the hollow, slipped at the fringe of the enormous puddle, and crashed into the mud. He immediately tried to get up, but slipped again. He was on his hands and knees when Bedford reached him. Bedford swung the bat like an ax, once, twice, against Capshaw’s head. Capshaw collapsed facedown into the mud. Bedford poised to strike the back of Capshaw’s skull. Capshaw shot forward and rammed Bedford in the groin with his head. Bedford slid backward and fell. Capshaw staggered to his feet, his face covered with a mask of mud and blood. He climbed up the side of the hollow, through the thick underbrush. Capshaw got only a few yards before Bedford caught up with him. Bedford swung wildly. He missed Capshaw and smashed a tree. Capshaw tripped over a log; this time he made no effort to get up. He lay there, panting, and covered the back of his head with a hand tattooed with an eagle.
Bedford stood above him, kicked the hand aside with his boot, took a deep breath, and pounded away with the bat until he lost any sense of how long he was at it, surrendering to the rhythm of the blows. Finally exhausted, he sat on the log over which Capshaw had tripped. The sweat ran down his face like rain, matted his hair, and soaked his clothes. The mosquitoes began to converge, buzzing furiously around Capshaw’s body. Bedford felt them biting his neck and hands but made no attempt to brush them away or swat them while they sucked. He pushed Capshaw once with the bat. Perhaps Capshaw’s last thought had been that it had been a trap, the bat planted there, the spot for his murder prearranged. It hadn’t been. It had been a matter of fate, or luck, or destiny. (In reality, Capshaw had been less shocked by the discovery of the bat than by the willingness of a gentleman to use it in such a way. A gentleman couldn’t take a knife and cut the throat of Mosie Pick, almost slicing off her head, the way he had. He had gone to her place to scare her off. She had been taking away his business, a Jewess the Paddies had come to prefer fencing their stuff with. They said she didn’t have any airs about her and wasn’t bent on cheating them, the way the Protestants were. She scoffed at his threats, sitting there, laughing, and didn’t see him bring out the blade. He killed her with one swipe. One less foreigner to take enjoyment in the tribulations of True Americans. This morning, he had strapped the sheath to his belt the same way he always did, out of habit, no thought of having to use his knife, not with Bedford. Capshaw simply couldn’t imagine a gentleman being capable of that, or of a deed such as this, using a bat to turn a man’s head into a bloody pulp, right in the middle of a bright summer’s day. It was unthinkable: Gentlemen were two-faced scoundrels, curs, cowards—not brazen murderers.)
Bedford decided to take the body to the edge of a cliff and drop it into the river, the resting place for myriads of New Yorkers—suicides, unwanted newborns—and of immigrant victims of cholera and yellow fever tossed silently overboard in order to spare the other passengers the purgatory of quarantine; a watery potter’s field few inhabitants of which were ever fished out and identified. He dragged the body by the cuffs of the trousers toward the cliff. The belt snapped, and the trousers came off in his hands. He reeled and almost fell. He tossed the trousers away. He pulled the body by the ankles onto a narrow footpath and made rapid progress toward the river. At the edge of the cliff he discovered the river wasn’t directly below. There was a ribbon of beach between the height he was on and the water. From the direction of the path that led to Sybil’s Cave, he heard voices, a woman’s talking and then a man’s singing. He lay on the ground. The words of the song were clearly audible.
Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder
Near the silent spot where thou art laid,
And my heart bows down when I wander
By the streams and meadows where we stray’d.
Bedford waited for the voice to grow faint as the couple walked toward Sybil’s Cave. But instead it grew louder. They had left the path to the cave and were coming toward the cliff. He looked around for the bat. He had no idea what he had done with it. He rolled Capshaw’s body to the edge and pushed it over. Then he ran. He crashed through the brush. Branches whipped his face. He ran until he reached a path. He followed it to a road that paralleled the river. He walked along its shoulder, in the shade of the trees, his head down. He was traveling northward. He kept moving. After a mile or so, he looked behind. The road was deserted. He knelt, washed his hands in the water, and plunged his head into it. He took off his cravat and coat. The sleeves were stained with the splatter of Capshaw’s blood and brains. He rolled them into a ball and heaved them into the river. He had lost his hat but had no idea where.
He would make an odd sight, a man without a hat walking along a road beneath the summer sun, the kind of peculiarity someone might take note of and recall later for the police. There was no going back to the Hoboken ferry. He thought of waiting for dark, pushing a log into the river, and trying to paddle his way to the Manhattan shore, but the current would probably carry him out into the middle of the harbor. He lay down in the high grass but was too restless to sleep or even sit still. Toward dusk, he started walking again. When a wagon came by, as happened twice, he hid. He steered clear of the two ferry slips that he passed. He headed for the ferry below Fort Lee, in the shadow of the Palisades. It docked, he thought, at the village of Manhattanville. From there he could take the Hudson River Railroad back to the city. Money wasn’t a problem. He reached for the billfolder in his breast pocket, then remembered his coat, a balled-up clump of cloth hurtling through the air, making a slight splash in the river water, the current catching it, unfolding it, pulling it toward the bay, the cravat shoved into one sleeve and in the breast pocket the billfolder. He rummaged the pockets of his trousers. They were empty.
He kept walking. It grew dark. The road veered up a hill, away from the river. Bedford left the road and followed a narrow path along the river. Somewhere on the shore must be a fisherman’s skiff that he could employ for his own use. He walked through a hodgepodge terrain of dry earth, mud, and tidal ponds filled with high grass. He found no boat. He thought he heard a noise behind him, and turned. At a distance of several yards was a lantern, a ghostly light that swayed in the darkness but exposed neither hand nor face of whoever held it. Bedford walked fast. The light was following him. He started to run. Ahead, from the direction of the river, another light appeared. Bedford pitched forward into a watery hole. He couldn’t touch bottom. He started to swim. The prow of a small boat crashed through the high grass and almost smashed into him. A lantern on a pole was extended from the boat over his head.
“Over here, Sam,” a voice cried out, “I got the cuss right here.”
The other lantern approached quickly. Bedford treaded water. “Give me a hand, please, I’m drowning,” he said. He could make out a figure standing in the boat. An iron spear with a sharp hook set beneath the end almost touched the tip of his nose.
“Serves ya right, you damn Yorker,” the voice said.
The other lantern came alongside. “Pull him in, Hiram, and let’s have a look. If we don’t
like what we see, we can always toss him back.”
The two voices laughed together. The side of the first boat swung toward Bedford. He reached out to grab it but pulled back his hand. Hung on lines that trailed in the water were the plump, furry bodies of scores of rats, pink palms and soles shining in the lantern light, muzzles opened to expose teeth with points like pins.
Bedford screamed. The voices laughed louder. The back of the boat came round so that Bedford could grab it. The man in the boat, Hiram, reached down and helped pull Bedford in. Bedford sat in the back. He trembled. Hiram sat across from him, spear in one hand, the pole with the lantern in the other. There were more rats lying on the floor of the boat. A few were still twitching.
“Suppose you tell me what ya were up to,” Hiram said. His thin face was covered with a poorly trimmed beard. His shirt almost reached his knees. His pant legs were rolled up over his calves.
“I—I was seeking passage back to New York. I came over in a friend’s boat this afternoon, a day’s outing, and we became separated, and he, it appears, returned to the other shore without me.”
The two boatmen laughed loudly. Hiram banged the end of his spear on the planks beneath his feet. “Ain’t it always the way! Never been a Yorker born yet didn’t have a pocketful of lies. The most brazen people on God’s earth.”
“And the rottenest,” the man in the other boat, Sam, said. His lantern hung over the side. Bedford couldn’t make out Sam’s face but imagined it wasn’t all that different from Hiram’s.