The Four Hundred Page 2

  "Aw, he ain't goin' nowhere, Pender." Luke appealed to Elisha, whose mind had now grasped the situation, albeit tentatively.

  "An' we got such a good game goin'," Elisha said, grinning at Pender.

  "Aw, let him freeze his ass off," Jake said. "We can come back come mornin' and pick up what's left of him in our own good time," he declared reassuringly.

  Jake forcibly sat Pender down on a bench seat. The sheriff looked out into the raw dark night, at the plump gentleman wrestling unaided with the window frame, then directly at Jake. He was obviously perplexed.

  "But he knows that too—so why the hell... ?"

  "He jus' don' wanna do no more time—'s natural," Jake said sympathetically. He pulled off his neckerchief and offered it to the sheriff.

  "Here, wipe your face—you're bleedin' all over yer shirt."

  The filthy kerchief changed hands as the gentleman with considerable girth and now pink face surprised them all by succeeding in slamming down the window—and completely shattering the already damaged glass. As he turned shamefaced to the other passengers with a helpless gesture, Pender's exasperation reached its peak.

  "We gotta stop!" he spluttered.

  "We allus stops at the top of the gradient to switch tracks.

  If you wanna stop, we're stoppin'." Jake looked quickly at Elisha and Luke, then continued fast, "Look, if you wan' him bad, we'll all get off at Cumberland and come back in the mornin'—-right?"

  The pause was pregnant, but even Pender could see the sense of remaining warm. Elisha flicked the cards still in his hands.

  "He's a damn fool's what I say."

  Pender spat blood, and before wiping his face and wadding the kerchief to bite on, he showed the insight that had probably got him his star.

  "No, 'Lisha. If there's one thing he ain't, it's that."

  The last thirty yards to the caboose were the worst for George, but he was helped by the decreasing speed of the train. He couldn't afford to have inquisitive eyes find him limping along the tracks when the stop was made. Running fit to bust, he reached up with his hands, almost fell, then felt the » cold metal of the rear guardrail. He gripped securely, then pulled so that his feet gratefully left the track and he was suspended beneath the platform. He locked his aching muscles and tried to remember the words of Stephen Foster's "Oh! Susanna" to detract from the painful messages he was receiving from all over his body.

  George was making his third request to Susanna not to cry as the train slowed, lips taut with the cold, his grip unfeeling, his body assaulted by increasingly icy blasts of freezing wind. Then, up front, the engine halted and a final lurch stopped the carriages dead.

  Above George, at the caboose guard's window, a face appeared briefly in the glow of a lamp. Distant shouts indicated that the train was switching tracks.

  George Bidwell lowered himself to the rails, then lay beside the nearside wheel of the caboose. George knew about wheels and rails, suspension bars, coachwork, bolts, axles and generally the underwork mechanics of a carriage. The world over they were much the same, and he'd learned the hard way. Cut off behind Southern lines years before, he'd hung on beneath the coachwork and above the wheels of a Reb train until it had carried him out of the town—eighteen miles. Had he relaxed once, he'd have been chewed up. He certainly knew all about the power of wheels on rail. His face had been inches away as tons of wheel and carriage ground dust to powder. He had made his escape then as he would have to do again—over rugged country, hunted in the cold—until he had managed to rejoin his division. His exploits had not gone unnoticed or unrecognized. George smiled fleetingly at the thought. This time it would be different; he was no longer the young hero.

  A whistle sounded up front. George extended his freezing hands, placing the short chain of the handcuffs on the metal rail. Suddenly the coaches lurched and the wheels ground forward, biting into the chain links. George's hands were drawn toward the wheels as metal ground on metal. The handcuff bracelets cut deep into his wrists. The wheels rolled over the chain, and as he stifled a scream of pain, the links snapped.

  The warm cocoon of the caboose guard's small compartment had lulled its occupant into a doze that after several more minutes, backed by the now steady rhythm of the train, formed the beginnings of a dream. One word destroyed it.

  "Evenin’ “

  The guard could feel metal beneath his chin. He woke up and saw that his old Army Colt was firmly held by a bedraggled man in prison issue, leaning toward him and smiling, not without humor. As his eyes snapped open and translated the situation 'to his sluggish brain, the guard grimaced and replied, also with one word, more to himself at his own stupidity than for the benefit of the other who was beginning to settle against the cabin heater. "Shit!" the guard said.

  That night the Civil War was fought and won by both North and South—the little whiskey the guard had produced going a long way. If brothers, sons and fathers, abolitionist politicians and plantation owners, glory-hunting generals and their later-to-be-lost regiments could have got together before hostilities and talked, as George and the guard did all the way to the dawn stop in Cumberland, they might well have ended the night much as these two did—asleep on each other's shoulders as first rays of sunlight in a brilliant clear sky penetrated condensation on the cabin windows.

  The guard later contended publicly that, given the chance, he'd have somehow got the drop and delivered the prisoner. Fact was the guard liked George and was under no duress at all when he took in the steaming coffee and a loaf of bread from a little Negro boy and delayed for a moment to conceal George's quick look up the platform at Pender and the deputies. Clambering down with their saddles, they exchanged several insults with passengers still aboard the train, then dragged their way into the station house to begin their search for the escaped prisoner.

  The four-four-oh engine's whistle blew long and shrill. The guard waved All clear, stretched, checked his watch, slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and came back into the cabin to the warmth of the stove, freshly poured hot coffee and new-baked bread. George settled back and began to pick the locks of his handcuffs with a long nail prised from the wooden floor. The rest of the day passed in conversation pertaining to all the problems men solve on long journeys.

  George jumped the train a second time eight miles out of Norfolk and stood in the evening light brushing down his guard's uniform, then waved cheerfully back at the man in prison issue, standing arm aloft at the rear of the caboose.

  That evening, as George turned north and threw away the bracelets of his handcuffs, he wondered at his fortune. He had just experienced the worst period of his life and given himself—a reprieve. Now he would know the best. George had determined that he would become, as he put it, one of the Four Hundred, and for that he needed one thing: money. He fingered the several silver dollars given to him willingly by the guard and remembered the man's address, also given, at George's insistence.

  Twelve months later, five thousand dollars posted to this railway employee, from "a brother in Europe," became the talk of his small home town.

  It was ten days before George Bidwell entered the restaurant upstairs at Delmonico's in New York City, plans finalized, with a ticket to travel and ready for a last American dinner. He sat down at his favorite corner table in this old haunt, ordered, then accepted the greetings of the lad who served cool wine brought directly from the cellar.

  "Been a time, Mr. Bidwell, sir."

  "You've grown," replied George.

  "That I have, sir," said young Harry McCann proudly.

  "Thinking lucky?" George asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  "Like a Fenian man," the lad retorted with a grin, referring to the Irish rebels of whom he was a direct offspring.

  "So am I, Harry," said George, tipping him five whole dollars; "so am I." On George's face a smile; in his mind, a single thought which reconfirmed the decision he'd made: he was going "to sea."

  The open coach and four, horses foaming at the bit,
careened down a long colonnaded drive, reached the intersection of E Wharf and the dockside, turned sharply, cleared the area of crane rails, rattled over a cobbled pathway, then began to race along the waterfront toward the passenger harbor. Standing braced at the reins was a uniformed driver totally concentrated on his dangerous task; inside the coach, three men in somber tailored clothes; on the polished walnut coachwork, an emblazoned badge and lettering: NEW YORK

  CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  Between barrels, bales and boxes stacked in every available space, scattering complacent porters, dock laborers and the few steerage passengers who sought frantically for their ship amidst wandering crowds, the vehicle sped toward the gangway of a distant vessel now making final preparations to sail.

  The driver began to haul at the reins with his entire weight fifty yards before the coach finally skidded noisily to a halt. The detectives were already up in their seats, doors open on both sides, before the horses, neighing and plunging, understood that the six-mile chase from Central Police Headquarters was over. One of the men, stout, broad-shouldered, red-faced, anxiety clear in the set of his features, jumped down with an agility that surprised the waiting steward standing at a gangway on the pier. Indicating the gentleman already ascending the steps behind two porters, the policeman, breathing hard, shouted, "Hold it!"

  The steward looked quickly from the anxious detective stumbling toward him to the gentleman who, unperturbed, took several more paces, then stopped and turned to look down on the commotion. The crowd of onlookers come to wave farewell parted, allowing access to the policeman. He reached the gangway, brushed the steward aside and slowed to take the steps with care.

  The gentleman remained unperturbed. The detective appeared to find words difficult; although his eyes fixed the man before him, his attention was on regaining his breath.

  "Hello, Irving," said George Bidwell calmly.

  The basso profundo horn of the White Star Liner Atlantic, equipped for three classes and steerage, obliterated all other sound for a full ten seconds. Detective James Irving began to squeeze out his words.

  "George—there was nothin' I could do—I swear." The sudden comparative silence made Irving turn quickly to see if words carried to the crowd. He softened his voice and continued in a harsh whisper.

  "Listen, George, you know who I am and what I represent. Don't forget..."

  "Two years and seven months in a Southern hole, where I was shown why Yankees fought, is what I don't forget, Irving."

  "George, I tried..."

  Irving began to finger the ostentatious diamond ring on his left hand beside the two others of gold. George's eyes discovered the diamond pin in the now sweat-stained pink cravat before him.

  "And Irving, I don't forget the ten thousand dollars you've had from us to keep our noses clean—wherever!"

  This hit Irving where it hurt most—in his handstitched pale gray pigskin wallet. He shouted down to the two waiting detectives, "Okay, boys, I'll be with you."

  George turned to walk up the gangway to the deck. Irving followed, still breathless.

  "I appreciate the relationship we've established, George. Hell, the three of you boys is like brothers to me. How can you think I've let you down? Why, when I heard you went down Norfolk I wired Virginia State personal just so's you'd have a friendly ear if any of your..."

  He paused, uncertain of the correct euphemism.

  "... well, 'ventures'—went wrong."

  George stopped at the twin rails that ran the length of the main deck; looked up at the clear February sky; then slowly, containing all the anger Irving could see as their eyes met, said quietly, "That, Irving, is how they found me."

  "You mean those boys didn't take care of you?" Irving was transparently perplexed. "Why, I knew Brown six years afore he went South, and he's been juiced like the rest."

  "Brown was shot two months before your wire arrived."

  "Listen, George." Irving could see much of his income dwindling for several years as he fought to find words to console George Bidwell. A payoff protection racket, instituted by Irving in the mid-'sixties, had proved at first a lucrative bonus to his salary but had now been for several years an enjoyable necessity.

  Irving had become wealthy. Initially he had hidden the fact; then, declaring a coup on the market, he began to show himself about the city as if he were one of the Four Hundred. Visions of early retirement and a mansion on Long Island had begun to evaporate when George had been caught in Norfolk, Virginia, by astute and honest police. The clerk who checked back with the New York police while Irving was away discovered George's record, and the prisoner, without protection, was convicted of fraud. Irving knew that George was in a position to finish him, so inspiration provided a diversion.

  "How's Austin?" asked the policeman nervously.

  George's brother, Austin, had come to' Wheeling Prison to visit and had been identified as wanted, so he had been forced to take to his heels. It was Irving who had suggested Europe until the vigorous hunt—to which Irving had (commendably, George remembered) eventually put a stop—cooled off. Irving continued with confidence.

  "And how is Mac?"

  George MacDonald, known amongst friends as Mac, so as not to be confused with George Bidwell, had been apprehended during the Chicago fire the previous year, actually helping some people escape the inferno of their hotel, but arrested on the grounds of "suspicion." Once his equally dubious record in New York City was discovered, he'd been accused of looting. Irving had provided a bribed judge, who had quashed the case with bureaucratic ease. George softened slightly at the thought of the trio's imminent reunion.

  "Austin and Mac are in Europe," he said.

  Bells began ringing loudly to signal the ship's departure. George stepped onto the deck as Irving, now satisfied that any breach between them was at least temporarily repaired, hesitated atop the gangway.

  "Will you keep in touch, George?"

  George nodded, noting the steward below on the pier gathering his papers and beginning to ascend the steps. Several ladies still aboard blew last kisses to their loved ones, giggled past the two men and ran squealing down the gangway.

  "Just let me know, George. Anything—remember, anything." George remained impassive, thoughts of a new continent already stimulating his imagination. Last bells of warning sounded throughout the ship. Irving descended the gangway quickly, whereupon it was immediately disengaged from the White Star liner.

  On the dockside, the Chief of New York detectives looked up and waved once. "Where exactly you goin', George?"

  Although Irving's voice was raised, it was drowned by the ship's basso horn—deep and mournful.

  Where was he going, exactly? He knew perfectly well, privately: Great Britain and, more especially, the greatest metropolis of the age—London. But publicly George would begin as he intended to continue, with caution and cunning. His mind was determined, and he was the product of rugged spirit in a raw country.

  In England, to the various church and charity organizations established to rehabilitated prisoners released or on parole, an ex-convict represented a challenge. More especially, he represented both a government subsidy and a legitimate excuse for seeking private donations. Provided the prisoner remained respectably at large, the work of the organization was declared a success. If conditions forced him to crime once again and he was caught by the always vigilant police of that small island, the government withdrew its subsidy and private money became reluctant to continue patronage. Though each man got a pitifully small sum, the national total became impressively large as the number of .ex-prisoners given aid increased. The problem was that each man actually received only a small proportion of the money officially due to him; with unemployment high, a return to crime was his only recourse.

  Perhaps it had been a clergyman or perhaps a lady of good intentions over cress and salmon sandwiches in a drawing room of London's Belgravia. No matter, someone had come up with the idea of sending men, should they choose, t
o the great continent of North America.

  Publicly it was stated that America was "an opportunity for the poor fellow to start anew"; privately—"a way to dispose of our problems abroad at minimum steerage fares; the men officially rehabilitated, and off our records." Unfortunately, criminals proved to be of resilient stock, and complaints were raised across the ocean; but both Britain's government and her society's charity continued to see the system as efficient and discreet. Thus it was that when a prisoner was interviewed in England on his release and asked the vital question, he was shushed to silence, should he mutter the word "America," and reminded that his public answer to the official question of a possible transatlantic fare should be merely that his wish was to go "to sea."

  Thus, with his knowledge of the pre-eminent hypocrisy of an entire nation, gleaned from endless conversations with an English-born cellmate in Wheeling Prison, George Bidwell had decided to reverse the process.

  George turned his head east as again a warning blast from the ship's horn sounded out over the great river.

  Smoothly, the Atlantic departed the shores of the North American continent.

  George Bidwell smiled in understanding of their implications as he mouthed words softly in reply to Irving's question. "To sea," he said.

  A fresh wind off the Hudson cleared George's head as first seeds of new ideas were sown into the fertile soil of his ambition.

  Austin

  AUSTIN Byron Bidwell lay back in the deep bath and, with the faintly pungent smell of warm sulphur in his nostrils, closed his eyes. Sounds filtered into the ornate bathroom as, outside, Wiesbaden prepared for another day. The Hotel Nassau stood opposite a park gate leading from the Spa to the Casino, so it was the murmur of early-morning strollers and leather on gravel that formed for Austin a background to memories of his late-night gambling. Dogs barked, carriages passed, a lady took herself into fits of laughter and the breeze wafted chintz draperies inward from an open window in the lounge that was the third room of his suite.