The Final Adversary

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Is this yours?” Dollar demanded. He held out the tablet, and Barney’s heart sank. He nodded silently. Dollar stared at him, then slowly nodded. “Quite an artist, aren’t you, Winslow? What did you intend to do with these pictures? Sell them to a New York newspaper?”

  “No, sir!” Barney said with alarm. “I don’t do anything with them.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” Dollar scoffed. “You think I’m a fool? You’re a clever one—but we have ways of dealing with smart ones.” Anger blazed out of his close-set eyes, and he waved his hand. “Put him in the chair.”

  There was no use struggling, and Barney tried to get himself mentally prepared for what was coming as the guards strapped him in the chair. He stared straight ahead as they fastened the basin around his face, and then he heard Dollar say, “Let’s see if we can’t wash a little of that smartness out of you!”

  What followed was the most horrendous experience of Barney’s life. As the water rose, he began to gag, and he held his breath, but the water filled the bowl so that his nose was under, forcing him to breath. The water surged up his nose and into his mouth. He struggled with all his might. The torture was repeated over and over until he eventually passed out.

  When he became conscious, he was still in the chair, and Dollar snarled, “That was just the beginning. Here’s some more for you!” Barney tried to cry out, but it was useless. Again he lost consciousness, and again he was revived. How many times this occurred, he could never remember.

  Barney was only dimly aware of being hauled by his arms across a floor. Then he felt the cold bite of iron on his wrists and ankles. Gagging from the water, he rolled his head to one side and saw Dollar standing over him with the whip in his hands. A smile curled his thin lips as he said, “Now, Winslow, we’ll bleed you a little bit. The old-time doctors always bled their patients, I understand.”

  Barney shut his eyes and pressed his cheek against the cold stone. The first stroke of the cat ran through him like fire. Again and again the whip struck his back. Barney had one thing on his mind as the punishment went on: I won’t let them make me cry out!

  And he didn’t, though it would have been better if he had. His silence enraged Dollar, and he continued until one of the guards said nervously, “Better give it up, Captain. He’s had it, I reckon.”

  Barney did not hear this—nor anything else for a long time. The experience with “The Shower” and the beating taken together put him into a coma. He was taken back to his cell, but when he didn’t regain consciousness the next day, he was carried to the hospital. His wounds became infected, and it was many days before he returned to his cell.

  Awful Gardner watched as two guards came down the walkway, supporting Winslow’s thin body. One glimpse of Barney’s face made Gardner cringe at the change he saw. When the guards left, Gardner waited until he heard the cot creak, then whispered gently, “Are you all right, laddie?”

  “Yes.”

  The brief answer was curt, but Gardner went on. “I know ’tis been hard, lad, but you’re alive. We’ll see you through.” He paused, and when there was no reply, added, “I’ve prayed for you every day, you know.”

  Again silence. Then Gardner heard Barney Winslow’s reply, laced with bitterness and steely anger. “Don’t pray for me, you hear? And never mention the name of God to me! I’m through with all that.”

  Gardner put his cheek against the cold steel bars and shook his head. When he lay down on his cot, he put his hand on the foot-thick stone that separated him from his friend and began to pray.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lola Makes a Call

  Mark leaned back in his chair and looked across the table, picked up his cup of coffee and sipped slowly. “Are you glad to be back home, Lola?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am. Are you?” Lola lifted her eyes to the dining room she had not seen for eighteen months.

  “I like the climate better there.”

  “So do I, but—” She broke off abruptly and dropped her white linen napkin in her lap. Ordinarily a strong and composed woman, Lola could not hide the pain that was wrenching her heart.

  “I know,” he nodded slowly. “You never were settled on the coast, but you’ve been more restless than usual.” He got up and placed his hand on her shoulder. She held it tightly. He squeezed it hard. “It’s Barney, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. It’s been hard for me, too.”

  Lola stood up and leaned against him, pressing her face to his chest. He held her trembling body, surprised at the emotion. The past months had been extremely difficult for her. She had lost the sparkle and glow that made her so delightful, and none of the activities he had suggested to entice her in Sacramento had worked. He knew it was because of Barney. He had tried everything to help him, had even hired an expert private detective agency, but they had found nothing that would exonerate him. Finally, Frank Carswell, head of the agency, said, “Mr. Winslow, we can’t keep taking your money for nothing. We’ve exhausted every lead.”

  Mark and Lola had written Barney, but his rare answers were so empty and meaningless. He never spoke of himself, just thanked them for the gifts and the money they sent. His last reply had been only two lines.

  “He’s given up on life, I’m afraid,” Mark said.

  “He can’t!” Lola cried, the fiery Spanish blood showing in her eyes as she drew back. She struck Mark on the chest as though he were the prison she so hated. “I won’t let him give up!”

  The grandfather clock in the foyer struck, the hollow sound reverberating through the house, and Mark said, “We’ll talk about it when I get back. We’ll go to the prison this week.”

  “Mark, do you have to go to the meeting?”

  “I’m afraid so. You know how I hate political meetings, but this one may be important. The Democrats are going to nominate their candidate for president pretty soon, and I think it may be the young man who’s speaking tonight. Name’s William Jennings Bryan. I’m meeting with the committee to talk with him afterward.” He paused. “I wish you’d come with me. I hate for you to be home alone on our first night back home.”

  Lola smiled and patted his arm. “I won’t be home. Andy and I are going to Moody’s meeting.”

  “Wish I could go with you,” Mark said enviously. “I’d rather hear Dwight L. Moody preach than listen to the best political speech ever made! What about Esther?”

  “She’s spending the night with Louise Fellows.” Lola reached up and patted Mark’s cheek. “You’d better get ready. Let’s have a midnight snack when we get home, just as we used to do.”

  He grinned and embraced her. “Good thing it’s church you’re going to. I wouldn’t let such a good-looking woman go anywhere else. Some handsome young fellow might run off with you!”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  He kissed her hard. “Now, tell Andy I want him to keep an eye on you—for my protection,” he teased.

  Lola laughed, but he had succeeded in changing her mood. As she left the room, he grabbed his coat, his mind on his oldest son, not the presidential candidates.

  ****

  Lola was waiting in the foyer when Andy rushed into the house at a quarter of six. “Good! You’re ready,” he said. “Say, you look great!” He grinned. “Should be a good meeting!”

  Lola was wearing a simple suit of light gray wool, a blouse of dark green silk, and a small hat that made her large dark eyes seem even larger. She had no patience with the current fashions that New York women had taken to. The ridiculous bustle made its wearers look as if they were carrying shelves concealed under the backs of their skirts. This horrible style was going out, but the “sheath gown” was coming in. This was simply a tube made of cloth that reached from the hips to the shoe tops. “It looks like a gun barrel!” Lola had told one of her friends. The women who did wear them found they could take steps no more than six inches, which is why they soon were called “hobble skirts.”

  “We’d better hurry, Andy,” she
said. “We’ll be lucky to get a seat in the auditorium.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Andy responded cheerfully. “I’ve got a little surprise for you.” He refused to elaborate, but she liked his cheery mood. When they arrived at the auditorium, he led her into the expansive building, and as she had anticipated, it was already filled to overflowing.

  “I expect we’ll have to stand up,” she said, glancing over the packed crowd.

  “Come along,” he grinned. Lola followed him, wondering what he was up to. She gasped when he led her down the long aisles to the front and handed a ticket to an attendant who was standing at the foot of the platform. He looked at the ticket, smiled and said, “This way, please,” walking up to the seats on the next to last row of the platform.

  “Andy, how did you ever manage such a thing?” Lola demanded.

  “Why, I was on the committee that did the groundwork for Mr. Moody’s visit,” he said. “When I met him, he recognized my name. Wanted to know if I was any relation to Mark Winslow—the one who’d given so liberally to Moody Bible College in Chicago. Well, I lost no time assuring him that I was the son of that illustrious man, and he insisted that I sit on the platform.”

  “How nice!” Lola said with a pleased smile. “I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here, but I think he’ll come tomorrow. You know how much he admires Mr. Moody.”

  After about half an hour Andy exclaimed, “There he is! There’s Mr. Moody! Come on!”

  “Andy, no!”

  “Sure, he said he wanted to meet Dad, but he’ll have to be satisfied with you.”

  Lola had no choice, so she followed Andy until they were directly in front of the famous evangelist. “Good to see you, Mr. Moody,” Andy said. “My father was unable to be here, but I’d like you to meet my mother.”

  Mr. Moody was not an impressive man, Lola noted. Short and thick-set, with a full graying beard, kind brown eyes, alert and clear. His grammar wasn’t the best, but there was none of the arrogance sometimes found in famous people.

  He smiled at her with a genuine air of pleasure.

  “Mrs. Winslow,” he said in a pleasant tenor voice, “I have written your husband several times, thanking him for his generous support of our Bible college, and it gives me much pleasure to thank you personally.”

  “Oh, Mr. Moody,” Lola replied, awed by the opportunity to meet him, “it’s been little enough, but we pray for you every day.”

  “Thank you,” Moody said, then he gave her a steady look, and after a moment’s silence asked, “Is there anything I can pray with you about, Mrs. Winslow?”

  Lola dropped her eyes, then raised them, tears ready to spill over. “We have a son who is in prison, Mr. Moody.”

  Moody considered her, then in a conversational tone began to pray. It was as though he were addressing a close personal friend, with none of the wordy ministerial prayers often heard. “Dear Father, it is your joy to reclaim prodigal sons. This, thy handmaiden, and her companion are your faithful servants. I ask that you bring their son back from the depths of sin and lead him to the cross. Save him, Lord, for we ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, the friend of sinners.”

  Unable to see Moody clearly through her tears, she whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Moody.”

  “I believe God has begun His work in your boy. I believe he will soon be set free,” the evangelist said.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said again, then took Andy’s arm as they returned to their seats.

  “That was wonderful, Mother!”

  Lola smiled, her heart rejoicing at the words echoing in her mind: I believe he will soon be set free. Though the service was wonderful, she scarcely heard Ira Sankey, the great musician, sing, or Moody’s powerful message as the Spirit of God moved in the hearts of people. She could only think of Barney.

  On the way home as Andy talked about the sermon, his mother interrupted him. “Andy, tell me again about the night you went to find the man who shot Adams.”

  Surprised, Andy said, “Why, Mother, I told you about that before.” But at her insistence, he recounted the details again.

  When he finished Lola asked, “About this girl, Katie—you thought she knew something?”

  “I thought so at the time, but now I don’t know. Those people are suspicious of anyone like us.”

  “Andy, I’m sure you were on the track of something,” Lola said quietly. She sat there thinking hard, and then added, “I think God has brought us back to New York to help your brother.”

  “Why, Mother, Dad’s paid out a fortune to private detectives! They tried everything.”

  Lola smiled at him. “But Barney’s not their son.”

  That night long after she went to bed, she kept hearing the words: I believe he will soon be set free. A voice whispered that Moody had meant that Barney would be saved—be free from sin. But Lola shook her head fiercely. “No, Lord! Save him and deliver him from prison!”

  ****

  Katie came out of her drunken stupor slowly. Someone was shouting at her and slapping her face, but she could not tell who it was. Finally she forced her eyes open, and saw the man standing over her.

  “All right . . . Tony,” she whispered. “I’m awake.”

  “You’re drunk, that’s what you are!” Barone pulled her from the bed to her feet and held her up, or she would have collapsed. Cursing, he reached over with one hand and grabbed a pitcher of water and doused it over her head. “I told you to lay off the booze!”

  Gasping and sputtering, Katie wiped her face as she tried to speak, but the raw gin had thickened her tongue. “I—just had a little drink to—help me get ready!”

  “Liar!” Barone shoved her back on the bed and picked up an empty bottle from the floor. “You drank the whole quart!” He tossed the bottle at the rumpled figure. She had been the biggest disappointment he’d had with women. Looks, voice, ability—she’d had it all, but in less than a month it had become apparent that she couldn’t tolerate alcohol. She’d have one drink, another—then drink until she passed out. “Worse drunk I ever saw!” he’d told his friends. “She’ll have to lay off the booze.”

  But Katie couldn’t do that. She lived in a world where liquor was more plentiful than water, and there was always someone ready to buy her a drink, no matter how hard Tony Barone tried to watch her. Now looking down on her, he said, “I’ve had it with you, Katie. You know who was coming to hear you sing tonight? Lindsey Black, that’s who! The biggest producer in this town! I worked on him for weeks. Now he’s coming and you can’t even stand up!”

  “I—I can sing, Tony!” Katie said. She struggled to her feet, swaying. “Just—give me—a few minutes!”

  “I’ll give you nothing, you drunk!” Barone raged. “You’re through singing. You can hustle like the rest of the girls.”

  “No! I can’t do that!” Katie cried. She reached for him. “Tony, you said you loved me, that we’d get married!”

  He laughed harshly. “Think I’d marry a drunk like you?”

  “You—you gave me my first drink, Tony!”

  “Everybody gets their first drink from somebody,” he said callously. “Get your stuff together. I don’t want you in my apartment. You can have one of the rooms with the other girls.”

  Katie stared at him in unbelief. “I can’t do that!”

  “Do it or get out!” Barone said. He stalked away, then stopped. “If you’re in here when I get back, you’ll wish you were gone!”

  The door slammed, and Katie sank down on the bed, shaking. Confused and terrified, she slowly began to dress, for she knew Barone meant what he said. I’ll clean up, go away and sober up for a couple of days, she thought. Then Tony’ll take me back.

  An hour later she left the saloon, but her plan failed almost at once. A man she knew slightly stopped her on the street. “Well, this is my lucky day! I was going to eat alone, but if you’d join me, Katie, I’d be favored.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. He took her to an expensive restaurant, and du
ring the meal she drank several glasses of wine. Afterward, they went dancing, and soon she was drunk again. The next morning she woke up in a room she didn’t recognize. She dressed and left, passing the room clerk on the way. “Come back soon, dearie,” he called after her, smirking.

  The sharp autumn wind bit her face as she moved along the gray sidewalk. For hours she walked the streets, and not knowing what else to do, made her way back to Barone’s place. His manager, Pete Shuffield, met her as she came through the door. “Tony ain’t here, Katie,” he said. “But he said to tell you nothin’s changed. Either start hustlin’ at the bar or clear out. Sorry, but that’s the way it is,” he shrugged. “I put all your stuff in the room at the end of the hall.”

  Katie numbly climbed the stairs and stood in front of the door. She knew what it meant—she would be “one of Tony’s girls,” a common prostitute. Slowly she opened the door and entered, packed her one suitcase, and left. She tried to think back to the day she had come to Tony’s place, but the memory was too painful. She found a cheap room in a dilapidated rooming house, and went out to look for work.

  Times were hard in the country, the slums of New York stark evidence of the poverty. Many had come from the country seeking work, but there was none. Katie returned to the factory where she had worked before going to Barone, and found it closed and abandoned. She could not hold back the tears as she gazed at the battened-down windows, the sullen ghostly old brick building. She had always thought she could go back to her former job. Now that, too, was gone.

  For two weeks she walked the streets seeking work, and every night she ended up getting drunk. At first it was just a few drinks “to go to sleep,” she told herself. But as things got more desperate, she began to drink during the day. Finally she was spending most of her time in a stupor. Her money ran out the third week, and it was then she secured a job waiting on tables at a cafe in Brooklyn. The hours were long and the pay low, and she was forced to find a cheaper room—this time over a bar down the street. The small, dark, vermin-infested place was overrun with rats. It was frightening, but Katie had no choice.