The Styx Page 9

Soon Byrne felt the angle of the train change and he swung his torso out around the corner of the car to see that they were slowly mounting a bridge that spanned a river called the St. Johns. The small freight bridge was nothing to compare with the Williamsburg Bridge at home but neither was this river anything to compare with the East River. Byrne stared down into what was obviously water—he could plainly see small boats moving with the current. But he was confused to see that the shadows of those craft followed slightly behind with the angle of the sun. When he leaned over and checked the bridge supports below he witnessed the same phenomenon, shadows from the stanchions were stretched out from the base. He at first thought it was some sort of optical illusion until his staring determined that the shadows were actually rippling and he was finally convinced that the water itself was clear. The shadows were playing along the white bottom of the river itself. He had never seen water so clean.

  Once over the bridge they picked up speed across what appeared to be a dry peninsula of scrub plants and low trees of a variety again foreign to Byrne. After some thirty minutes he heard the sound of the train whistle and felt the shift in momentum to slow. Again he leaned out to see ahead and was once again greeted by a sight unequaled. Now before them on the horizon was the Atlantic Ocean in a shade of blue-green Byrne had only seen in samples of the colored cloth his mother had once sewn in their tenement as piecework for other women’s dresses. His neck began to ache as he held himself out over the railing, and in frustration he decided to climb the carriage ladder to the top of the train car so he might look forward and out on the view. From the higher point, with the wind in his face, Byrne was mesmerized. The vista of water changing color from cyan to turquoise to teal and then to steel blue out at the very edge of the earth was stunning. Along the shore was a foam line of cream and then the white of sand beach that made him squint at its brightness and think quickly of Flagler’s odd looking shaded glasses.

  The tracks became lined with loading platforms and tin-roofed storage sheds where stacks of lumber waited. Byrne noted the scent of fresh-cut wood, the bite of turpentine, but also something else that dominated and reminded him of the fish markets back home off Water Street.

  His attention was quickly caught by a group of workers ahead. They were a gang of men sweating under the direct sun, hefting railway ties as part of a secondary track siding. All of them were dressed in worn and tattered gray trousers with a stripe in the leg seam. On their heads they all wore striped hats the kind of which Byrne did recognize. Prisoners. He had seen the same headwear on work crews from The Tombs. He looked now with more scrutiny at the edges of the group and finally spotted the guards: two men, standing easily to the east and west, both cradling rifles in their arms. Byrne quickly moved down off the roof, entered the car below and made his way to where Flagler was entertaining, or being entertained, by his business associates. The well-dressed men were standing loosely, their hands in their pockets or thumbs in their vests, all seemingly held in rapt attention by whatever Flagler was saying. The old man himself would speak a few sentences and then bend at the waist to look out the window and appraise whatever it was he could see. The train was moving slowly, and when Byrne also bent to look out the window he noted that not one of the working men looked up or took notice. The worlds of the men inside and out were a universe apart. It was not unlike the thousands of gaunt, starving faces Byrne watched and recorded every day of his life in the tenements of the Lower East Side and those nouveau riche he would later watch over as a barrier cop as they entered Delmonico’s at Fifth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. He only pondered the feeling that his past seemed to be following him when the train began to slow further and the sense of the foundation in his feet shifted. He looked to the east to see that the engine was now moving out onto some kind of a pier, leaving land behind. He made a quick assessment and decided that with only those aboard to accompany him, Flagler would be safe. With the train starting to move out over the sea, Byrne stepped out onto the stair step and then jumped down onto the rocky ground.

  With the sound of his feet sliding in the flint bed of the railway tracks, Byrne’s sudden movement attracted the attention of one of the prison guards, who swung his rifle. Byrne raised one hand, tipped his hat politely and dusted his trousers with the other. With a quick glance at his clothing and shoes the guard became satisfied that no alarm was needed, nodded and turned back to the gang work. Byrne was pleased that the guard didn’t bother with even a cursory questioning. He would have hated to admit he was intensely fearful of being out over water and his motivation for jumping from the train was not just because he thought Flagler was safe.

  The train had stopped at the end of the pier and Byrne counted three ships that were lashed to the northern side of the dockage. Two were three-masted Clipper ships that must have measured some 130 feet in length. Their sails were down, and Byrne noted the davits built along Flagler’s docks that were used to reach over and haul off the lengths of lumber being imported into the state to build not only Flagler’s new hotels but also the commercial buildings and homes that cropped up around them. Byrne had seen the same type of sailing ships along the East and the Hudson Rivers that flanked New York. What he had not seen in New York was the vision he now took in from the south. The aqua water was even clearer and cleaner from this vantage point. He stared at the ribbon of white ground being brushed by the waves that led up to the low tangle of scrub brush. Considering the stacks of wood plank behind him, it seemed no surprise that trees would be afraid to grow anywhere near here. But it was the white ground that intrigued him, and against his better judgment to stay near Flagler’s train, he moved down the embankment to the flat stretch leading to the water.

  Byrne had seen sand before, used in concrete filler or mixed with mortar for brickwork. He had seen powder before, on the dressing tables at a brothel when he was part of a police raiding party in the Tenderloin district. He had never seen the two mixed, and that’s what he found himself standing on. The sand was so fine he was at first afraid to step onto it. Finally he walked out several yards and then bent down and touched the ground as if to see whether it were real. He pinched the substance between his fingers and rubbed the white grain back and forth, feeling the texture. If he could have seen himself smile he would have been embarrassed at the childish wonder of it. He stood, wiped his fingertips on his dark trousers and moved farther out toward the sea. The foam of small breaking waves was sluicing up onto the sand and leaving it a shade or two darker but still the whiteness caused the water to look so clear and pure he could not help himself and he removed his brogans and socks, rolled his pants legs up over the sheath of his knife and stepped out into the water. The slickness of wet sand tickled the soles of his feet, like he’d stepped onto clay. The water was also warm, and he instantly thought of the heat that had smothered him when he first encountered it this morning but had been forgotten once the ocean came into sight. The breeze that came off the sea had cooled his sweat and taken the flush off his face. He looked down into a foot of crystal water, cleaner than anything that came from the spigots of the city, and without hesitation he bent and cupped a handful, tossed it into his face, then brought up another handful and started to drink. The gulp was halfway down his throat when he gagged; the raw taste caused him to spit the offending swallow out in a spray and sent him into a coughing jag.

  “Jaysus!” he spat, and it was as if the smell he’d been puzzled by earlier was now in his mouth.

  “Ha,” came a bark of laughter from behind him, and Byrne spun about to see Faustus standing just above the tide mark in dry sand. “First time at the ocean, Mr. Byrne?” he called. “Oh, she does look glorious and pure doesn’t she? Enough clear blue water to slake the thirst of an army. Especially inlanders who have never known a clear stream or lake they couldn’t drink from.”

  Byrne was backing away from that water, licking his lips and spitting every three steps, trying to clear the taste from his mouth.

  “Salt, my friend.
Wonderful sea salt. Never been in salt water have you, landlubber?”

  Byrne had not seen Faustus on the excursion train. How he’d made the journey over the river from the rail station was beyond him, but there he was, dressed in a cream-colored suit and wearing a straw boater. He had the same cane in his hand and was teasing the sand in front of him with the tip. Byrne made his way back to his socks and shoes, still within earshot of Faustus.

  “Our boys from western Georgia and the mountains of Carolina had the same experience when the first regiments were driven to the sea. They were exhausted and scared and that first sight of clear, clean water made some of them so damned giddy they tossed themselves right in and started gulping to relieve their thirst,” Faustus continued.

  Byrne redressed his feet and remained quietly embarrassed.

  “A belly full of salt water will give you the trots though, son.”

  “I will take your word for it, sir,” Byrne said and there was an amusement in his voice now that came from his own self-deprecation. “Though I do remember my mother using a dose of it to wash out my mouth after losing a tooth or two.”

  Byrne stood and rolled down his pant legs only to find that the surf had gotten to the last four inches, leaving his cuffs wet and his knife sheath dark.

  “So, Mr. Faustus, I didn’t see you on the train. How did you come to find me here?”

  “Believe me, young Pinkerton, there are more ways to get around this state than just on Mr. Flagler’s trains. It is in fact one of the beauties of the place, that freedom of movement.”

  “I did notice that not everyone is free,” Byrne said, nodding toward the loading docks and the convict labor group.

  “Ah, of course you, being such an astute observer, would have seen the work crews in their high distinctive prison garb,” Faustus said. “Hard to believe that a generation ago those Confederate uniforms were being worn by brave young men trying to save the South from just this kind of future.

  “Yet I believe the Union armies had secured several large shipments of the clothing near the end of the war and finding it hard to sell them in that present market they simply doled them out to the states for convicts and beggars, neither of which group can be choosy.”

  “To the winners the spoils,” Byrne said. It was a facetious statement—in Byrne’s world it was smart-assed—but Faustus caught up on it.

  “Like your employer, the winner,” he said. Byrne stayed quiet. He did not argue matters of fact.

  “Mr. Flagler obtains generous contracts with the state of Florida to lease the labor of convicts for the muscle it takes to build a railway. Those are just a few you saw. He employs them for one dollar and twenty-five cents a month. When he has to hire the few locals in these parts or culls laborers from your part of the country, Mr. Byrne, they are paid that much per day. It works out quite nicely for him, even though he does pay for their room and board of course, along with the salary of the guards. The man isn’t some slave Satan.”

  If the information was meant to influence Byrne’s perception of Flagler it was wasted on his ears. His mother had made less than a dollar and a quarter a month sewing piece work back home in their tenement apartment. He had seen rag pickers, the dregs of the dregs in New York, standing knee deep in refuse at dumpsites along the East River reaching in to find anything they could to salvage and resell on the streets. Convicts sweating through a day or a month’s hard labor if only for food did not stir his compassion. No, his first thought was with the sometimes nefarious leanings of his brother, the fact that he didn’t have to scour the group of criminals for a glimpse of Danny was a blessing, confirmed by the telegram in his pocket. His second thought was of the possible threat to his boss, and that pulled his attention from the ocean and sand to the pier and the sound of the train engine beginning to rumble and throttle up.

  Byrne took one last look at the sea to the south.

  “It is quite a sight,” he said aloud but mostly to himself.

  “There will be many more surprises along the way, young Pinkerton,” Faustus said.

  Byrne took a step in the direction of the pier. “You catching the train back, sir?”

  “No. You go along Mr. Byrne. Each man to his master.”

  Byrne continued up the slight rise, thinking of a rejoinder, but when he turned again to Faustus, the man was simply gone.

  When all returned to the rail depot and Mr. Flagler was securely returned to his private car, Byrne marched quickly to the caboose, hoping not to run into Harris. Flagler had said nothing of his Pinkerton detective rejoining his group wearing trousers that were wet to midcalf. There was no doubt in Byrne’s mind that the observant rail baron had not missed the sight. But then Byrne was hired help. Now he just looked the part. He was climbing the steps of the car when Harris came around the corner. His sergeant met the discoloration of his new charge’s pants legs at eye level.

  “Ah, lad. Took a bit of a dip in the deep blue sea, did we?”

  Byrne said nothing but could feel the heat rise in his face.

  “Can’t blame you, son. Hell of a sight for a tenement kid, eh? Didn’t know such color existed on the planet myself when I took my first trip down here. We arrived late at night and the crew chief needed help with some security problem down at the oceanfront and I had to rub my eyes twice to believe what I was seeing.

  “I’ll tell you, boy. With a full moon shining on that beach what with all that whiteness, I thought it had snowed.”

  “It’s a strange place, Mr. Harris,” was all Byrne could think to say.

  “That it is, son. So get yourself changed. There’s a whiff in the air that Mr. Flagler’s needed in Palm Beach as soon as we can get there,” Harris waved what appeared to be a sheet of teletype in his hand. Whatever the message was, the sergeant did not share it and hustled away.

  After he’d dressed, in the only other pair of pants he owned, Byrne went out onto the depot siding and found a patch of shade over a bench. There was a discarded newspaper on an unused luggage cart and he picked it up. The Jacksonville Times Union.

  On the front page there was news from Washington of which he had no interest or knowledge. Something about trouble in Cuba, wherever that was. A piece about emerging conflict in Germany. On the inside pages there was a testimonial for Herbine, described as “the most perfect liver medicine and the greatest blood purifier.”

  Byrne had seen or heard the equal in New York City from corner criers or on store window announcements since he was a boy. But as he skimmed the pages a clump of unfamiliar words caught his eye:

  Jacksonville is scheduled to have a triple hanging on Friday, August 7th.

  He re-read the first sentence and then worked out the rest.

  Governor Jennings has signed death warrants fixing that date for the execution of three murderers convicted in the circuit court for Duval County, and they have been forwarded to Sheriff John Price, of that county. The men are Frank Carter, convicted of the murder of Charlie Phillips on November 2; Frank Roberson, convicted of the murder of James Smith on October 26. All of the murders, of course, were committed in Duval County.

  Byrne read the item again, counted the names and wondered what happened to the name of the third man. But more than that mystery he was taken aback by the governmental announcement. The punishment of hanging for convicted murderers or acts of treason had long been replaced by the use of the electric chair in the state of New York. Now, Byrne was no stranger to brutality. Three times he’d been called to the scene of suicides in the city as a police officer. But one glimpse of a hanging by the neck from a staircase or plumbing fixture, the body loose and discolored, was enough to sour any thoughts of such an end being condoned by a civilized state. He lay the paper down on the bench next to him and conjured the scene of turquoise water and white sand beach. The juxtaposition of such an Eden with three hanging men was difficult to fathom. But a whistle jarred his thoughts: “All aboard, Mr. Byrne,” Harris shouted. “Next stop Palm Beach.”

&nb
sp; Byrne was on the rear apron of the caboose when they started, a perch he favored when they were leaving a place, and he watched Jacksonville disappear. The landscape quickly returned to that of hot, spare pine tree forests and low, prickly-looking scrub vegetation. The train was still gaining speed when Harris joined him.

  “Since you’ve the knack for reading, lad, here’s a clipping from early in the week,” he said, handing Byrne a folded sheet of newsprint:

  Jacksonville, Fla., Feb. 16 — Specials from Titusville, Fla., indicate an alarming state of affairs in the Indian River Country. H.M. Flagler, owner of the Royal Poinciana Hotel on Lake Worth, is building a railroad to the hotel. This road cuts through many of the prettiest places on the Indian River, and thirty of the property owners, it is said, have combined and placed dynamite along the route of the said railway through their lands. These bombs are placed so that they will explode at the stroke of a spade. Signs warning all engineers have been posted, and the property owners have notified the railroad officials of the steps taken. James Holmes, a banker of Jansen, Fla., and J.V. Westen, Tax Collector of Brevard County, have been arrested for complicity in the dynamite plot. Mr. Holmes’s lawyer has advised him to remove the dynamite, and it is reported that he has agreed to do so.

  Harris watched while the younger man’s lips moved. When they stopped Byrne was still staring at the page.

  “You know anything about dynamite?” Harris said.

  “Blows the hell out of stuff.”

  “Aye.”

  “We watched ’em use it when they were building the foundations of the Washington Avenue Bridge,” Byrne said. “But not up close,”

  “How close?”

  “Close enough to hear someone yell ‘Fire in the hole!’ and then feel the ground move under your feet.”

  Harris shook his head. “My father, rest his soul, was a miner in the old world,” he said. “Explosions every day. While he and his mates ate lunch. Blow the hell out of the ground and turn coal into a chokin’ dust.