The Titans

by John Jakes

  The third group, membership in which had brought Louis to the threshold of this stunning opportunity, was nominally led by the Boston money men John Elbridge and Eben Jordan. They sought control of the Erie not only to jiggle its stock, but also to shore up one of their own projects, a planned but as yet unfinished feeder line called the Boston, Hartford, and Erie. In the spring of the preceding year, the backers of the B. H. & E. had arranged a subsidy from the state of Massachusetts to help complete the line. In order to make the funds flow, an ever larger sum had to be raised from outside sources.

  Louis remained on the offensive. “I’ll grant what you say is true, Mr. Fisk. There’s still one thing I don’t understand.”

  Fisk fiddled with a curl. “I thought I was asking the questions tonight. But go ahead.”

  “I’m flattered you and Mr. Gould chose to approach me. Still, it would be more logical for you to go straight to one of the Boston board members.”

  “Jay’d be happy to,” Fisk said blithely. “Then we wouldn’t need you at all. I’m the fly in the ointment. Old Eben and I don’t get along.”

  “I’ve heard that. But Jordan’s closemouthed on certain subjects. I didn’t know whether it was a fact or a rumor.”

  “Fact. During the war, he and I had a falling-out. I was arranging cotton deals for him. The son of a bitch decided my expenses were running too high. He discharged me. You were into cotton yourself, weren’t you?”

  That was a sore point. “I intended to be. My second cousin had different ideas.”

  “Who is he, some government busybody?”

  “No, at the time he was a reporter. Today he’s a cheap-jack Methodist preacher. He lives in the city. He, my mother’s Irish clerk, and that Jew banker, Rothman, decided my little venture was immoral. They spilled the whole story to the press.”

  “Must have missed the item. Probably appeared when I was working the Western Theater for Eben.”

  “Well, I was out of cotton before I got in.”

  “The luck of the game, Mr. Kent: I spent my cotton days in Memphis. Dealt with some first-rate gentlemen of the Confederacy through a charming go-between. Little actress. Hot piece, she was.”

  Fisk’s pink lips curled in a smile of pride.

  “Never got caught, either. I was giving Eben all the goddamn cotton he could mill. He delivered Jordan Marsh blankets to the Army and cleaned up. But he got scared by some prying from Union headquarters. He used my expenses as an excuse. Know what he handed me in severance pay? A measly sixty-five thousand dollars. I haven’t any cause to be friends with Mr. Eben Jordan. Actually, I think Jay and I will ultimately be glad we had to deal with you. You strike me as our sort.”

  Our sort. Louis couldn’t resist a moment of self-congratulation. Both Fisk and Jay Gould were giants on the Street. To be accepted as their confidant was a supreme accolade.

  He decided it was time to abandon the pose of reluctance. He helped himself to a perfecto from an inlaid box. He lit up and sniffed the fragrant smoke.

  “Thank you for saying so, Mr. Fisk. You’ve answered my questions.”

  “Hell!” Fisk cried with a flamboyant gesture. “We’re getting on well enough to drop the courtesies. Let’s make it Louis and Jim.”

  Louis smiled through a veil of smoke. “Happy to, Jim.”

  “Do we have a bargain?”

  “We do. I’ll exert every effort to see the Boston group sides with you and Mr. Gould.”

  “Your efforts have got to be discreet until the directors meet and the Commodore’s men actually put a motion to fix freight rates on the table.”

  “No one will ever hear about this meeting. When the motion’s made, I feel confident it will go down.”

  Fisk’s chubby lips quivered. He was pleased.

  “As soon as that happens, the directorship’s yours. ’Course, holding a board seat won’t be all roses. When the Commodore’s motion is defeated, he’ll know he has a scrap on his hands. Jay and I reckon he’ll try like hell to capture a majority position in the stock so he can merge the line into the Central or let it die altogether.”

  “I’m prepared to fight,” Louis returned quietly. “I’m confident we’ll win.”

  Fisk laughed again. “Jay’s going to be fond of you, Louis.”

  “I’m not in this for compliments. When you spy a money machine, you don’t turn your back. I’ve done well with my steel interests, the spinning works in Rhode Island, the newspaper, and everything else I own.”

  “Jay likes the notion of your having that sheet. He’s always been a keen student of using publicity to his favor.”

  “I’ve only lost one money machine in all my career. That cotton-trading company.”

  A memory of Julia disturbed him. In her own way, hadn’t she been such a machine? Deliberately acquired to improve his social standing and thereby gain him introductions to men like Vanderbilt, who could and did suggest investment opportunities? He’d lost her too.

  The loss was even more humiliating than the collapse of Federal Suppliers. He could comprehend how that company had been ruined. The reason for the destruction of his marriage still eluded him. He continually fell back on the easiest explanation. Julia had lost her mind.

  “I guarantee we’ll use the paper to advantage, Jim. In fact, to get what we want, I’m not averse to using any means available.”

  Fisk slapped the arm of his chair. “Louis, you’re a fighter! I’d heard that. Takes a man with nerve to ride in General Lee’s Left Wing. Jay did.”

  Louis preened. The term referred to gold speculation, which he and others in the North had engaged in profitably during the war, ignoring Washington’s pleas that the currency must be kept sound.

  The perfecto tasted better by the moment. He’d really done a good evening’s work. Aligned with the winning side in what the Street was already calling the Erie War, he could conceivably wind up increasing his net worth five-or tenfold.

  Abruptly, the euphoric mood disappeared. Fisk had a mild frown on his face. He scrutinized Louis while he scratched the front of his ostentatious jacket. Then he stunned the other man.

  “I surely hope we can trust you.”

  “My God, we have a bargain! Why would you doubt—?”

  The tiny eyes never blinked.

  “I believe at one time you were pretty thick with Vanderbilt yourself.” Fisk was demanding the information Louis had held back earlier.

  “Correction.” Face darkening, Louis jumped up. “My former wife’s father, Oliver Sedgwick, was thick with Vanderbilt. That’s how I became interested in the speculative side of the railroad business. Sedgwick’s dead. And I haven’t played whist at Vanderbilt’s house since I divorced Julia a year ago.”

  Liar. She divorced you.

  “Reassuring,” Fisk murmured “Jay will be heartened. Uncle Dan’l will be heartened.” The fat man relaxed again. “Hate to say it, but in many ways old Daniel’s a simpleton. Robs the road six days a week and sings hymns at St. Paul’s on Sunday to salve his conscience. He’s wild to build more seminaries and have them named after him. Jay and myself, we have no such ambitions. We’re in this and everything else to make money—and by Jesus have a good time doing it!”

  Fisk thumped his snifter down. Louis’ tension drained away. He could appreciate why the hostile press had little good to say for the proper and happily married Gould, but tinged its columns about the “railroad pirates” with grudging admiration of Fisk. Unless you peered closely into his eyes, or paid strict attention to what he said, the man had a bumptious likability which the yellow curls, plump cheeks, and luxuriant moustachios only enhanced.

  Gould, by contrast, struck many people as downright sinister. Even now, Louis could see him vividly. It was not a comforting image.

  Fisk’s partner was barely five foot six inches, with a tubercular cast to his features. He wore a full beard to conceal what he must have considered a weak face. But Louis had come to judge men by their eyes. Gould’s lacked any trace of human emo
tion. Coupled with a murmurous voice and a habit of rarely speaking above a confidential whisper, he inspired respect and sometimes terror among his adversaries. As should any man who’d earned his first million dollars by age twenty-one. At a recent dinner gathering of holders of substantial blocks of Erie, Gould had differed with one of Drew’s opinions, and imperiously overridden his objections.

  Afterward, old Drew had whispered to Louis in a shaken voice, “That man, Kent—that man’s touch is death.”

  Remembering, Louis shivered. He didn’t intend to get on the wrong side of Mr. Jay Gould. To do so would not only be unprofitable but downright dangerous.

  ii

  “Glad we’ve settled things,” Fisk said as he lumbered to his feet. He rubbed his hands together and bounced on his toes. “Disreputable and shabby as she is, there’s still gold in the Scarlet Lady’s drawers. And you’re right, no sensible fellow surrenders a money machine. I was wiped out twice in the Street right after the war. Uncle Dan’l came to me needing cash to tighten his hold on the Erie. I helped the old fool unload his Stonington Steamboat Line—God, I love those boats. Must own a line myself one of these days. I’ll make it the fanciest the world’s ever seen. Marble and mirrors in the saloons! Caged canaries singing in every—well, never mind that. Let’s just say I made a smart move getting next to that pious cow drover. You made the same kind of move tonight. We don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  Louis looked faintly cynical. “Except Commodore Vanderbilt’s brains, his thirty millions of capital, and the gentlemen he keeps in his pocket. Judge Barnard of the Supreme Court fifth district, for example. Vanderbilt can spew out injunctions the way the Treasury turns out coins.”

  But Fisk had clearly tabled such concerns for the remainder of the evening. “Let’s fret about that when he starts doing it. Right now I feel good about the Whole operation. ’Course”—a shrug—“I always feel good working with Jay. He’s got the brains and I’ve got the brass.” He laid a pudgy arm across Louis’ back. “You’ll see. You’re one of us now.”

  Louis was faintly repelled by the odor of sweat oozing from his guest’s collar and cuffs. Fisk bubbled on.

  “We should join the ladies, don’t you think? Oh, but before we do—”

  A soft hand closed on Louis’ arm. He was again jolted by a change in Fisk’s tone.

  “Maybe it’s not necessary to say this straight out. Still, we shouldn’t have any misunderstandings.”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” Louis agreed, disturbed by the glint in Fisk’s eyes. “Do we?”

  A shrug. “Not so long as you keep one fact in mind. Jay and myself, we call and play the tune. I’m an easygoing fellow—”

  Louis doubted that, but said nothing.

  “But Jay always wants to be firmly in command. No interference. No arguments. Nothing said or done to muck up his plans, or embarrass him.”

  “In other words, if I’m a tame dog—”

  “That’s a pretty harsh way to put it, Louis.” Fisk smiled. “But a good one. If you ever cross Jay by choice or by accident, you, not Jay, will come out hurt. That’s why I threw in with him. He’s been a scrapper since he was a little tad helping his pa tend cows on the family farm up by West Settlement. I don’t believe Jay’s pa thought very much of him. Too frail. Kind of disappointed the old man, Jay did—one boy among five sisters. From the start, I think Jay wanted to show his pa—maybe the whole damn world—that a thick arm doesn’t count for as much as a smart head. People say there’s sharp blood in Jay’s veins, too. Jew blood. His great-grandfather led militia in the Revolution, only his name was Colonel Abraham Gold. The family started calling itself Gould around 1800. There’s a lot of reasons Jay’s a fighting cock. No man’s ever bested him that I heard about.”

  The fat man’s tongue worked across his lower lip, leaving a gleam of saliva.

  “No man,” he repeated. “Old Charles Leupp tried.”

  Louis had never met Leupp, but he was familiar with the story. Leupp had been a respected New York leather merchant who prided himself on personal integrity. He’d bought a sixty-thousand-dollar partnership in a Pennsylvania tannery Jay Gould had acquired before he was of legal age. The original tannery partner, Zadoc Pratt, had seen the enterprise thrive under young Gould’s managerial ability. But profits appeared skimpy. When Pratt accused Gould of diverting funds for private speculation and doctoring the books to cover his deceit, Gould’s reply was reportedly a sardonic smile and a shrug.

  Gould offered to buy Pratt’s interest using money obtained from Mr. Leupp. The second partner was mulcted just like the first. Leupp discovered Gould had used his name and his capital to effect a corner on hides. Confronted again, Gould admitted his crooked behavior. Threats of legal action merely made him laugh. And he was unmoved by claims that he’d soiled Leupp’s good name. Nothing moved Jay Gould save the prospect of a success achieved by speculating with huge sums of money—preferably other people’s. He wished Charles Leupp good luck if the firm were dragged into bankruptcy. Leupp went back to his New York mansion, contemplated his dishonored status, and shot himself to death with a handgun.

  The point of the reference wasn’t lost on Louis. “I know what happened to Leupp. You can assure Mr. Gould I won’t oppose him, or embarrass him in any way.”

  Still, Fisk’s oblique threat was hard to swallow. He disliked hearing the truth when it was couched in a phrase such as tame dog. He tried to remember the main chance; the millions to be made milking the Erie.

  “Just wanted you to understand.” Fisk nodded. “No pussyfooting between partners, eh?”

  He slapped Louis’ shoulder. “Time to frolic! Did your butler send up the champagne?”

  “He had orders. Three bottles to each room.”

  Louis opened the door, relieved to escape the stuffy library. Gaslights flickering in the entrance hall cast a bloated shadow of Fisk against the wall as the men strolled to the opulent staircase and started for the second floor. Fisk rambled on with other anecdotes complimentary to his partner.

  They walked down a long corridor to an intricately carved door. When Fisk opened it, Louis saw the dark-haired young woman standing before the blaze in the hearth. Her body was barely concealed by a thin gown.

  Josie Mansfield hurried forward. “Sardines, I thought you were going to leave me by myself all night!”

  “Be with you in a moment, Dolly.”

  The actress remained near the door. Fisk’s voice grew a shade heavier.

  “I said I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Josie slipped out of sight. Fisk was unsmiling.

  “Anything bothering you, Louis?”

  His chin lifted. “Yes.” In spite of the dictates of good sense, he blurted, “I don’t care to be called anyone’s tame dog.”

  “That’s what you are, though. Bought and paid for.”

  He chuckled. It had a hard sound.

  “Being a tame dog isn’t so bad, Louis. When the rest of the world’s freezing and starving, tame dogs stay warm and well fed. Keep that in mind. Keep Charles Leupp in mind, too.”

  He reached up to loosen his black sailor’s cravat. He was still smiling as the door closed.

  Chapter III

  The Portrait

  i

  LOUIS DIDNT BOTHER TO knock before entering his own rooms farther down the hall. He surprised Nedda Chetwynd, who was blond, dumpling-cheeked, twenty-one, and eminently forgettable.

  She sat naked in bed, her breasts coyly covered by the silk sheet. She’d already opened one of the champagne bottles in the silver stand. One hand clutching the sheet, she used the other to sip from a goblet. Her smile was hesitant.

  He didn’t return it. Why should he? The girl meant nothing to him. He was sure Fisk had given her explicit instructions, and promised her a handsome present afterward.

  He scowled when his body responded to the girl’s nearness. He hated to dignify her that way. He reminded himself he was experiencing a reaction solely because his encoun
ters with women had grown less and less frequent during the past year. The press of his personal affairs kept him too busy and, often, too tired.

  He stripped off his coat and cravat, then reached up to trim the recently installed gas jet near the oil portrait of Julia. He spun away and attended to the other ornate fixtures around the room, conscious of the girl watching him as she drank champagne in a revoltingly noisy way.

  Ah, well. No point fretting about her manners. She’d serve her purpose and he’d never be forced to see her again.

  Although the walls between the upstairs rooms were thick, Josie Mansfield’s high-pitched laugh was loud enough to catch his attention. Then came a great bullish bellow from Fisk. Almost at once, the bed in the adjacent room began to creak. The rhythmic noise quickened with astonishing rapidity.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, my dear.” He didn’t glance at the girl as he said it.

  He stepped into his dressing room, closed the door partway, and began to remove the rest of his clothing. Even in the smaller chamber, the racket of Fisk’s bed was audible.

  He had to admit some of the man’s crude ways repelled him. On the other hand, Fisk definitely was not stupid. Despite the remarks about tame dogs, Louis vowed not to think badly of his new partner. Fisk had given him exactly what he wanted. A directorship was nothing less than a mandate to steal from the poor old Scarlet Woman.

  In the past couple of years, the Erie had become notorious because of its directors and its condition. The press, with a few notable exceptions which included the Union, constantly decried the line’s lack of service to the public.

  The hope of such service was, of course, pathetic. “Twin streaks of rust” was a popular term for the Erie and it was a fitting one. The line’s seven-hundred-plus miles of track were ancient and dangerous. Its rolling stock was a disgrace. Collisions and derailments took place almost every week, as did injuries and loss of life. Just after New Year’s, another switchman had been permanently crippled in the main yards in Jersey City.

  Many journalists and labor radicals persisted in spreading the ludicrous idea that the Erie directorate had a responsibility to its passengers and employees. Such esteemed “thinkers” as Charles Francis Adams the younger, the son of Lincoln’s war ambassador to Britain, seemed to believe the burgeoning American rail system was somehow intended to benefit the public. If Adams and men like him had had any appreciation of the realities of life, they’d understand that damned few miles of track would have been laid anywhere in the nation if the entrepreneurs hadn’t cared more for their purses than for people. The sole function of a railroad was to make money for the insiders. And the only railroad men admired on the Street—and secretly admired by the dim-witted masses, Louis was convinced—were those who understood a line’s purpose and acted accordingly.