Lawless (29 page)

To goad him, Gideon smiled and feigned innocence. “I really don’t understand, Mr. Florian. If Sunday’s meeting is so routine, why do you bother making threats?” Before the cadaverous man could reply, Gideon went on. “Of course I know the answer. The desire of the switchmen to organize and bargain for better pay and better treatment is anything but routine to you and Courtleigh. I should imagine it’s got your boss scared to death. Giving the families of yardmen postmortem and injury benefits might mean smaller profits for Wisconsin and Prairie stockholders. A smaller diamond for your employer’s fiancée. Or a smaller orchestra for this grand soiree he’s planning while his toadies scurry around town doing his dirty work—”

Florian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His eyes were wide with astonishment. Slowly, Gideon reached out and took hold of the tall man’s lapel, his smile rigid and his blue eye glaring.

“If I hear one more such threat, Mr. Florian, I will kick you in your bony ass, and keep kicking all the way to the street.”

Several customers further down the bar overheard Gideon and stared. Suddenly Florian jerked back, whipped up his cane, flourished it and shouted, “You damn Communard! You’ll regret you came to this town. You’ll regret you bucked Tom Courtleigh—and Ericsson’s wife will regret it even more. You tell him that!”

He shook his cane one more time and stormed out of the bar.

Gideon laughed, but just a bit uneasily. He glared at those who had been watching the altercation. They went back to their own conversations.

“Whiskey!” Gideon snapped to the gawking barkeep. He was unsettled by the encounter, and not at all inclined to laugh off the threats of the Wisconsin and Prairie’s president. When he met Ericsson for breakfast, he must tell him what Florian had said and let him make a decision about the meeting. Gideon was glad he’d brought his old LeMat cavalry revolver with him from New York.

As he prepared for sleep that night he unwrapped his night shirt which had protected the revolver in his portmanteau. Far in the distance, he heard what sounded like bells on fire pumpers racing through the streets.

He hefted the revolver and, with the tip of his little finger, removed a speck of dust from the bright barrel. He listened to the clang of the distant bells and abruptly recalled the word used by one of the men he’d walked behind on Clark Street.

Tinderbox.

Chicago was that, all right.

In more ways than one.

N
ILS ERICSSON ARRIVED
at eight the next morning. He was a big, heavy-shouldered Scandinavian with fifteen years’ experience on various midwest railroads, and an almost messianic belief in the need for organization. It turned out that he, too, paid his own way to the annual meetings of the National Labor Union, though he and Gideon had never chanced to meet at one of those affairs. Ericsson said he liked to absorb the essentials of the N.L.U. gospel—expansion of the eight-hour day from the Federal sector into the private one; formation of a Federal labor department; elimination of abuses in the child labor system—and then repeat them to any Chicago workingman’s group which would have him as a free speaker.

He and Gideon left the hotel and found a restaurant nearby. They ordered breakfast. Only then did Gideon mention Florian’s threat. Ericsson didn’t take it lightly. But neither was he cowed by it.

“Matter of fact, I’m a bit encouraged, Mr. Kent.”

Gideon sipped his coffee. “How so?”

“Well,” the other man said in his accented voice, “Florian’s visit means Tom Courtleigh is really fretting that we may get enough men together to start a strong brotherhood and force the W and P to meet our demands.”

“They got wind of the meeting, though,” Gideon reminded him. “It’s obvious you have at least one turncoat in your crowd.”

Ericsson shrugged. “I got used to scabs and cowards a long time ago. But if you’re agreeable, I won’t inform any of the fellows about Mr. Florian’s call. I want as many as possible to show up at my house.” The big man took a moment to use a wooden toothpick from the little china jar in the center of the table. “How’d Sid Florian strike you?”

“I wasn’t overly impressed.”

“Don’t let his scarecrow looks fool you. He’s done plenty of strikebreaking around this part of the country. Used to be employed by Pinkerton’s. Courtleigh hired him away. Pays him a small fortune, I hear. When it comes to bringing grief to the laboring man, there’s damn little Tom Courtleigh won’t do. Yes, sir—Florian trained under the master. If he or some of his hirelings should visit us tomorrow night, we could have a royal scrap on our hands.”

Again he didn’t sound wholly unhappy; in fact, Gideon detected a combative glint in Ericsson’s eye. That was a point on which they differed, then. The war had shown Gideon that violence was not something jolly and sporting, but a grim, gritty business which always had sad consequences for someone. Sometimes violence was necessary; a man couldn’t permit himself to be walked on. But that did not mean violence was enjoyable or even desirable.

He thought it wise to remind Ericsson about one specific part of Florian’s threat. “There was a mention of families being harmed. Your wife, for instance.”

Ericsson sobered and shook his head. “That’s a grand demonstration of how much the line knows and cares about its employees. I’m a widower, Kent. I lost my wife, Helga, four years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I do have my spinster sister to look after. She helps me out around the house.”

“Does she live close by?”

“Yes, Sigrid has a flat on Sebor Street. That’s just a few blocks from my place.”

“Your letters mentioned a son, as I recall—”

With obvious pride, Ericsson said, “His name’s Torvald. He wants to stay for the meeting. I’m going to permit it. He’s old enough. Now let me draw you a little map showing you how to reach Taylor Street. It’s across the south branch of the river. Not hard to find.”

Soon they left the restaurant, Gideon having taken care of the bill. Ericsson glanced at the brass-bright sky. “By damn. Still no sign of rain. It’s been a bad summer, Kent. The town’s bone dry.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Abruptly, Ericsson remembered something: “Ah, but I meant to ask whether you’re busy this evening. My sister will be cooking supper at my house. Sigrid and I would be pleased to have you join us.”

Gideon smiled. “Very kind of you. But I’ve already made plans to pay a social call.”

“Oh, you have old friends in Chicago?”

“An acquaintance,” he replied with a thoughtful expression. “Just an acquaintance.”

Shortly before six that evening, Gideon donned a fresh shirt and cravat and walked to the Palmer House. He stepped up to the first hack in the taxi rank and asked the driver whether by chance he knew the State Street address of a suffragist named Julia Sedgwick. He was startled at the vehemence of the reaction.

“The Lucy Stoner who runs around the country spoutin’ heathen nonsense about women bein’ equal to men? I surely do know her address—been in the
Trib
lots of times. She lives down at State and Twenty-first. The swank neighborhood.”

His glance said he thought the last place Gideon would have business was a swank neighborhood. But he asked, “You want to go there?”

“Yes. I’ll walk. Thanks for the information.”

The cabby was irate. “Looking for some of that free love them godless women practice, are you? She won’t fool with your sort, you damn cheapskate!”

Laughing, Gideon walked south beneath the gaslights glowing in the dusk. His pace grew brisk; his footsteps rapped on the wide plank sidewalks that, together with the softly shining lights, made State Street so up to date and attractive.

His smile faded when he thought of the emotional language the cab driver had used in connection with Julia. All in all, the suffragist cause was almost as badly tarred as the labor movement.

The cabby had called her a Lucy Stoner. The leader of Julia’s association had refused to adopt her husband’s name when she got married, and many women who followed her did likewise.

He had spat out the word heathen. Most of the country’s conservative clergymen opposed the women’s movement. The Bible specifically said a wife was required to be submissive and obedient to her husband in all things. This was reflected in the property and divorce laws in effect in most states. It also followed that, given woman’s biblically ordained position of inferiority, any attempt to change that position and expand her rights was an affront to God’s natural order.

The cabby had also accused Julia of free love; in mixed company the term free association was preferred, since it spared the sensitive. Some members of the movement did boast that they not only condoned but practiced free love. Inevitably, the sins of a few—plus a good many imaginary transgressions—were attributed to any woman crusading for equal rights. It was all wearily familiar to Gideon.
Déjà vu,
wasn’t that the French expression?

Soon he began to feel a touch of anxiety. There was no guarantee Julia would be home—or that she’d receive him if she were. Yet he didn’t turn back.

Below Sixteenth, the houses grew more imposing, occupying half-block lots and then, after he’d passed Eighteenth, the full block. At a gabled mansion between Nineteenth and Twentieth, a large party was in progress. The place blazed with light, and he heard a string orchestra, and much laughter. Out in front coachmen were tossing dice while they waited for their employers. The men observed Gideon with amusement; he was clearly out of place in this district.

He crossed Twentieth and drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Julia’s house. It was a huge, three-story stone structure with a mansard roof and identical front-corner towers. Most of the lower windows along the front were illuminated, so perhaps she was home.

But she also had company. A hired carriage bearing the nameplate of the Parmelee Livery stood in the drive. Again Gideon drew a scornful look from the carriageman. He glared until the driver looked away, then marched up the steps, wiping sweat off his forehead with a kerchief.

He rang the bell. A butler answered, scrutinized him and started to shut the door.

“Tradesmen or those seeking employment are to go to the rear entrance.”

Gideon shoved his knee against the door. The butler cried, “See here, sir!”

“My name’s Kent,” Gideon exclaimed. “I’m—” He hesitated. Did you address a divorced Lucy Stoner as Miss or Mrs.? “I’m Julia’s relative by her former marriage.”

The waxy-faced servant sniffed and stepped back. “Your name again, please?”

Annoyed, he said, “Gideon Kent.”

“She is expecting you?”

“No. I just arrived in Chicago and found myself with a few moments—” He started as the butler shot out his white-gloved hand.

“Your visiting card.”

“I don’t have any visiting cards, you stuck-up jackass!”

The butler went white. Gideon shoved the elaborately carved door all the way open and stalked into a breathtaking foyer, where the crystal pendants of an enormous gas chandelier scattered brilliant little lights on the walls, furnishings and marble floor. He pivoted and barked at the butler as if he were addressing a recruit, “You march to cousin Julia and tell her Gideon Kent’s in the hall. Or I’ll give you what Jeb Stuart’s cavalry used to give you Yankees—” He shot out his fist as if it held a sabre and yelled, “Hah!”

The butler literally jumped a foot. Gideon laughed. The other man hurried out, mumbling, “She—they—you—may be required to wait—Cooke—representative—is with—”

Pop-eyed, he disappeared into what appeared to be a library. Could he have been referring to the banking house of Jay Cooke, whose brother ran the railroad lobby and who’d personally spearheaded the drive to sell Federal war bonds, becoming a kind of financial hero of the North?

If so, Louis’ former wife was traveling in the highest economic circles. Jay Cooke ran a solid and respected bank, and he was the moving force behind the most spectacular railroad promotion of the postwar period—the sale of a hundred million dollars’ worth of bonds to finance a second transcontinental line.

The Northern Pacific was to be built along the Canadian border. To move the bonds, Cooke’s had even dispatched agents to Europe to set up sales offices in the palaces of the nobility. The war between France and Prussia had undone many of those deals, however. So the banking house had redoubled its efforts at home, had even hired a professional publicist to write about the lush land through which the railroad would run. The publicist’s rhapsodies had gotten out of hand, though, and now there were jokes about Jay Cooke’s Banana Belt, where orange groves and banana plantations would one day rise from the Dakota flat-lands. Still, Gideon knew thousands of small investors trusted both the Cooke firm and the future of railroads, and were putting all their savings into Northern Pacific bonds.

He began to inspect the opulent foyer more closely. Everything about it including its sweeping marble staircase spoke of vast wealth. Julia hadn’t taken a penny of Louis Kent’s money, that much he knew. She was obviously even richer than he’d thought.

Again he recalled his father speaking of Julia’s selfish and willful nature. What had changed her into a fighter on the barricades of social revolution? He couldn’t imagine.

He did know a bit about the current state of the women’s movement. Earlier in the year, a schism had split it into two groups. One was the so-called Boston group led by Lucy Stone and Julia Ward Howe, the group for which Julia traveled and lectured. Its proper name was the American Woman Suffrage Association. The other group, the National Association, still operated out of New York under the direction of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

The split had come about because the leaders of the movement had wanted to start a woman’s newspaper to be called
The Revolution.
A sponsor and underwriter was needed, and an eager one happened to be handy—the wealthy and eccentric George Francis Train. Mr. Train dabbled in causes. In fact he dabbled so widely and so uncritically, he’d earned the nickname “the champion crackpot.”