The Titans

by John Jakes

  Could it be his cousin?

  The presence of the unseen observer only heightened his fear and uncertainty. He’d brazened his way into the Universal Club by using Louis Kent’s name and pretending a familiarity that didn’t exist. Now he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He was beginning to think he was foolish indeed to believe he could stand up to one of the directors of the line—or even speak his mind in a coherent way.

  He was uncomfortably conscious of the fetid stench of his wet overcoat. He must look a sight. Certainly he looked out of place in this quiet, elegant corridor where blue light shimmered.

  A faint squeak by the back stairs. He was virtually certain someone was there. He turned and walked into the parlor—but not far.

  He heard the footsteps distinctly. Two long strides took him back to the hall. A short man with a walking stick was hurrying toward the vestibule. He darted a look over his shoulder.

  Gideon’s heart pounded. Recognition was instantaneous.

  The bearded man averted his head and rushed on toward the stained-glass door. Afterward Gideon never knew where he found the courage—better, the idiotic audacity—to go charging down the hall in pursuit. Perhaps it came from an unconscious realization that he’d never again have such an opportunity.

  “Mr. Gould?”

  The short man broke stride. Gideon’s mouth went dry.

  “Mr. Gould, wait. You’re one of the men I want to see.”

  The man hesitated. Then he turned around. Gideon almost winced under the impact of the piercing dark eyes. The cover of Leslie’s had sprung to life.

  He hadn’t realized Gould was so small. Five foot six or seven inches. The financier spoke softly, but with more than a hint of strain. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, sir.”

  “No, I don’t believe—wait!” Gideon lunged for Gould’s arm as he started away.

  Gould panicked, wrenched out of Gideon’s grip. At the front end of the hall, footsteps quickened to a run.

  “Let go of him!”

  Someone seized Gideon’s shoulder, flung him against the wall. Pendants on the gas fixtures tinkled.

  “Jesus, Jay, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  Dots of color appeared above Gould’s beard. In the stairwell Gideon glimpsed two heavyset men watching. Where had they come from?

  There was confusion on Louis Kent’s swarthy face; Gould’s anger seemed chiefly directed at him. Gideon forced himself to say, “You’d better listen to me, Mr. Gould”—the short man ignored that, giving Louis another furious glance before starting for the stained-glass door again—”unless you’d care to have it noised about that you frequent whorehouses.”

  Jay Gould stood absolutely still, his head tilted back slightly. When he turned, his lips barely moved. “Is this your relative, Louis?”

  “Jay, I’ve never seen him before! I don’t know—”

  “Will you stop repeating my name like a parrot?” Gould glowered past Gideon’s shoulder. In the front foyer, two round-eyed girls ducked out of sight. Suddenly Gould stalked to Gideon and pushed him toward the parlor. “In there! I don’t discuss anything in hallways!”

  ii

  Gideon tried to walk calmly, straight to the center of the parlor. Louis, distraught and sweating, fumbled at the sliding door. He couldn’t seem to locate the handle. Gould thrust him aside and closed the door with a thump.

  Two trimmed gas jets cast a blue light much weaker than that in the corridor. Gould seated himself at one of the marble tables, his gloved hands planted on the head of his stick. Louis leaned against the door, breathing noisily.

  “Identify yourself,” Gould said.

  “My name is Gideon Kent.”

  “You are this gentleman’s cousin?”

  Gideon could barely nod. He tried to remember the financier was as mortal as he. The remark about a whorehouse, a sudden inspiration prompted by Jephtha’s comment on Gould’s personal life, had given him Gould’s attention. He must take advantage of that.

  “Mr. Kent and my father are actually second cousins—”

  “State your business.”

  Gideon’s voice steadied. “I’m employed in the Erie yards over in Jersey City.” Louis inhaled sharply. “I’m a switchman. Since the first of the year, two men—friends of mine—have been in serious accidents while on the job.”

  He was perspiring. But he dared not stop. “One lost both legs. The other was killed, just this week. Both left dependents. Families that now have no income. They did your work, Mr. Gould. I want”—on an impulse, he doubled the figure he’d had in mind—“I want twenty thousand dollars for each family.”

  “Twenty thousand?” Louis gasped. He started to snicker. A gesture from Gould cut it off.

  “Let me correct one thing you said,” the financier murmured to Gideon. “You were employed by the Erie line. As of tonight, that connection is severed.”

  “Of all the lunatic demands!” Louis exclaimed.

  Astonishingly, Gould chuckled. His black eyes remained fixed on Gideon.

  “You have brass, Mr. Kent. I’ll give you that. But in all sincerity, I must tell you that your cousin’s word—lunatic—barely covers it. No railroad, including the Erie, pays money to those who are killed or injured while on duty. The risk is a condition of employment. You’re very foolish to think otherwise”—he leaned forward—“unless you’re some sort of union rabble-rouser. But we have no union that I’m aware of.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you did.”

  Louis started to slide the door back. “This has gone far enough. Let me whistle up the boys—”

  Gould’s raised glove checked him. “I want to hear the rest.”

  “I’ve said my piece, Mr. Gould. Except for this. You make plenty of money from the Erie. A fortune, I’ve heard. You can afford something for the families of two men whose lives were wiped out while they were working to fatten your bank balance.”

  “Of course I could afford it,” Gould agreed. “You’re not speaking to the issue. You completely misinterpret the purpose of a business—or the purpose of employees.” His voice dropped; he became the weary father dealing with a slow child. “Any employee of the Erie line must look after himself as I do for myself. Employees are parts of the machinery of the Erie, nothing more. Sound business policy dictates that when a part is ruined, money be spent for a new one, not on trying to salvage a useless one.”

  Gideon was thunderstruck. “Parts of the machinery? That’s how you regard human beings?”

  “Exactly.”

  “In”—Gideon forced himself to speak up—”in this case it’s going to be different.”

  “Merely because you ask?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Gould said with another shrug, “you’re quite wrong. Your friends mean nothing to me, and I daresay any other astute manager would feel exactly the same.” He wagged the ferrule of his stick under Gideon’s nose. “I do admire your nerve, Mr. Kent. But your thinking is pitifully naive. Good evening.”

  Parts of the machinery. That was the sorry truth of it, Gideon had no doubt. Nor would Jay Gould change his position or bend even a little. It was evident in the brisk way Gould started for the sliding door; it was evident from the relieved smile on Louis Kent’s face. The momentarily annoying gnat had been killed.

  Terrible discouragement swept over Gideon. Louis and Gould would laugh for years over his clumsy demands.

  As Gould approached the door, Gideon noted a glint of perspiration on his forehead. By God, I did unsettle him a little! It was enough to drive him to one last gamble.

  “I thank you for listening to me, anyway. Your decision will be announced Sunday. Along with an account of when and where you made it.”

  Jay Gould’s balding forehead gleamed as if it had been oiled. “What do you mean—announced?”

  “Just what I said. I’m not alone in this effort. Your comments will be repeated from the pulpit of St. Mark’s Methodist Episcopal Church on Orange Street.”

&nb
sp; “That must be his father’s church.” Louis said.

  Gould whispered, “Mr. Kent, your father surely would not make reference to a place like this in a sermon.”

  “On the contrary. He’s a very forthright man.”

  “I am here on business!”

  Somehow Gideon managed to laugh. “I’m sure you are, sir.”

  Gideon was conscious of Louis’ having moved around behind him, to his left. He was hidden by Gideon’s limited field of vision. He heard leather scrape the carpeting, turned his head and saw Louis start for him. “We’ve had enough from you—”

  “Stand where you are and shut your damned mouth!”

  Gould’s shaken voice stopped Louis like a child’s marionette whose string had been jerked taut. Gideon was almost delirious to see the little man so badly out of control. He prayed he could keep his voice steady another five seconds.

  “Perhaps you should bring your family to St. Mark’s on the Sabbath, Mr. Gould. Perhaps your wife would be interested in learning where you conduct your affairs.”

  The parlor was still. A classical melody drifted from the front of the club. Gideon caught the creak of a board in the corridor. Undoubtedly the two men from the stairwell. All Gould had to do was summon them and Gideon was done for.

  “Jay, it’s a damn bluff!” Louis insisted. Gould didn’t even glance at him. Gideon couldn’t fathom what had happened to his cousin. Louis seemed to sag, lose confidence. He stared at Gould like a worried boy who’d failed to please his parents.

  Gould swallowed. Ran his tongue over his upper lip. “Yes, I suspect it is a bluff. But I don’t intend to find out. I don’t intend to have Helen find out.”

  Gideon felt dizzy.

  “Mr. Kent, you or your representative may call at my brokerage tomorrow. There’ll be a draft waiting. In the amount you specified. The draft will be drawn on The Bank of Commerce in Nassau Street. It will bear the name of an account holder who is unfamiliar to you. There will be no way for you to link the money with the New York & Erie, or with me. If you try, you’ll be laughed at. Are you willing to accept those terms?”

  Gould’s voice was quiet. Yet Gideon was still terrified. He managed to nod. The small dark eyes locked with his.

  “I’ll say it again. You have brass. Jim Fisk has brass. I have a touch of it myself. Always have. When I was a boy, I had one good friend. Twice as tall as I am. We used to wrestle. Most of the time I’d beat him. A fellow my size—that’s unlikely, eh? But you see, I wouldn’t beat him fair. I’d use every trick I knew. He’d complain, but it didn’t bother me. Know what I’d tell him? ‘I’m on top, ain’t I?’ You’re on top for the moment, though you’re not entirely responsible. This—gentleman”—a scorching look at Louis—“smoothed your path without intending to do so. Nevertheless, I admire any man who comes out on top by using whatever means he finds at his disposal. That’s not to say you’ll ever be on top of Jay Gould again.”

  He smiled. Gideon’s mouth was bone dry.

  “I’ll pay you what you demand—once. But I won’t forget the way you forced me to do it.”

  He pointed the stick at Gideon’s face.

  “I promise you, I won’t forget.”

  He started for the door. Louis hurried to his side, but before he could speak, Gould slashed the stick against Louis’ arm.

  “Get out of my way!”

  Gideon’s cousin stumbled aside. Gould poked the ferrule in the handle of the sliding door. The door rolled back, and Jay Gould scurried off in the watery blue light.

  iii

  Louis gaped at Gideon as if he were some creature on exhibit in a menagerie, beyond his comprehension. The heavyset men glided into sight in the hall. For a moment Gideon was positive he’d never leave the Universal Club on his own feet.

  Then Gould called from down the hall, “Let him go, boys. If anyone fixes him, it’ll be me.”

  The rear door closed. The men eyed one another. Gideon took advantage of their hesitation and started to walk.

  Speechless with anger, Louis watched him pass. Gideon turned right. Moved with feigned calm toward the foyer of the brothel. He listened for the sound of a rush, but it didn’t come. He kept his hands thrust in his pockets so the girls and a couple of male patrons in the front parlor wouldn’t see him shaking as he passed.

  In the parlor, the blind black musician lifted his fingers from the keys, sniffed, “Old wool coat. Don’t belong in this place.”

  Hester Bell opened the front door and held it, eyeing Gideon with a curiously awed expression. He stepped into the rain and closed his eye briefly as he walked down the steps. Now his legs were shaking.

  When he was out of sight of the entrance, he ran.

  Chapter X

  Casualty of War

  i

  UNDER JUBILEE JIM’S NONE too friendly scrutiny, Louis jammed the last of the greenbacks in the cheap suitcase. He handed the suitcase to the burly guard, who rushed it down the stairs and outside.

  Louis looked wan in the March sunlight slanting through the high windows of the Erie office. Fisk and Gould were treating him as if he were hired help, not a partner.

  “That’s the lot, Jay.” He leaned against the side of the great iron safe, empty now.

  Gould finished scanning some papers, shoved them into the stove, and asked, “You made an accurate count?”

  Louis started to reply, then realized Gould hadn’t been speaking to him.

  Fisk’s brow furrowed at the attempted intrusion; he answered the question. “Twenty-eight suitcases. All but two are already gone in the first hack.”

  “How much in total?”

  “Six millions. For God’s sake, will you hurry up with that damned paper shuffling?”

  “I’m done,” Gould said, reaching for his expensive tweed overcoat.

  Jay Gould had sent a messenger to upper Fifth Avenue to summon Louis. By the time Louis had arrived on Duane Street at a quarter to one, all the headquarters employees had been sent home. One guard occupied the porch, admitting no one without permission of Gould or Fisk. The other guard toted the suitcases to a hack as fast as Louis and the fat man could fill them.

  Gould had spent the time sorting through documents, retaining a few in a valise, burning others and discarding the rest on the floor. The large office looked as if it had been struck by a paper blizzard.

  “How’s Daniel holding up?” Gould wanted to know.

  “He’s out there blubbering like an infant. He don’t like the idea of running to Jersey. We won’t get the chance if you don’t shake a leg. I have boys waiting at the Cortlandt Street Ferry to act as a rear guard, but until we reach the terminal we’re fair game.”

  Gould remained unperturbed. “Have you booked a hotel?”

  “I sent Chad to Jersey City right after we got the news from court. He’s arranging for suites at Taylor’s. I’m also having three cannon sent over so Vanderbilt can’t surprise us. We’ll be snug by dark—if we get out of here.”

  Louis decided he should take encouragement from having been asked to help with the clean-out. Gould wouldn’t have dispatched the messenger if their alliance had been permanently damaged. The thought took the sting from the way they’d ignored him the past hour or so.

  The abandonment of Duane Street was the result of the latest in the series of bizarre moves and countermoves in the struggle for dominance of the Erie.

  Gould’s scheme to use the basement printing press had worked exactly as planned. In fact it had worked so well that the thousands of shares dumped in the Street had depressed not only the price of Erie but those of other issues. The papers had started screaming about an “Erie Panic.”

  Naturally Vanderbilt had caught on to what was happening. Supreme Court Judge Barnard had enjoined the line from issuing any more stock. Gould had immediately paid for a counterinjunction from another member of the bench. Then Vanderbilt retaliated with still more court orders, placing the line into receivership and ordering the arrest of key directors f
or stock fraud. The last decree had been handed down late that morning.

  Now the six million in the suitcases—the money earned by the basement press—was going out of the jurisdiction of New York law, together with Messrs. Gould and Fisk. Louis had overheard the two discussing reorganization of the line as a New Jersey corporation. In Jersey, Vanderbilt would have difficulty exerting his influence. Of course, the reorganization remained strictly theoretical while the planners were still in Manhattan.

  “You go along, Jim,” Gould instructed. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  With a baleful glance at his huge pocket watch, Fisk vanished down the stairs.

  A tug hooted on the river. Dust motes moved slowly through pale sunbeams. It seemed unthinkable to Louis that a carriage load of deputy sheriffs might be clattering toward Duane Street this very moment. It seemed nearly as unthinkable that weeks had passed since Gould had met Gideon Kent and surrendered what amounted to pocket change to save himself from a potential scandal. In all that time, Louis had not heard a syllable of reproof from the financier.

  Of course, Gould had been frantically busy with Erie affairs. On several occasions Louis had tried to invite Gould to his club for a drink, an expensive dinner—and an apology. Each time Gould had brushed him aside. Finally Louis had attempted to apologize after a board meeting, only to have Gould walk away. He was beginning to think Gould might have accepted the defeat and put it behind him in the face of more pressing problems.

  Louis started to don his coat. “You needn’t do that,” Gould remarked quietly. “You’re not coming with us.”

  “Not coming? What about the warrant?”

  “You’re not named. Just Drew, Jim, and myself. I’ve checked. Even if you were included, my original statement stands. You’re not coming with us to Jersey City.”