The Titans

by John Jakes

  Self-consciously Jephtha sat down. His desk was strewn with sheets of notes for a sermon. He stacked some of them on top of an open Bible and picked up a large, stiff rectangle of paper that Gideon hadn’t noticed before.

  “Look what the morning post brought. A photograph of the new store. It’s their fourth.”

  Absently Gideon took the photograph, which showed an unfamiliar man and woman posed in front of a frame building with plate-glass windows and a large signboard:

  H. & M. K. BOYLE OF CHEYENNE

  An unconscious jealousy crept over him as he stared at the brown-tinted image. He’d never met Amanda Kent’s clerk, Michael Boyle, to whom his father had willed Jeremiah’s portion of the California wealth. He knew Jephtha loved and respected the Irishman. Yet he’d always felt it somewhat unjust that family money should be given to Boyle, no matter how strong Jephtha’s feelings.

  Still, he and his father didn’t agree on everything. Since he was entitled to no voice in the decision, he’d never mentioned his reservations.

  “I tell you, Gideon, that wife of Michael’s must be a clever women. They’ve already trebled the money I advanced them, paid the principal back with interest, and wherever they open an establishment along the railroad, they can’t keep up with the volume of business. There’s a letter somewhere—” He rummaged among the notes. “They’ll be coming east in the spring to buy merchandise.”

  Suddenly Jephtha’s dark hands ceased shuffling the papers. He noticed the look of strain on his son’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “There is something wrong, and I’m rattling.”

  Gideon drew a deep breath. “I need some information about Louis.”

  “Louis? What on earth for?”

  Gideon explained. Jephtha leaned back in his chair with his fingertips touching beneath his chin. When Gideon finished, Jephtha asked immediately, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Hell, yes!”

  He fell back in the chair, embarrassed by the outburst. “Margaret and I have already discussed the certainty that I’ll lose my job. Let’s not waste time on that. I’d like to know what Cousin Louis looks like.”

  “Easy enough,” Jephtha said, and described him in a few sentences. Gideon felt uncomfortable. Jephtha’s face had grown expressionless, showing neither approval nor disapproval. “Where do you plan to see him, Gideon?”

  “I intend to try his home first.”

  “I’ll ask you again—do you know what you’re doing?”

  “If you mean to say I’m a fool for trying to wring money out of the Erie for those two families, I know it. I must try anyway.”

  “Even though you’re asking for the impossible? Generosity from men who have no concern for the welfare of others? That hypocrite Drew Fisk—an out and out libertine. And Gould—possibly the worst of the lot. Pious and proper in his personal life—a positive maniac on the subject of keeping it above reproach. I sometimes wonder if his wife deceives herself or is simply ignorant. Propriety at home and piracy everywhere else, that’s Gould’s style. I know a few pale imitators in my own congregation,” he added with a sad chuckle. “As for Louis—what can I tell you that you haven’t already heard? Before Amanda died, she feared she’d set him a bad example. She was a wonderful woman, but in that respect she was right. She failed with Louis. He’s venal, self-centered—and the last person on God’s earth who deserves to possess the family heirlooms. He has as much human kindness as his newfound partners in fortune, which is to say he has exactly none. He doesn’t even share Gould’s virtue of maintaining a decent home.”

  “Do you know where he spends his time when he’s away from Fifth Avenue?”

  “I’ve no idea. I would imagine he belongs to a club or two. The Erie headquarters downtown would be another possibility. Since this amoral stock war began, the papers say the directors gather there every day or so.”

  Gideon sighed. “I’d best begin with the Fifth Avenue address. From there I’ll trust to luck.”

  “You’ll need plenty,” Jephtha said in a sober way. “Despite Mr. Gould’s concern for editorial opinion, how the public feels generally doesn’t affect those men. Of course if Gould’s wife saw a story saying he was chasing another female, you’d see him deny it oftener than Simon Peter denied the Lord. Still—”

  A glint of amusement lit Jephtha’s dark eyes. “We might be able to singe some trousers in that crowd.”

  “We?” Gideon shook his head. “You aren’t going to be dragged into this in any way.”

  “Perhaps I’ll choose to be! I’m in sympathy with what you’re attempting, Gideon. I suspect it’s futile but that doesn’t make it unworthy. So consider it a family endeavor. I might be able to help you from my pulpit. It’s been a long time since I’ve given my congregation a good teeth-rattling sermon on some public issue. Everyone’s agog over the affairs of the Erie. Postmortem benefits for Erie laborers might be an ideal subject—and who knows? Gould might be sensitive just now.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Gideon promised. “Meantime, I’d best be going—”

  Jephtha leaned forward. “Are you sure Margaret’s in full agreement with this course?”

  “Yes. She’s not enthusiastic. But she’ll go along.”

  “Even if by some miracle you should win a small concession, you realize it wouldn’t be the end. Rather, it would be just the beginning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’d be a marked man. Reprisals might be attempted. Certainly no business of substance on the East Coast would give you even a menial position—if that. Any future you hoped to find in commerce would be wiped out. Consciously or otherwise, you’re behaving like some of the most hated men in America.”

  “You mean the trade union people?”

  “I do.”

  Gideon bristled. “Everyone keeps throwing that in my face. I’m no damned unionist!”

  “You are when you concern yourself with death benefits for laborers.” Jephtha held up his hand. “I’m not objecting. In fact, I’m proud of you. We haven’t had a good cause in the Kent family for quite a while. Perhaps it’s time we did.”

  He circled the desk and gave his son’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Before you launch off, come along to the kitchen. There’s hot tea on the stove, and Molly’s baking bread. It should be ready soon. You look as if you could stand a bit of nourishment.”

  Gideon reached across with his right hand and clasped his father’s fingers. “I’ve already gotten a good portion. Thank you.”

  “Just remember my offer of a sermon.” Jephtha opened the study door. “A trade unionist. Imagine that. Your poor mother’s probably whirling in her grave.”

  “Father, I do not see myself in that role at all.”

  Jephtha turned, his eyes intense. “I believe you. But you see, I don’t count. Anyone who threatens the status quo, no matter how humane and sensible the reason, is usually accused of being a radical of the most extreme sort. Perhaps it doesn’t happen without cause. Perhaps any time you do threaten the status quo, you are a radical. You’re in good company, however. When your great-great-grandfather Kent fired his musket at Concord Bridge, he upset the status quo with a vengeance. But he was right. So are you. In the end, nothing else matters.”

  He clapped Gideon’s shoulder and preceded him out of the study, walking with an exuberance Gideon wished he could match.

  iii

  For five cents, a car on the Sixth Avenue Railroad took him nearly to the end of the line. Shortly past noon he approached the portico of the handsome house Louis Kent had built at upper Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street.

  The city was spreading north, all the way to Central Park. Property owners around Madison Square, a highly fashionable address just a decade ago, bemoaned the growing commercialization of the area. Louis had done more than bemoan.

  A stiff-backed manservant informed Gideon that Mr. Louis Kent was out for the remainder of the day. The brief and one-sided conversat
ion ended when the great carved door slammed without Gideon having an opportunity to state his name or his business.

  He clacked the knocker again. The servant appeared at one of the window lights beside the door. He motioned Gideon away, then disappeared. He didn’t respond to the third knock.

  Gideon went down the drive, out the gate and south along the rain-drenched avenue. A farmer from the open country above Fifty-ninth Street was driving a dozen squealing hogs in the center of the street. He gave Gideon’s gray overcoat a suspicious examination. Head bowed, Gideon paid no attention.

  Where should he go next? The only possibility was the one his father had suggested—the Erie headquarters located on the Lower West Side near the line’s Pier 15 ticket office. He turned west to catch the Sixth Avenue horsecar again.

  By early afternoon he was loitering in a dim cul-de-sac opposite a handsome, cupolaed building housing the railroad’s general offices. Trash bins at the mouth of the cul-de-sac shielded him from direct observation. A second floor overhang provided protection from the weather. But he still felt wretched in his soggy coat.

  A half block west, the Duane Street pier jutted into the river. A great steam liner belching smoke from its funnels went churning toward the ocean, the British ensign hanging limp in the rain. Gideon bent his leg and braced the toe of his right boot against the brick wall. He opened the copy of the Union he’d purchased. At the end of fifteen minutes he decided he might have gambled correctly. Expensive carriages began to pull up in front of the headquarters, depositing well-dressed gentlemen who hurried inside.

  Employees came and went as well. The traffic was observed by a couple of wide-shouldered men lounging on the porch. They had the look of toughs, but they tipped their derbies deferentially to the new arrivals.

  A handsome victoria approached along Duane Street. Its calash top was folded down to shield its passenger from the rain. A young man of about thirty climbed out. Gideon only had a glimpse of him, but the man’s age and swarthy skin convinced him it was Louis Kent. No one else fitting Jephtha’s description had shown up.

  That man is my relative, he thought as he stared at the gilt-lettered doors through which Louis had vanished. A curt laugh helped him overcome a curious sense of awe. Gradually, Louis began to assume more human proportions.

  Despite his fine clothing, he’d looked perfectly ordinary. The same applied to the rest of the visitors. At long range, their wealth and power lent them an—Olympian, that was the word he wanted—an Olympian aura. But they were men exactly like he was. They could feel pain and fear. If he remembered that, he’d have a useful weapon.

  Soon the last of the gentlemen went inside. Gideon had counted eleven in all.

  To pass the time, he began to leaf through the paper. He found the usual collection of lurid material—a staple of the Union—including an account of a train robbery in the Nebraska Territory:

  UNION PACIFIC LOOTED!

  Armed Bandits Conduct Daring Raid Near North Platte!

  The dispatch was a week old. It described the theft of a payroll from a supply train by an unidentified white man and his Indian confederate. The robbers had stopped the train by piling three frozen buffalo carcasses on the track. They’d gotten away safely and Dr. Thomas Durant had announced a substantial reward for their capture.

  On the next page he came across the editorial drawing. It made him smile. A huge loathsome octopus with a wizened human face imprisoned six anguished maidens in its tentacles. The octopus was captioned Vanderbilt while each of the suffering females had the word Competition lettered on the hem of her gown.

  Eventually the rain slacked off. He finished the paper as the street began to darken. His empty stomach ached. He had no timepiece, but he guessed the conclave had already lasted about three hours.

  One of the toughs lit gas lamps beside the office entrance. The other applied a match to kindling in a metal drum at the curb. One by one the carriages returned, including the victoria.

  From the direction of the river a poorly dressed boot boy appeared, carrying his homemade shoe stand. He scrutinized the waiting vehicles, the fine horses, and the well-dressed drivers congregated around the blazing barrel. The boy set up shop by squatting on his box. One of the guards made a halfhearted attempt to shoo him away, but he paid no attention. The guards returned to scrutiny of the street and their diamond rings.

  In another few minutes the doors opened. The gentlemen who’d been meeting started to emerge. One thwacked his silk hat on his head angrily. Several were arguing. The fire helped Gideon observe faces. Earlier, he’d seen almost nothing but the backs of heads.

  If he recalled the Leslie’s cover correctly, the round-faced chap was Jim Fisk. He looked sleepy and phlegmatic. Gideon searched for Gould but couldn’t find him in the crowd.

  The doors opened again. Louis emerged, followed by an old fellow with unkempt gray hair and a choleric countenance. The gray-haired man negotiated the steps with arthritic caution, planting his drover’s boots carefully. His cranky high-pitched voice carried across the street. “You come here and listen, Fisk!”

  The portly Fisk ignored him and escaped into a brougham. Gideon heard him call instructions to his driver as the carriage clattered off.

  The old man—Drew, he recognized—was suddenly blocked by the boy, who addressed him in heavily accented English.

  “Black your boots, sir? I’ll do a fine job.”

  Louis stepped up, grabbed the boy’s shoulder and flung him aside. Old Drew, still seeking someone to listen to his complaints, chose Louis. Above the racket of departing vehicles, Drew exclaimed, “Ain’t going to Ludlow Street for you or any of the rest of these sharps!”

  Louis turned his back rudely and jumped in the victoria. The door slammed. The vehicle shot away across the rain-slicked cobbles. The opening where it had been standing gave Gideon a clear look at Daniel Drew. Furious, the old man crammed a battered cowman’s hat on his head and headed for his own carriage.

  In moments the entire curb was deserted. The bootblack picked up his box, heading east. The toughs disappeared inside. Gideon heard the rattle of a bolt on the gilt doors.

  “Young fellow!” He stuffed the paper in his overcoat and ran.

  The bootblack’s pinched face showed suspicion as Gideon approached. The suspicion intensified when a gusting flame in the barrel showed the boy the color of Gideon’s overcoat.

  “I don’t shine no boots for Rebs.”

  “That man who shoved you”—Gideon slipped two coins into the boy’s hand—“did you hear him speak to his driver?”

  The boy examined the coins as if they were tainted. But he pocketed them.

  “Might have.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Someplace on East Twenty-seventh.”

  “Did you catch the number?”

  The boy’s eyes had an old, weary look. He stuck his hand in his pocket and rattled the coins, almost tauntingly. Gideon found another ten-cent piece and held it up in the firelight. The boy repeated an address.

  “Is that someone’s home?”

  The boy sneezed and wiped mucus from his nose. His smirk said Gideon, not he, was the naive stranger.

  “Everybody knows Mrs. Bell’s Universal.”

  “I don’t. Is it a saloon?”

  “Whorehouse. Too rich for you.”

  The boy strolled away. In the distance an omnibus bell clanged.

  Gideon debated. East Twenty-seventh Street was across town, a long car ride. By the time he arrived, Louis could well be gone. Still, he might have a better chance to see him at a brothel than he did at the Fifth Avenue mansion.

  As he started east on Duane, the rain began again. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering and put his hands in his pockets. Five cents bought him warm chestnuts from a pushcart vendor. The hunger pains abated a little.

  But the food did nothing to warm him as he trudged on. The rain fell harder. It promised to be a long, cold night.


  Chapter VIII

  At the Universal

  i

  IN A PRIVATE SECOND-FLOOR parlor of Mrs. Hester Bell’s establishment on East Twenty-seventh Street, Jubilee Jim was having a bath. If Louis had ever witnessed such a bizarre scene, he couldn’t recall it.

  The parlor’s walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors. On a dais in the center of the carpet sat an oversized zinc tub topped with imported marble. A mirrored door led to a bedchamber. Mrs. Bell also provided a piano for patrons aesthetically inclined.

  The club’s blind black musician was working downstairs at the moment. The arpeggios of a classical piece drifted to the parlor, interspersed with restrained feminine merriment. The door to the hall was bolted on the inside. After the formal board meeting had broken up, Fisk had insisted on a private conference. He refused to go anywhere but the club; Miss Mansfield was suffering her monthly indisposition.

  Louis sat at a small marble table next to the wall opposite the bedroom. Across the table was the small and sallow Jay Gould. An obligatory glass of lager stood beside his pale hand. He resembled a church deacon transported to hell against his will.

  Wherever Louis looked—right, left, or overhead—he saw Jubilee Jim submerged to his chest in perfumed water and surrounded by a constantly changing mosaic of bare buttocks, dark-rippled breasts, and black hair. Fisk had a sea captain’s hat cocked on his yellow curls. He was being tended by a pair of Oriental girls. Chinese, Mrs. Bell said. Neither was more than eighteen.

  The Universal Club employed girls of eleven nationalities—plus two men, a Portuguese and a West Indian mulatto, who catered to a small segment of the clientele. Mrs. Bell guaranteed none of the employees could speak English, thus assuring their discretion. A cadaverous fellow named Dr. Randolph acted as club manager and translator; he’d been a professor of languages at a New England academy for boys until his dismissal on morals charges.

  Fisk, a regular at the Universal, had brought Louis there for the first time three weeks ago. Louis had heard of the place before that, of course. But it took a man of Fisk’s status to gain him admittance as a customer.