by BJ Hoff
Jack nodded, replaced the poker, and went back to his desk. “I’m seeing applicants for the driver’s position. You can show them in here one at a time as they arrive. I thought I’d see them here so if I find a likely candidate he can have a look at the stables.”
She tightened her mouth. “No telling what sort will show up, I expect.”
Jack bent over the desk and began stacking his papers to the side. “Don’t worry a bit, Addy,” he said straight-faced. “There’s a gun right here in the top drawer. Naturally, I’ll protect your virtue with my life.”
He glanced up and saw her narrow her eyes. The dear invariably narrowed her eyes when she was bent on baiting him. Addy was nothing if not predictable.
“And what’s to become of old Ransom, the poor man? You’ll be sending him out on his keeping with the ragpickers, I suppose.”
Jack bared his teeth at her. “You know perfectly well that Ransom has asked for a position here in the house. Faith, woman, he must be at least a century or more by now, wouldn’t you say? He’s only a step short of being crippled by rheumatism, and he’s all but deaf. We could be run down in the street by a stampede of horses, and he’d never hear them until they’d flattened us.” He paused. “He will work as a handyman about the house from now on.”
The housekeeper made a short sound of disgust. “Handyman, indeed! The old fool is about as handy as a drunken sailor.”
“You’d know more about drunken sailors than I, you outrageous woman,” Jack said evenly as he went to the door. “I believe I will have my breakfast now, Addy. If you please.”
She sniffed and started off ahead of him. The tight little bun at the back of her neck didn’t budge—Jack half suspected that she anchored it with chicken wire in the mornings—as she took off down the hall toward the kitchen, muttering to herself all the way.
Jack smiled as he followed, knowing full well that she was smiling, too—rather like a she-wolf at the thought of its next kill.
Addy O’Meara had been with Jack since he and Martha rented their first flat, after their marriage. Formerly a part of Martha’s household, Addy had come to assist the newlyweds—and never left. She had nursed Martha through the long months of illness that ended in death two years later, all the while helping Jack to raise “the wee brother”—Brady, who in truth was more son to Jack than brother—with an eagle eye, a firm hand, and an Irish mother’s heart.
Addy had been mother, friend, and confidant for so many years that Jack no longer thought of her in any other way except as family, and he quite simply could not imagine life without her.
Unfortunately for him, the cantankerous old woman was well aware of the fact.
7
AN ENCOUNTER BETWEEN THE STRONG AND THE STRONG
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow,
I am hungry with their desire…
PADRAIC PEARSE
Cavan Sheridan stood, cap in hand, studying the fine room into which the prickly housekeeper had directed him. “The Study,” she had called it, her Irish tongue lingering on the word as if the study were a holy place. “Mr. Kane will see you in the Study.”
The room was spacious but not immense. The quiet decor was a surprising contrast to the somewhat gilded furnishings he had glimpsed beyond the open doors flanking the great marble corridor. The windows were shrouded in velvet, but the draperies had been drawn to admit the weak morning light. Green damask covered the walls in those places where there were no bookshelves, and Cavan had a sense of a forest retreat, dense and calm and sheltered. The man who had chosen the sturdy furniture of leather and rosewood, the fine paneling that gleamed like aged honey, and the thick, richly textured carpet that silenced each footfall would be a man who favored comfort over luxury, he mused—contentment and warmth over opulence.
The room didn’t fit the stories he had heard about Black Jack Kane. Although he’d been in New York City for only six weeks, Cavan had already heard numerous tales—some conflicting—about the “Irish black bear” who allegedly showed no restraint in flaunting the wealth and power of his newspaper empire. Depending on who happened to be giving the account, Kane might be depicted as a rogue, a scoundrel, an upstart, an infidel—or a genius. Some described him as ruthless, others as arrogant, wily, and cold-blooded. Most, however, tended to agree that, whatever else he might happen to be, Kane was brilliant.
At the sound of a soft whistling outside the door, Cavan turned. His curiosity had heightened to the point that he had all he could do not to gape at the man who entered the room. Kane’s acknowledging nod was neither condescending nor rude, but strangely cavalier—as if he had more important things on his mind than this interview but intended to be good-natured about it all the same.
For a moment he stood behind the desk, fixing Cavan with a gaze too dark to register any hint of emotion. Kane was younger than Cavan had expected, given the man’s colorful reputation and the influence he apparently wielded; he might have been forty, but scarcely more. And if he was indeed the rascal he was reputed to be, his appearance was deceiving. Where Cavan had anticipated a middle-aged, overweight swell with the florid face of one accustomed to excess, Jack Kane was tall and trim—a dark, lean man with an air of hard elegance and the arrogant good looks of the black Irish.
Cavan, who at an inch or two over six feet seldom found himself at eye level with other men, noted that Kane probably topped him by another inch or so. Below the coal black mustache, Kane had the long lip of the Irish. His not-quite-swarthy skin and raven hair bespoke a trace of Spanish descent seen mostly in the west of Ireland.
Cavan had done his homework on his prospective employer. He knew that Kane, an orphan, had come across while still a boy, along with a younger brother and sister. According to rumor, he had attained his present level of success by a combination of hard work, an almost legendary shrewdness, and a brassy kind of courage that took chances most men would run from. In less than two decades, Jack Kane had risen from sweeping floors at an upstairs print shop on Chatham Street to an apprentice position, eventually going on to become the owner and publisher of one of the country’s largest, most influential newspapers. There was also speculation about a political career in the making. Despite his youthful appearance, the man was practically a legend.
Cavan meant to be “the legend’s” newest employee. He had been without funds for nearly a week now, had not eaten more than a few stale crusts of bread in all that time, and was virtually reeling on his feet. The latest in a series of temporary odd jobs had ended nearly two weeks past; since then he’d been sleeping in alleys among the newsboys and ragpickers, using discarded papers to ward off the wind.
He was desperate, indeed had never wanted or needed anything quite so much as this job with Kane’s newspaper. At the moment, it represented the difference between starvation and survival.
Yet, as his eyes met and held the black gaze of Jack Kane, it was something more than desperation that fueled his resolve to work for Kane’s paper, the Vanguard. In a way he couldn’t have begun to define, Cavan sensed that the man across the desk from him held the power to change his life, to offer him something more than a respite from hunger and humiliation.
He had been hoping, searching, praying for this moment—his crossroads, as he had come to think of it—since he was a small boy. He had always known he would recognize it when he came upon it.
Now that it was here, he knew he must hurry to claim it before it slipped away.
Jack was curious and even a little amused to feel himself scrutinized as thoroughly as if he were the applicant rather than the employer.
The lad had brass, that much was plain.
The boy had caught his interest immediately. He was almost as tall as Jack himself, with shoulders broad enough to balance his height, even though his frame was all angles and sharp turns. In truth, he looked as if he had not sat down to a full meal in a very long time, if ever. But it was the fie
ry glint of intelligence behind that startling blue gaze that intrigued Jack.
“The name’s Sheridan, sir,” the youth volunteered. “Cavan Sheridan.”
“And where are you from, Cavan Sheridan?” Jack asked him, at the same time glancing down at the surprisingly legible handwriting on the paper the youth had thrust at him.
“Pennsylvania, sir.”
Jack glanced up. “What in the world are you doing in New York?”
The boy shrugged but made no reply.
“On the lam, are you?” Jack pressed.
The other bristled visibly. “No, sir! Nothing like that.”
The accent was right out of the west: western Ireland. One of the islands, more than likely. “Then why did you leave Pennsylvania?”
“To get out of the mines.” The brogue thickened perceptibly. “I couldn’t stay in the mines.”
Jack felt an unexpected softening within. He knew a fair amount about the conditions the country’s coal miners worked under—abominable conditions, for the most part. His eyes went to the thin scar that traced the right side of Sheridan’s face, from eyebrow to long, lean jaw. “Got yourself banged up a bit, did you?”
The youth hesitated, then nodded. “There was a cave-in. Broke my shoulder and my collarbone. But I would have left the mines in any event.”
“How old are you, lad?”
“Nearly twenty, sir.”
Older than Jack would have thought. Perhaps because of the lanky frame or the light band of freckles running across his nose, Sheridan looked scarcely more than a boy. Or was it something in those unsettling blue eyes? Some hint of vulnerability that didn’t quite go with the hard line of the mouth or the scar.
Jack studied the youth for another moment, then motioned him to a chair. “How long did you work the mines?” he said, sitting down at the desk.
The wide mouth tightened. “Since I was fifteen, sir.”
“That’s a bit young for such a place.”
“Not really, sir,” Sheridan said, hesitating another second or two before lowering his long frame into the chair across from Jack. “Lots of boys go down before they’re ten.”
Jack leaned back, locking his hands behind his head. “Can’t imagine that’s much of a life.”
Sheridan’s gaze darkened, and the earlier hint of youthfulness and vulnerability seemed to fade. “No, sir. It’s not. In truth, it’s no life at all.”
Jack studied him. “You’re from the islands,” he said, making it more statement than question.
Sheridan looked surprised. “Aye, sir. The Big Island.”
“Inishmore?”
The lad nodded.
“How long since you left?”
“I was thirteen when I came across, sir.”
Jack had been fourteen. At the time he had believed himself to be a man. Now he realized how very young he had been. “So—you’ve been here in New York for how long?”
Sheridan sat on the edge of the chair, large hands knotted on his knees. He looked stiff and uncomfortable with his surroundings, Jack noted.
“Not long, sir. A few weeks is all.”
“Where are you staying?” Jack could almost anticipate the answer. He knew all too well where penniless immigrants kept themselves when they had no place to go. New York could be brutal to its poor, relegating them to the worst of its slums or the mean streets themselves.
The boy glanced away, looking more awkward than ever. Something pricked at Jack’s heart. “I’ve been down that road myself, lad,” he said gruffly. “There’s no shame in it.”
Sheridan expelled a long breath. “I’ll have me a place, once I hire on somewhere.”
Jack lowered his arms, took a cheroot from its box, and lighted it. “I’d be interested in knowing what qualifies you to be my driver.”
Sheridan wiped his hands over his knees, first one, then the other. “I drove the coal wagons at the mines for the past two years, sir. I’m a good driver. I’m strong and do well with the horses.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to the youth’s hands, large and chapped, with a faint residue of coal dust under the nails. In spite of his leanness, the lad did give the appearance of strength, even a kind of restrained power.
“Not exactly the same thing as driving a buggy,” Jack pointed out.
Sheridan leaned forward still more. “More than likely, you’ll be seeing a fair number of applicants for this job, Mr. Kane. But you won’t be finding one better suited, and that’s the truth.” He paused. “I’d also be good to have around in the event of trouble.”
“Well, now, I’m not hiring a bodyguard, lad. It’s a driver I’m needing.” Jack heard his own brogue slip out but made no effort to curb it. It came and went, and nothing evoked it so much as a fit of temper or a boy, like this one, fresh off the boat.
“Still, I’m the best man.”
“Sure of yourself, eh? That’s all right. No harm in it, unless there’s nothing but air behind the starch.” Jack considered him for a long moment. “Tell me the truth now, lad: Are you running from the law? I’ll find out soon enough, so don’t lie to me. I don’t hire trouble. It finds me easily enough as it is.”
Sheridan shook his head with convincing vehemence. “I’m in no trouble, and I’ll be bringing you none, Mr. Kane. All I’m wanting is an honest job and a fair wage.”
“Are you a drinker?”
Again the youth shook his head. “No, sir. I can find better ways to spend my wages.”
“Curse of our people,” Jack muttered, as much to himself as to young Sheridan. He held a bitter resentment toward the gross exaggerations of his countrymen’s drinking habits, yet he was forced to acknowledge that the caricatures were not without some substance. Many of the Irish did drink to excess, there was no denying it. They drank to drown their troubles and their sorrows, seemingly blind to the fact that they were only borrowing even more grief for themselves and their loved ones.
To Jack, the whiskey was a beast—a beast that fed upon the soul as much as the body. For that reason, he had not lifted a glass of the stuff in over twenty years. Nor would he knowingly hire a man who couldn’t stay out of his cups. It was his contention that if a fellow couldn’t control his appetites, whatever they happened to be, he could not be relied upon as an employee.
He looked at Sheridan. “The job pays four dollars a week.”
Actually, he had been prepared to offer only three, but something in the rangy youth sitting across from him prompted a more generous figure. “You would be required to either live here, on the premises, or remain as late as you’re needed each night—which wouldn’t usually be very late at all, but on occasion could run past midnight. You could take your meals here, in the kitchen, so long as you’re on time and don’t inconvenience the cook.”
“I could stay here?”
Jack noted the quickening of interest and nodded. “There’s a comfortable room above the stables. You could have that, if you like. My present stableman, who’ll still be coming in to help out some about the house, has his own quarters elsewhere.”
“Are you offering me the job, then, sir?”
There was no mistaking the eagerness in his eyes, the hunger. Not only hunger for a decent meal—though that, too, no doubt—but hunger for opportunity. Perhaps in a way, Jack thought, it was a hunger for hope itself.
“You be straight with me, lad,” he said sternly, deftly shifting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Is there anything else I ought to know about you? Any reason at all I shouldn’t hire you?”
Sheridan seemed to consider the question carefully. His reply was a surprise. “I left the church,” he finally said.
Whatever Jack might have expected, it certainly wasn’t this. “Indeed,” he said evenly.
The boy nodded. “I couldn’t stomach the way the priests treated the miners. Some of the men tried to protest the terrible conditions in the mines, the way the owners took advantage. Working us like mules from before dawn to long past dark, th
reatening our jobs if we so much as made a complaint, attaching our wages—why, by the time many a man picked up his pay, there was often so much held out for ‘payment of accounts’ that he owed the company. After all that backbreaking work, he would go home to his family empty-handed!”
There was no mistaking the anger, the outrage in the youth as he went on. “But when the men began to protest, the priests would have none of it. Labeled those who spoke out as ‘troublemakers’; gave them a thorough tongue-lashing in front of the entire parish.”
“Would I be right in assuming that not all of these protests were of a peaceful nature?” Jack put in.
Sheridan delayed his answer, but when it came Jack felt it was truthful. “Well, some of the men did get a bit more…physical with their objections, pulling rough stuff on the property, the mine offices. No one got hurt, mind, but it made the priests wild. They called the men out at Mass, made spectacles of them, thoroughly denounced them.”
“You could hardly expect a priest to condone violence,” Jack pointed out.
“Aye, that’s true. Nor do I. But it wasn’t right, the way the priests went after those men. They did their best to demoralize their own people.” He paused. “At least, that’s how it seemed to me.”
“So you broke with the church,” Jack prompted.
“I did. As I said, I’m not for violence, Mr. Kane; truly I’m not. But I was in the mines long enough to see why the men are desperate, why they feel forced to fight for their rights. You can’t imagine what it’s like, breaking your back underground day in, day out, the dank air, the dust, never seeing the light of day—I think that must be what hell is like.”
He stopped, releasing a shaky breath as if the memory had choked off his words. When he finally went on, his voice was so low that Jack had to lean forward to hear him. “I didn’t leave God, you understand, sir, though sure the priests would say I did just that. But it seems to me that God is not the one to blame for the deplorable conditions of the mines and the suffering of the men and their families. ’Tis men, not God, who must bear the shame of that injustice. But I simply couldn’t continue to sit and listen to the priests blathering about the slavery of sin while turning a blind eye to another kind of slavery. Most of the miners did what they did in hopes of gaining better conditions for their wives and children. It did seem to me that the priests should have been trying to help the men, not humiliating them or condemning them.”