Sitka (11 page)

“Huh?”

“I hope you can,” LaBarge continued, “because you’re jumping in.”

“I’ll be damned if—!”

“Jump.” LaBarge spoke conversationally. “If you can’t swim, you can drown, but don’t try climbing back on this dock or I’ll part your hair with a bullet.” “You won’t get away with this!” The man was impotent with fury. “Yankee will—!”

“Jump ... I’ll talk to Yankee.”

“He’ll smash yer!” The man shouted from the dock edge. “He’ll blind yer! He’ll bash yer bloody fyce! He’ll—“ The pistol lifted and drew a line on the man’s head. The water would be cold but a grave was colder still. As Jean’s arm straightened the fellow jumped.
 
There was a splash and then the floundering of a poor swimmer. Jean LaBarge turned and walked to the others. Freel was sitting up, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. The knifeman clutched his broken wrist, moaning.
 
“Yankee shouldn’t send boys to do a man’s job,” he said, and catching Freel by the coat he jerked him to his feet. Twisting him around, Jean began to go through the hoodlum’s pockets.

Freel tried to pull away but Jean threatened him with the gun barrel. “You can take it standing still or lying on the dock with a split skull. Make up your mind.”

“I’ll stand,” Freel said hoarsely.

There were several gold coins in his pockets, and the coins were Russian. Jean pocketed the lot, then went to the man with the broken wrist. “Yours, too.” “I ain’t got a thing!” he protested. “They wasn’t to pay me—“ “Stand up!”

Shakily, the man got to his feet. There were three gold coins in his pocket. The man began to curse bitterly.

“You didn’t do the job,” LaBarge told them. “I’ll return these to Yankee.”

“I wish you would!” Freel’s voice was bitter. “I just wish you had the guts.”

That area of San Francisco of the 1850’s and 60’s that lay back of Clark’s Point was a hellhole of dives and brothels. Robbery was too frequent to warrant mention, and murder a nightly occurrence. To walk that area in safety one must be a pimp, a prostitute, or a thug, and along such streets as Pacific, Jackson, Washington, Davis, Drum, Front, Battery and East (the Embarcadero) moved some of the choicest rascals unhung. The shanghaiing of sailors was a major industry, engaged in by at least twenty gangs who worked in close association with keepers of brothels and cheap saloons.

Another closely allied gang was that which specialized in claim jumping within the city. The absent owner of a lot might return to find a thug in possession who enforced his point of possession with a pistol. Litigation was a long-drawn-out affair and more often than not decided in favor of the claim jumper. All of this Jean LaBarge knew and like most residents accepted it as part and parcel of a booming seaport with gold in the back country. Trouble had so far avoided him and he had avoided trouble.

Freel and his men had acted, without doubt, as directed by Yankee Sullivan. Now the lads of Sydney Town must be taught, once and for all, that action against Hutchins or himself would meet with immediate reprisal. One sign of weakness and they would be stripped of all they possessed. He could move against Denny O’Brien, but such a move would not be nearly so effective as against Sullivan himself.

Yankee Sullivan, born James Ambrose, in County Cork, Ireland, had grown up in the slums of East London. As a hard-fisted young Irishman in Whitechapel he won a reputation by defeating Jim Sykes, Tom Brady and a man named Sharpless in brutal bare-knuckle prize-ring battles. On a brief trip to the United States he defeated Pat Connor, then returned to England to whip the great Hammer Lane in nineteen grueling rounds. After a term in Australia as a convicted criminal he escaped and appeared in New York where he whipped Vie Hammond in fifteen minutes, fought his great fight with Bill Secor and beat him in sixty-seven rounds at Staten Island. He won four other fights and then was soundly beaten in his own saloon by Tom Hyer, son of a former heavyweight champion. However, this was a rough-and-tumble brawl, no more, and the unsatisfied Sullivan met Tom Hyer in a ring at Rock Point, Maryland, for ten thousand dollars as a side bet, and lost again. Later, a losing fight with John Morrissey, soon to be heavyweight champion, broke up in a riot after thirty-seven rounds.
 
Throughout this period Sullivan had been a criminal and an associate of criminals. In Sydney Town he carried an authority backed by his own malletlike fists and his former Limehouse and Whitechapel associates. Whatever else he was, Yankee Sullivan was a first-class fighting man. Powerful, brutal, and without either scruples or mercy, there was no man in Sydney Town more influential than he. He was a known center of criminal activity.
 
Jean LaBarge had no doubts that the job he had set for himself would involve him in the most brutal fight he had known, yet the fighting of fur traders’ rendezvous had been the dirtiest kind of rough-and-tumble fighting.
 
Opening the door of the warehouse, he stuck his head inside. “Slip a couple of pistols under your jacket and come along, Ben. We’ve a job to do.” Turk glanced at the men on the dock. “I’d say a job had been done. Will it take more?”

Denny O’Brien’s was in full swing. At the bar were a dozen of the Sydney Town toughs, and among them Jean could see the massive shoulders and bull neck of Yankee Sullivan. He looked as invulnerable as a battleship. Also at the bar, talking to a sour-faced man in a stained canvas jacket, was Barney Kohl.
 
Ben Turk stopped beside the door and leaned against the jamb, a cigarette between his lips. A music box was jangling and somebody in a corner was singing an old sea chantey in a loud, off-key voice.

Jean LaBarge walked across the room and took Yankee Sullivan by the shoulder and spun him around. Yankee threw up a hand an instant too late. Jean hit him.
 
The blow was unexpected, and it had been years since anyone had tried to hit him outside a prize ring. He was stunned by that quite as much as by the punch. The man facing him was big, lean and tough-looking, his black eyes blazing. The blow slammed Sullivan against the bar and before he could get his hands up, LaBarge knocked him down.

In an instant they were surrounded by a milling, shouting mob. Jean drew back and gave Sullivan a chance to get up. It was foolish to give the man any break at all, and he would get none. At that instant there was a pistol shot.
 
Ben Turk had a gun in either hand and he was smiling. A thin thread of smoke lifted from the left-hand gun. “Let ‘em fight,” he said. “If anybody interferes or gets between the fighters an’ me, I’ll kill him.” Sullivan got up slowly. He had been hit, and hit hard, harder than John Morrissey had hit him, harder than Tom Hyer. The man before him looked like a rough evening. Yet Yankee had whipped some tough men. He came up fast and went in, punching with both hands. Shorter than Jean, he was wider and thicker, and aside from his prize-ring skill he was a brutal barroom fighter.
 
As Sullivan attacked, Jean met him with a left to the mouth, and then struck again as Sullivan went under his left and hooked viciously to his ribs. They clinched and Sullivan back-heeled him to the floor, trying to fall on him and drive his knees into his belly. Jean rolled away and got swiftly to his feet and met Sullivan as he came in. The blow landed hard and Jean saw Sullivan go white around the eyes. Sullivan lunged, landed a glancing blow and Jean went under him, throwing Sullivan over his head to the floor.
 
This had won many a fight at Pierre’s Hole but the Irishman had the agility of a boy. He had tucked his head under and taken the fall on his shoulder.
 
With blood streaking Sullivan’s face they fought for several minutes, smashing, kneeing, gouging. Both men went down but neither could be kept down. Yankee’s lips were puffy from stabs to the mouth and Jean had a swelling on his cheekbone half as large as an egg. He felt better. He could never really fight until he had been hit hard, and now he walked in, finding he could punch a little faster than Yankee. He feinted a side step and smashed the Irishman in the mouth with a right.

There was little sound but the heavy breathing of the fighting men, the dull smack of blows and an occasional grunt. For the first time the Sydney toughs were seeing their hero in a fight he might not win. There was something grim and terrible about LaBarge. Yet it was grueling and bitter. LaBarge’s years of living in the forest and on ships stood him well now. He absorbed the punishment that came his way, hooked and smashed and heeled. Sullivan, boring in, thought he saw a good chance at Jean’s chin and put all he had into a right-hand.
 
Something exploded in his mid-section and he grunted with pain as his knees buckled. Setting himself, LaBarge swung both hands at Sullivan’s unprotected face. Sullivan swung a hand to wipe the blood from his face and Jean caught the wrist and with his other hand, grabbed Sullivan’s wide leather belt. He bent one knee, turning slightly, then threw Sullivan bodily into the crowd. The fighter lit on his face and skidded with a jolt against the wall.
 
LaBarge’s shirt was torn, revealing the powerful muscles of his arms and chest.

He wiped a smear of sweat and blood from his face.
 
“I wanted no trouble,” he said, “and he sent trouble to me.” Jean LaBarge lifted a hand. “Ben!”

Turk slid a pistol behind his belt and tossed a bowie knife. Jean caught it in mid-air and faced the crowd. “Anybody else? I’ll open any of you lads to the brisket if you want to back the Yankee’s fight.” Nobody spoke. Jean held the knife low, cutting edge up. Somebody sighed and shifted his feet and LaBarge turned to Denny O’Brien. The saloonkeeper had never seen steel that looked so sharp, and he was a man who had seen many knives, and seen them used.

“I’ve a thought, Denny O’Brien, that you’ve taken some Russian money. Don’t ever spend it, Denny, for I’ll hear of it and have your heart out and lying on your own bar. You hear me, Denny?”

O’Brien, swallowed, muttering something inaudible. Jean flipped the point of his knife ... once, twice. Each move slashed a suspender and O’Brien’s trousers fell around his boots, yet he did not move, breathing hoarsely, knees trembling, his face yellow-sick. Sweat stood on his brow and cheeks, it dripped from his fat chin.

Jean continued to smile, a wolfish smile that turned O’Brien’s insides to jelly.
 
With flick after flick of the knife he took the buttons from O’Brien’s waistcoat. It was a moment long-treasured on the coast, a story told many times in Sydney Town, and in the fo’c’sles of many a ship outward bound. It was a story men loved to hear, of the click of falling buttons and the sweat dripping from O’Brien’s fat jowls.

“And Denny,” LaBarge warned, “tell Charley Duane to be careful. Tell him if he crosses me again he’ll be getting his tail in a crack. You hear me, Denny? You tell him that.”

By noon of the following day the story of the battle at O’Brien’s was being repeated in excited whispers in every boudoir on Rincon Hill, where the name of Jean LaBarge was well known in other fields of endeavor. At the Merchant’s Exchange they could talk of nothing else, and the click of those falling vest buttons was heard wherever even two people happened to meet.
 
Count Rotcheff even found a brief reference to the fight in his Alta Californian. “Your friend LaBarge seems to possess a variety of talents,” he suggested.

Helena looked up quickly. “The maid told me while I was having my bath.” She paused. “She also told me something else. There is a rumor the original attack was paid for by a Russian.”

Rotcheff rustled his paper angrily. “The man’s a fool! Why would he get involved at a time like this?”

Helena put down her cup. “Do you actually believe he would do something of that kind merely because he was angry?”

“You think it was done because LaBarge was to sell us wheat? But why would he do that? The wheat was for the Company.”

“And we both know he is interested in a new charter, for another company.”

He was too trusting—though not of foreign diplomats, only of his own countrymen.
 
It was a fault from which all the Russian liberals suffered. Alexander knew how to cope with duplicity, but the Renaissance type of violence used by Paul Zinnovy was beyond the realm of his consideration; this Helena told herself. Her husband was a gentle man, and Paul Zinnovy was cold, efficient, deadly.
 
“Another thing,” she warned, “you must yourself be careful. Paul wants two things: to get a charter for the new company and to return to St. Petersburg with a brilliant coup behind him. You stand in the way of both goals.” She put her hand on his. “Alexander, you must be very careful! Your report can ruin him, and he knows it!”

Kotcheff shook his head. “You exaggerate, my dear. He would not dare use violence against anyone as close to the Czar as I am.” “You are a thousand miles or more from any Czarist official, you are many thousands of miles from St. Petersburg. Who is to know what happens out here?” Somehow the idea had not occurred to him, yet instantly he saw that she was correct. He was far from the capital and no longer young, and accidents could be arranged. If he were murdered out here it would be months before the Czar even heard of it, and years before any investigation could be conducted to a conclusion. For the first time he was uneasy, less for himself than for Helena.
 
“Why, Alexander, was Paul Zinnovy sent here? Stop for a moment and think of that.”

“He was in trouble”—Rotcheff was worried now—“and of course, he is a capable officer.”

“Do you remember Paul’s last duel? Rodion announced he was going to demand an investigation into some of the Company affairs, and three days before he was to appear before the Czar he was challenged to a duel by Zinnovy over some fancied slight. And Rodion was killed.”