The Titans by John Jakes
“Well, I’d never surrender that part. But the inheritance is yours. It doesn’t belong to me any longer.”
“It certainly does. Consider it your reward for never informing my father, my brothers—anyone—that we’ve met.”
“You can’t ask—”
“Not ask. Demand.”
“You expect me to keep it from Jephtha forever?”
“Unless you don’t give a damn about him, yes.”
Michael’s composure was shattered. Too many shocks had piled one onto another. His eyes started to fill with angry tears. “I can’t do it!”
“You can and will. I saved you. For that, and for the money—you owe me. Use the money to give yourself a decent life. Buy a home when you’re done working out here. Marry a good woman. Raise a family—” Mockingly, he asked, “You can find use for the money, can’t you?”
“Why”—suddenly Michael saw a possibility, and felt guilt—“of course. But it would be wrong to—”
“The decision isn’t yours.”
Up where Kola waited with the wagon, one of the mules brayed. Jeremiah gripped Michael’s arm again, gently this time.
“To convince you my father mustn’t know, I’ll say this much. I was in Texas for a while. I got into a difficulty. Unfortunately, it’s become hard for other men to bring me down. And hard for me to let them.”
Michael asked himself whether he’d lost his senses. There was a crusty, almost arrogant pride in Jeremiah’s voice.
“By the time I left Fort Worth, they had a bounty on my head. By now I expect there’s a second one.”
“Why?”
“Not important. But I think you’ll read about Joseph Kingston in some paper, and fairly soon. When you do, Kingston will be long gone. I’ll have another name. Now do you understand why I don’t want my father or my brothers to know how I’m living?”
He reached for the double scabbard. Touched one of the buffalo rifles. “I plan to keep living the same way for a good many years.”
Michael shuddered. Jeremiah’s eyes softened again.
“So you’re welcome to the inheritance. I could never put it to use.”
“You could travel. Europe, the Orient—you could live well.”
“Hell, I haven’t even begun to see this country. Besides, I’ve no head for managing money. The war left me with somewhat limited talents,”
“The money could funnel through me. Jephtha need never find out.”
Jeremiah pondered. Cocked his head, smiling a little. “Tempting”—the smile disappeared—“but there might be a slip.”
“It’s unfair to ask me to keep silent. It’s damned unfair, and it’s wrong!”
“Perhaps. But you’ll do it. Your opinion doesn’t matter. My father and brothers are the only ones who count in this.”
Michael uttered a sigh of frustration. Swiped his forehead with his palm as if his head hurt. “Oh, I suppose”—his voice strengthened—“I suppose sparing them is the honorable thing, but—”
“Honorable?” Jeremiah broke in. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He touched his hat. “I’m grateful you put it in such a light.”
Michael felt a splash of rain on his cheeks. Lightning showed him great tumbling clouds directly above, the storm’s leading edge sweeping over the railhead.
Jeremiah lifted his foot to his stirrup. He grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle. The rain intensified, blurring, then hiding the wagon waiting out beyond the unfinished track.
“Do I have your promise you’ll keep silent, Mr. Boyle?”
Drenched and confused, Michael hesitated. Suddenly Jeremiah’s pony reared. He lashed it with the rein until all four hoofs were on the ground. He jerked one of the buffalo guns from the scabbard. He pointed the rifle at Michael’s head.
“This piece may misfire because of the downpour”—he was shouting to be heard—“but if that’s the case, I’ll deal with you another way. Since you’ve abandoned fighting, I should have no trouble. I want your promise or I’ll see you dead right here.”
The rain roared in the silence.
“Boyle?”
Michael lifted his head. “All right. For his sake.”
The thin-lipped face jerked in what might have been a smile. Jeremiah slid the rifle back to its place.
“Now say it again. I want to hear the promise given freely.”
Not knowing whether he was right or wrong, Michael said, “I promise.”
“I’m obliged. I urge you to get out of this damn place while you’re still in one piece. Use the money. Amount to something. Find a home and stay there. I’ll tell you something about being able to go home. It seldom seems important until you can’t do it.”
He turned the pony’s head. “Goodbye, Mr. Boyle.”
“Jeremiah!”
The younger man fought to control the fretful animal.
“Would you have shot me if I hadn’t given my word?”
“Yes.”
He kicked the pony and galloped west beside the right of way, quickly lost in the rainstorm.
Chapter XI
A Matter of Faith
i
BY THE TIME MICHAEL reached the sleeping car, he was soaked and exhausted. But Jeremiah’s words denied him rest.
Get out of this damn place while you’re still in one piece.
Amount to something.
Find a home and stay there.
The line was past the meridian. He’d helped accomplish that much. But the cost was high.
Killing Worthing.
Watching Dorn and two Cheyenne braves perish when it might have been prevented.
Finding the remains of the massacred hunters.
Being instrumental in Toby’s death.
Important as the railroad was to the country, he could never again separate it from violence and suffering.
Jeremiah’s face kept intruding as he changed to dry clothes. He barely heard O’Dey’s whined complaints about his noise.
He grieved for Jeremiah, by turns callous and considerate.
He grieved for Jephtha too. And Matt, and Gideon. Still, a painful lie about an unknown grave would be less hurtful to them than the truth—
All at once he rebelled against the burden he’d accepted when he gave his word. But the rebellion lasted only a short time. Amanda Kent had never insisted a man or woman should feel no sorrow or anger. She had insisted sorrow and anger must never keep a man or woman from the right course. He’d keep his promise.
He took down the drawing of the milk vendor and studied it by the feeble light of the one lamp still lit at the end of the car. Instead of the figures on the paper, he saw Jeremiah’s eyes. An old man’s eyes, aged by distrust and deceits and acts of rage. He and Jeremiah were different, yet in one way they were alike. In the flawed mirror of Jephtha’s youngest son he at last confronted an image of what he was—and might become.
He hoped to God he possessed the will to keep his vow. He prayed he’d never reach the point where he would be capable of emulating Jeremiah’s curious pride in killing another human being. He didn’t think so.
Yet between himself and the hunter there remained a fearful bond. They were both rootless. Both running. Jeremiah had little choice. He did. And he’d come to understand the folly of flight. It was time to seek a hope of peace, however tenuous, some other way.
He laid the drawing up at the head of his bunk and walked forward through the dark train. The only sound was the pelt of rain.
Fortunately Jack Casement was still awake.
ii
Before the first supply train arrived, he went out to the end of the track. It had occurred to him the Kents were collectors of mementos of their common past. He had become a Kent. He wanted a souvenir of his work on the transcontinental line.
The storm had obliterated footprints and wagon tracks. He crouched in the driving rain and scooped a handful of mud and crushed stone from between two ties. He used his soggy bandana to wrap it, tying a secure knot.
When the bandana’s contents dried out, he’d hunt up a box for keeping them. Someday, years from now, he might be able to open the box and discover time had erased recollections of decidedly unromantic sweat, tortured muscle, and dead men, leaving only a single fine memory of having lent his hand to building the greatest marvel of the age.
iii
The boy’s alarmed voice brought Michael up short at the rear corner of the unpainted building. The front of the building had shown no light—not surprising since the hour was close to midnight. With the exception of two pine-board saloons down near the right of way, Grand Island’s business establishments and small homes were dark.
The empty supply train whistled twice as it chugged onto a siding. The whistle had a forlorn sound in the drizzle. The rain had lasted nearly sixteen hours.
On the dark, roofed back porch, Michael thought he saw the unmistakable outline of a Hawken. Aimed his way.
“Only me, Klaus.”
The boy scooted to the edge of the porch. “Mr. Boyle?”
“Yes. May I come forward?”
“Sure.” The Hawken’s butt plate thumped on wood. “You’re back from the railhead?”
“So it appears.” Michael flexed the cold, stiff fingers curled around the staff to which he’d tied his bundle of personal belongings and an oilskin tube with the drawing carefully rolled inside. “Up a mite late, aren’t you?”
“We stay on watch till the saloon crowd settles down. We’ve had three break-ins lately.”
“Ah.”
Michael glanced at the slit of light beneath the back door.
“Your sister’s awake, then?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy thumped the door, then pushed it open.
“Hannah? Guess who’s here.”
iv
Klaus stood aside as Michael climbed the three creaking steps, grateful to be out of the wind and damp. He stepped into an immaculate but crowded room dominated by a massive iron stove. Curtains partially concealed two beds in alcoves. Unfinished shelves held jars and boxes of staples. In the center of the pegged floor stood a large table that had seen hard use. On the table were a flickering lamp, ledgers, scribbled slips of paper, and an open Bible.
Hannah had been seated with her back toward the porch. She rose as Klaus shut the door from outside. Her joyous smile reached deep into her blue-gray eyes.
“Michael!”
He noticed she was wearing a faded gingham dress. It flattered her figure. “Hello, Hannah. I imagine you’re surprised to see me.”
“No, I’ve been expecting you, though I wasn’t certain when.”
He caught the clean soap fragrance of her skin. “I can’t believe that.”
Still smiling, she walked to a shelf and drew down a milk glass jar containing something dark. She set the jar on the table.
“See for yourself.”
He lifted the lid. Inhaled the aroma of pipe tobacco.
“I’m afraid it’s dry, but it’s all we had in the store. I’ve ordered more.”
He laughed. “My God. You do have cheek!”
“Faith.”
His weariness started to slough away. Gazing into her eyes, he experienced an unfamiliar and wondrous sense of calm.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Ravenous!”
“Before I fix you some food, I must say something. I know you have that other woman to think about. I won’t blame you if you do. For a while,” she added, teasing just a little. “I plan to keep you too busy, and too happy, to bother with her for very long. Now what would you like to eat?”
“Coffee will be enough—but not yet. I want to say something as well. I have a bit of money I didn’t mention before—”
A bit of money! God above, that insulted Amanda’s memory, and Jephtha’s goodness. He’d never be able to overcome a sense of guilt at having taken the inheritance from its rightful possessor. But circumstance and Jephtha Kent had dictated that he have it. He wondered how he’d tell Hannah he’d probably be rich as Croesus before he died.
Conscience-stricken, he realized why he wasn’t telling her now.
She was waiting for him to finish. “Um,” he said, collecting himself, “the money. I believe I can draw on it. I thought—I thought it might help buy goods. Put the place in order.” His smile had grown almost shy.
“That’s wonderful, Michael. In Kearney I saw a piece of property ideal for a store. We needn’t limit ourselves to just one.”
We?
The audacity! He burst out laughing again.
“I don’t know why you’re so amused,” Hannah said in a cheerfully tart way. “You look wretched. Sit down. Rest. We’ll discuss the store later.”
“Hannah—”
“Coffee will be here in just—”
“Hannah.”
She turned.
“I must be fair to you. I must warn you.”
“My, that sounds forbidding.” She hurried on to the stove.
“Please listen! I’ve resigned from Casement’s crew. I’ve come back. But the thing is—”
Exhaling, he thumped the bundle on a chair.
“I don’t know if—ah, damn!”
He faced away from her.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re uncertain about whether you’ll stay?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
She walked back from the stove with a soft rustling of underskirts. He peeked over his shoulder. Her hair and eyes glowed in the lamplight, but it was that astonishing smile which truly illuminated her face.
“I just don’t know, Hannah.”
She picked up the jar of tobacco and set it close to the Bible. Lord, what a lovely sight she was! How peaceful it seemed in this plain room—
“I do,” she said, and put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Book Five
The Scarlet Woman
Chapter I
Meeting with a Mountebank
i
BE CAREFUL, LOUIS KENT thought as he poured brandy for himself and his guest. Forget the man’s nautical pretensions and his air of butcher-boy innocence. Remember his reputation. He could be baiting a pretty trap.
Louis stoppered the decanter. His swarthy hand was steady. Only his black eyes betrayed his tension, shifting to the left to see what his visitor was doing.
The man’s fat legs straddled the hearth. His stubby pink fingers were locked behind his back, exactly as if he were on the bridge of one of those steamships he fancied. He was studying the objects above the marble fireplace of Kentland’s overheated library. A servant had kindled the fire while Louis and his three guests had dined on boned squab.
Slender and erect, Louis lifted the crystal snifters and swirled the brandy. The huge neo-Gothic house he’d built to indulge his unlamented former wife was utterly still this January evening in 1868. All the help had retired to their quarters on his instructions. Just after arriving, Louis’ male guest had whispered that sending the servants away might be advisable. Once business was disposed of, the gentlemen could then enjoy themselves in privacy.
Upstairs, one of the women laughed. Louis was startled by his body’s sudden and pronounced reaction. The little ballerina brought along for him was equally as vapid as Mr. Fisk’s inamorata, an actress named Josie Mansfield. Neither woman had uttered an intelligent sentence during dinner.
Intelligence was not a quality Louis Kent demanded or even found desirable in a woman, however. Fortunately most women lacked it. He knew from experience that pretenses in that direction merely led to trouble.
Still, the companions of Mr. James Fisk, Junior, were particularly witless. Fisk didn’t seem to mind. During the meal he’d repeatedly tickled Josie Mansfield’s chin, which sent the other girl into convulsive laughter. The dark-haired, pale-skinned, and voluptuous Miss Josie saw nothing improper about tickling Fisk right back—in front of a relative stranger. She’d also kissed Fisk’s cheek several times, and called him Sardines, which nearly forced Lou
Now the ladies had gone upstairs to bathe. Quite against his will, Louis found himself vividly recalling the little blond dancer whose “professional” name—Nedda Chetwynd—was almost as ludicrous as her lack of social graces. Miss Chetwynd had clearly been brought along as a bribe. He had no intention of availing himself of the gift until he spied the trap or, if there was none, struck a bargain.
Yet the trill of feminine laughter had aroused him. Annoyingly, he found himself perspiring. His olive forehead glistened as he continued warming the snifters.
There’d been a January thaw. Fog drifted past the stained-glass windows at the end of the long, rectangular library. No lights showed outside. Kentland stood on the bluffs of the Hudson near Tarrytown, well separated from neighboring estates. The isolation was appropriate for a chat involving polite treachery.
He had to be wary. A mistake, even a wrong inflection, might cost him everything. The stakes which had brought Mr. Fisk to Kentland were immense.
Fisk fingered his yellow curls and smacked his lips as he surveyed the various articles on display. A scabbarded French sword hung above the mantel. Immediately below was a polished Kentucky rifle.
On a bookshelf to the left of the hearth stood a small green bottle containing a thin layer of tea leaves which would soon be a century old. A stylized version of the bottle still appeared on the masthead of Louis Kent’s lucrative newspaper, the New York Union, and served as the colophon of the Boston printing house to which he no longer devoted much attention.
In a corresponding nook on the other side, the gaslights glared on the glass front of a display case with wooden ends. Inside the case, a slotted velvet pedestal held a tarnished fob medallion. In front of the pedestal lay a small circle of tarred rope.
The sword, rifle, and bottle had all been accumulated by the founder of the family, Philip Kent. Philip’s second son Gilbert—begetter of Louis’ mother, Amanda Kent—had struck the medallion, incorporating the tea bottle symbol and adding a pretentious Latin motto, Cape locum et fac vestigium. Gilbert had given the medallion to Amanda’s cousin Jared, who had also acquired the little bracelet. It dated from the 1812 war. The tarred cordage had come from the frigate popularly known as Old Ironsides, on which Jared had served.