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  The Four Hundred

  Book Jacket

  Tags: Historical Novel

  Historicfal novel on the fraud carried out by four americans against the Bank of England in 1873

  STEPHEN SHEPPARD

  BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

  This Berkley book contains the complete

  text of the original hardcover edition. It has been completely reset in a type face designed for easy reading, and was printed from new film.

  THE FOUR HUNDRED

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Summit Books

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Summit Books edition / October 1979 Berkley edition / November 1980

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 1979 by Aphelion International Limited.

  Cover concept and construction by Neil Stuart. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: Summit Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020.

  ISBN: 0-425-04665-61

  A BERKLEY BOOK® TM 757.375 Berkley Books are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation, 200 Madison Avenue, New York. New York 10016.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Text Designed by Michael Serrian

  For WINKYand THE PEARL FISHERS

  MY home life was happy. My education minimal. For the battle of life I was equipped with phantom weapons. Unaware that at the first conflict of the fray they would shiver to fragments, my brother and I stepped into the world. Our parents cared little for this life and dwelt on the spiritual, where golden streets and the promised rest of heaven would give solace for the toils and pains of existence. But, boy like, we discounted all they said—we wanted some of this world before we knocked at the gates of the next. In life, the portals, to which only the crime de la crime had access, were guarded by those who would measure wealth, power and position before allowing entry. There could be no more than four hundred the world over, it was generally agreed, who could—with the confidence that heaven on earth was theirs as a fact, no future promise—stride into that land knowing that in life, at least, they were the chosen few.

  From Delgraw Street, South Brooklyn, it was a long journey, but poverty and the bounding ambition of youth create a sustained resilience in some characters that can be broken by little less than total annihilation. My brother, George, and I determined to ourselves that we consisted of such "stuff" and would one day—no matter what—gain entrance at the gates of the Four Hundred.

  AUSTIN BYRON BIDWELL

  Winter

  1872

  George

  BELCHING smoke and cinders, a huge consolidated four-four-oh engine was crossing the Buckeye State at forty miles an hour pulling carriages bound southeast for Norfolk, Virginia, out of Chicago, Illinois. A single beam of light from the lamp fixed in front of the engine's boiler swept ahead of the train as it roared into snow that whipped across the tracks out of surrounding darkness.

  The face that peered from a window of the moving carriages saw only a frozen night landscape obliterated by the blizzard. Seen through snow-flecked glass it offered little hope.

  George Bidwell wiped away condensation from his distorted image on the window of the railway car with both hands together. The dim light from oil burners in the carriage gave his head a cadaverous look, short dark hair and pale skin emphasized by shadows filling his hollow cheeks. As thoughts prompted a smile, George's deep-set eyes suddenly glittered.

  "There ain't nothin' out there for you," said a familiar voice.

  George turned from the window.

  "That there's just snowy ol’ Ohio," the voice finished.

  George smiled slowly and put both hands back in his lap. Firstly, he thought, as he felt the metal on his wrists, the handcuffs were going to be a problem. Pender was the second. The powerful man opposite had his full attention on George—unwavering, impassive; he took his job seriously, proud of the shining badge he had stuck on his thick fur coat. Slowly, twin barrels of the shotgun came up until they were beneath George's nose, touching his moustache. Pender smiled viciously, in imitation, it occurred to George, of a dime-novel sheriff.

  "You're goin' home, boy."

  For George, "home" would be two—perhaps now three—more years of prison in Wheeling, West Virginia. The two he'd already spent had come near to being exorcised from his memory by the three months he'd been in Chicago. He'd sure as hell never get over the wall a second time. Five of the seven who had tried it the night he'd got out hadn't made it across the exercise yard.

  George turned again to the window as Pender lowered his shotgun and settled back on the bench seat. His troubles had first begun more than two years back when he'd been taken in Norfolk—the result of a certain scheme for separating-some of the Rebs from their money. On arrival in Norfolk, he had been taken into custody within a week, as if betrayed. That was now more than two years back. After his recent escape, fortune had seemed to change in George's favor. He had reached Chicago—where his luck had run out. George censored all other thoughts. He'd had enough time already to regret going South in the first place. His home was New York City. There he was protected: he knew the right people—first of all, the police. His mouth set in a hard line, and his eyes strayed momentarily to the hick Reb who had been entrusted with the safety of his prisoner until delivered back to custody in West Virginia. The money he'd made up North didn't count for a damn chicken down South, where they were still fighting a lost war; when the word had gone out that the hunt was on for George—a born Yankee—he hadn't had a chance—in peacetime, at least. During the civil conflict it had been— Well, George remembered, that was different.

  George stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing but the past—people, places and mistakes. In Chicago he'd gone straight to a "safe house"; how in hell did he know that his friend Stoneman was being watched?

  The group behind Pender bent over a makeshift table at the forward end of the long carriage let out a combined shout—the "Holy shit!" (and worse) heedless of the ladies and other passengers seated farther down the railway car. Pender, delving into some recess where manners were a fading memory, absorbed the obvious displeasure of the women and, recognizing his authority over the deputies, turned to chastise them.

  "You ain't cleanin' pigpens now, Luke, Jake, Elisha; you cut that crap, now—you hear?"

  Luke splayed out his cards for Pender to see: four aces and a deuce.

  "You beat that, Sheriff?"

  The three men burst out laughing. Jake waved a hand limply.

  "Hey, Pender—come an' hold a hand over here."

  Again laughter exploded amongst the group—coarse, high-pitched, inane, unintelligent; it went with a Rebel drawl never forgotten by George from the first time he'd heard it in battle. When was it, now? he asked himself. Could the War really be ten years back? He'd been not much more than a grown boy when he'd signed on. George probed the harsh night outside—impassive, unmoved. He had no fondness for the green youth who now leaped into his mind, brash, confident and eager. That had been another person in another time. Through the window George watched as snow brushed against the glass, then was wind-borne back into the cold darkness. His eyes strayed once more to the window frame and realities. The shrouded land held no secrets for George Bidwell; he'd been out there before—he remembered it well: at the end of the war, in the chaos of victory. Now it seemed a whole world away.

  The Civil War had changed many things. On April 9, 1865, after the final defeat of the Army of Northern Virginia, Robert E. Lee's flag of truce was accepted by the victorious Major General of Volunteers. The division had cheered their young, yellow-haired commander and felt proud to be part of this moment in history. It ha
d been a long and bloody war for the lucky few amongst the crowd who had survived it all, and the swelling hearts of the Ohio-born went out to George Armstrong Custer as he accepted the flag from a vanquished foe. In the forefront of the photogravure of the occasion, to the extreme left, posed with the others in unnatural seriousness, George Bidwell gazes out into the future.

  "Move a muscle and I'll blow off your ass—y'hear?" Startled, George looked around quickly, then up at Pender, who, already on his feet, emphasized his threat with the twin barrels and a stony face. George nodded just sufficiently to relax the lawman. Pender glanced over his shoulder at the table where, as another hand was dealt, noise from his trio of deputies vied with the steady roar of the train.

  "Deal me in," he said.

  They were golden words to George as, with a single backward look at his prisoner, Pender broke open the shotgun on his arm and shuffled over to the bench seats to play poker. Far from dreaming into the night through the cold glass, George Bidwell had, as discreetly as was possible, been eyeing the two press-down, flick-over catches at the base of the pull-up window for just under seven hours and thirty-six minutes.

  Their prisoner had for several days provided the four Southern Lawmen with some amusement—needless to say, at his expense. Once custody had been transferred to them, they had taken every opportunity to humiliate the recaptured convict. In charge of their very own "gentleman," they'd had a good time. Cropped hair and coarse prison issue had quickly replaced a barber's skill and conservative tailoring. In actual fact, George was in no way a gentleman; he had assumed everything he appeared to be. George had been born and bred in South Brooklyn, New York City. Poverty on the streets had shown him that the only way was up. Life had given him sharpness and quick wits. Experience had taught him the power of money, which he'd learned to use well—and enjoy.

  George glanced quickly across at the group, each one of them now concentrating on his first hand of the dealt cards. Had George been a killer, these men would probably have asked him to sit in; but because he used his mind to obtain money in not altogether legitimate ways and had proved successful with numerous coups in New York City—several of which had come to light during his trial in Norfolk—these men called him a "paper thief and gave neither his reputation nor his physical appearance a second thought. George clenched his teeth. If any of them came within arm's length he would show them—when the time came. His compact, powerful boay allowed him the grace of movement an athlete projects—smooth, controlled, disciplined. He had always been fit, and in his youth a feared street fighter. Despite the changing circumstances of his life, he had always made time to maintain his superb natural physical condition. George withheld welling anger and swore under his breath. At that precise moment, the huge front wheels of the four-four-oh engine hit the beginning of the incline George had been waiting for—an hour later than he had calculated. For that he thanked his stars: the difference in time had now removed the ever-vigilant Pender. His luck was changing.

  "What the hell?" exclaimed Jake loudly from the table, alarmed at the train's slowing down. Unperturbed, Luke relieved his fellow deputy's consternation.

  "We allus switches tracks top of the gradient. 's about a mile up ahead. Stop only takes a minute—then it's a straight run into Cumberland; be there come mornin'."

  "That where we left the horses outbound?" asked Jake.

  " 's right," answered Luke. He looked at his cards and grinned. "Now, you goin' to show what ya got?"

  Pender glanced back at George as the reduction in speed momentarily ruffled the drowsy suffering of all in the third carriage from the caboose. He nodded as if to congratulate George on his obedience, then turned back to continue play. Outside in the cold night, wind blew, snow flurried and the huge engine's steady roar changed pitch as it began to strain against the incline. George conjured a silent prayer and leaned toward the push-up window of the carriage.

  The press-down, flick-over metal window catch nearest George released its grip on the frame stud and went slack. A fine stream of cold air brushed George's shoulder as he cautiously took his gaze off the absorbed group of poker players and tested the window with his weight. It had not been easy to conceal his action, and he knew he would have to reach for the second catch.

  It was at this moment, as George shifted to the exact position he would need to apply pressure to the other catch, that a child appeared, seemingly from nowhere. She stared at George with quiet concentration, then sat down on the seat opposite.

  George remained absolutely still, feeling the cold air of freedom cutting into his shoulder, chilling him down to his prison-issue boots. He held the disconcerting stare of the child with a steady appraisal of her face and clothes. She looked at the catch, then into George's eyes again, and suddenly broke into a sweet smile. Over her shoulder, the final moments of a second poker hand were being played out in furious silence as the four had been induced to bet more than their pockets would safely allow. George tried a cautious grin and received from the child an immediate frozen face. If he could tell only one thing, this kid had a big scream and was looking for a valid reason to get herself a carriageload of attention.

  At forty miles an hour George knew a fall would hurt, and if he lost an ankle he was done. He needed the gradient. He had to make his move now. They were down to about thirty, he calculated, with just over a half mile to go. At the poker table, all four men were engrossed. George glanced at the window and then looked at the child. With less than a minute remaining, he had no choice.

  George snapped open the second catch and leaned back, now feeling cold air from the entire length of the window. Mesmerized, the child absorbed the loose metal piece disconnected from its stud. Slowly she looked from the stud into George's lap and at the handcuffs. She's obviously never seen them for real before, thought George. He felt another lurch as the train slowed again. A roar went up from the poker group.

  The final cards were laid. Pender turned away in disgust and saw the child.

  "Hey, kid—get the hell outta there."

  As Pender began to rise, the child obeyed his shout and turned to him.

  "Is he a bank robber?"

  George clenched his teeth.

  "Never mind that—get the hell outta there."

  Jake and Luke snickered as Elisha nudged Pender heavily.

  "That there's a lady, Sheriff, an' you ain't cleanin' no pigpens now, boy, remember?"

  The child ignored Pender's coarseness and asked a second question as if a lawyer for the prosecution.

  "Are you a sheriff?"

  Pender cut in quickly, stifling any retorts already on the lips of his deputies.

  "That's right. Now you git back there."

  As he indicated the rear of the carriage with a gesture, the train lurched again. The kid remained composed.

  "I think your bank robber's going to escape, Mr. Sheriff."

  Pender ignored his deputies' laughter.

  "Now, what the hell makes you think that, kid?"

  Words influence history; action makes it. That night, in the next moment, the occupants of the third carriage from the caboose saw both.

  "He's opened the window," said the child coolly. Then she turned her head to smile directly and sweetly at George.

  With an oath, George wrenched at the window with all his power. As the child made three fast paces toward her mother, every excuse now available for the scream that was fully lubricated and ready to rip, George succeeded in pushing the window right up; half shattering it. Pender leaped across the space between them with surprising agility for one so large, fumbling with the shotgun, trying to lock it closed in a single action, but it caught in the fur of his coat, so he swung the barrels at George with a roar of anger. George ducked, then kicked Pender hard, between the legs. Immediately the large man fell to his knees in agony, his mouth wide, gasping with pain. The double-fisted blow George aimed at Pender's head whipped the face from right to left. Teeth snapped off; blood spattered across the compar
tment: handcuffs on bone at speed—a bad conjoining.

  The second, equally vicious swing from above took Pender to the floor of the railway car as if poleaxed. The impact locked the shotgun, and it blasted from both barrels down the aisle of the car, raking the end door. Slow at the best of times, Elisha, Luke and Jake were only now struggling to their feet, pulling awkwardly for guns stuck in their belts, yelling all the while, more in fear for themselves than in consternation at Pender's predicament.

  George took not a moment longer. The child screaming loudly, shouts from alarmed passengers, the roar of raw elements rushing into the carriage through the open window—the confusion George had ignited—all were left behind as the prisoner propelled himself into the darkness following a pair of handcuffs—which for every person remaining in the carriage took him out of their lives forever

  Meteorological observations for this night during the third week of the New Year record that a great atmospheric wave of cold passed over the continent of North America. In Chicago, the mercury suddenly fell thirty-three degrees. The wave then passed southeast at the rate of twenty-five or thirty miles an hour. The thermometer dropped to fifteen degrees below zero, and the barometer rose as rapidly as the thermometer fell. For those who could see the moon it is recorded that the lunar coronae and halos existed with marked chromatic peripheries.

  Tensed in anticipation of the rolling fall, George was already absorbing with his senses swirling snow, a shallow embankment and the luck of missing any protruding object before he hit the ground. Settled snow cushioned the impact. A moment later he slithered to a halt. George shook his head, cleared it and was immediately on his feet, oblivious as yet of the battle royal his blood was engaged in with an atmosphere fifteen degrees below zero, but fully conscious of the biting wind that numbed his legs and feet. George stumbled up the embankment onto the tracks as the caboose passed. Increasing his speed awkwardly, handicapped by wrists locked together, George began to sprint after the train.

  In the carriage, amidst confusion, consternation and shock, Pender was helped to his feet by wide-eyed deputies. His shouts were incomprehensible as broken teeth, welling blood and obvious pain hindered all sense. Luke thought he identified "Stop the train" and looked uncomfortably at Elisha and Jake, who were now staring at a large gentleman who was attempting, with difficulty, to close the damaged window. The prospect of "snowy ol' Ohio" that night was hardly inviting.