Bones of the Barbary Coast
We considered going to the police, but in the end believed Silas Singer's claim that he had patrons among them, or could easily purchase their cooperation with his interests.
It came down to our independent action or nothing. Here was a test of our claimed compassion and resolve. I told the deacon and the doctor I would speak to Hans and solicit his help.
He was still awake when I returned home at ten thirty, writing out some business at the sitting room desk, knees barely fitting beneath it. He greeted me as I entered, but distantly, for the discussion of the last two weeks has not pleased him. Old Cook had long been to bed.
"They have decided about the wolf-man," I told him.
"And how have they decided?"
"That the church will not intercede on his behalf."
He adjusted his spectacles on his nose and returned to his papers with a scowl. "As I expected. And just as well, I say."
I drew up a chair to sit near him, saying nothing. From our frequent discussions, I knew that when consulted by the Council, he had supported my view only with the greatest reservation. In the last two weeks, he has watched me present my case to the Council, and to other individuals of the congregation; the issue, and my prominence in it, clearly makes him uncomfortable. It seems to have brought a distance and formality between us.
"You are short with me tonight and have been for many days. Is it that you are ashamed to have a wife who is so outspoken? Who wears her emotions so plainly?"
He put down his pen to look at me gravely. "Would you like to know what I thought as you addressed the Council?"
"Very much," I said, though I was afraid to hear it.
"I looked at you standing there and I feared for myself. I feared that I am so besotted that I cannot think straight. I am preoccupied with thoughts of you. You looked like an angel to me, good and virtuous, and brave to talk before those imposing men. And I remembered our bed the night before and was ashamed of myself. I think I must be a weak man."
A smile sprang to my face and I felt so blissfully pleased that I couldn't speak. I would have kissed him had he not stayed so very somber and concerned.
"I know," he continued in a funereal tone, "what you are going to ask of me. I don't think it is safe or prudent. But I have known from the beginning, when I saw your resolve."
I was stunned that he saw me so clearly. "Then what is your answer?"
He mustered a great stern look and did not answer immediately but for a time made a rumbling in his throat. "Only two times in my life have I shown much of an adventuresome spirit. The first was in leaving my home and coming to this far-away place."
Here he paused for a long time so that I prompted him: "What was the other?"
"Courting you," he said quietly. "Yes. Walking from this door to your door, it seemed as long as being on the ship. Don't look so surprised. I was a bachelor for a long time. I had no experience in . . . with . . . with a good woman."
"How did these adventures go for you?" I asked.
"In both I believe I have profited greatly." He roused himself, and looking greatly discomfitted went on, "So the answer to your question is that I am a weak man and can refuse my wife nothing. Even if it means my downfall."
I took his hands in mine, like holding two big slate shingles together, and we looked at each other, eye to eye, for a long time, most candidly, most seriously and concerned for each other. He would have been relieved, I knew, if I had backed away from the request.
But I told him, "Then we shall have an adventure. You shall be a bandit and a pirate after all."
TUESDAY, JULY 23, 1889
We have plotted through the week-end, Deacon Skinner, Dr. Mahoney, Hans, and I. I was glad to put the three men together, for the doctor and deacon have strengthened Hans's resolve and he their optimism. They are worthy men, but he has the advantage, in that he is of imposing appearance and accustomed to command men, with over fifty laborers in his employ.
Our plan is to attempt to purchase the wolf-man, raising the offer considerably, though we fully expect another refusal from Silas Singer. Having consulted among his workers, Hans has learned more about Singer's gang of infamous hoodlums, who not only keep order at The Red Man but run other several criminal enterprises for him as well. How many men, we could not ascertain, but Hans estimated Singer could muster twenty or more if he desired. One of them, his apparent lieutenant, is none other than Jack Bell, once the most ruthless crimp in the shanghai trade. He was famous for being able to knock a mule to its knees with one bare-handed punch, and known to hit sailors so hard that, as Dr. Mahoney says, "they woke up dead, often as not," on the outbound ship.
Thinking of the guards at the door and the evil-looking men at the front of the stage-room, with their weapons, I am afraid that I have asked too much, that in my inexplicable obsession I have put my husband and the dearest and best people I know at grave risk.
Fortunately, Hans also has access to hardy men, even if they are not so familiar with the ways of fighting or so ready to use a knife or pistol as Silas Singer's are. A number of them are from Germany, one from the area where Hans was born, whom he recruited for the quality of their craftsmanship; they are particularly loyal to him out of a countryman's bond and gratitude for the good wages and the respect he pays them. Several I have met at building sites or here at the house, when Hans has invited his foremen to supper.
When we met at our house this morning, Hans introduced us to the crew he has enlisted after confidential conversations and sworn pledges of secrecy. There is Labinski, a Pole nearly as large as Hans himself, ruggedly muscled, gentle as a draft ox but quietly firm of character. Krauss is not so big, but again is strong; he is yellow haired, ever cheerful, a very efficient worker, Hans says; his affection for Hans and me runs deep because we assisted his wife when she was very ill last winter. Dietch is one I have never liked, for he strikes me as sullen and gloomy, secretive; yet Hans insists that is merely the introspective mien typical of the Ost-Freislander, that he is very trustworthy and capable, and was an infantry sergeant in the Civil War. Finally, Hans brought a young man named Winston, barely in his twenties, born in the state of Maine, who is rope thin, cocky, and handsome. He enjoys a reputation among the crews as a fierce boxer and a man ever willing for trouble in whatever form it might offer itself.
And with the doctor and the deacon, that is the sum of our little army, the seven of them.
They have made plans to go tomorrow at mid-morning, not so early that The Red Man will still be closed, not so late that there would be much custom. They will take one of Hans's covered vans pulled by a company team, empty of stone but with four men inside, and Deacon Skinner and Dr. Mahoney will come in the deacon's rig and meet them near The Red Man.
It was a startling thing, to see the men growing more sober and keen as they laid the details out. All wore grim faces and their eyes grew hard, warriors preparing for battle. They talked of contingencies and how to respond, and of the risk of weapons coming into play. Dr. Mahoney talked of how to handle the wolf-man himself, who will likely be agitated at the commotion and may himself be dangerous. He has prepared a room at his office to receive the wolf-man, where he will stay to receive medical attention, with boarded window and good locks.
Dietch began calling their mission a "raid," and soon they all did: the raid upon The Red Man. There is no question of my participating, for Hans has stated most firmly that he will not hear of it, and I dared not argue the point, most especially not in front of the other men. I would be afraid to go, in any case.
And yet I am afraid not to go, for fear that something terrible will happen to Hans or one of our men. It will be my fault, and tonight I cannot sleep and am full of self-recrimination for having instigated this dangerous enterprise. There is no doubt that Hans and his crew are strong, and little Deacon Skinner and Dr. Mahoney determined, but the men in Silas Singer's employ are a different matter altogether: men practiced at violence, intimidation, and no doubt murder, and careless of
danger. They will be on their home ground and will no doubt outnumber our side; and Singer himself, though not physically imposing, is a man without any moral constraint or scruple whatever, and fond of his evil fame.
* * *
Now it is still later and the house is all dark but for the candle I write by. Tonight after Hans went to sleep, I dropped to my knees at the bedside and prayed feverishly to God that no one will be hurt or killed. With Hans snoring above me, I prayed for forgiveness if I have misinterpreted His intent, or put my dear husband at risk for a foolish and useless enterprise.
I had left the kerosene lantern alight on the bedroom table, and as I cried and muttered and pleaded, a moth circled it and suddenly plunged unerringly down the chimney and into the flame. It crackled and flared, and in a moment the stink filled the air. I cannot help but take it as a bad omen. Now I understand Hans's doubts, and cannot comprehend my earlier determination, which seems like madness. But it is all in motion. I am afraid it will be a long night.
56
WEDNESDAY, JULY 25, 1889
THE RAID WAS done yesterday, for better or for worse. There is no way I can report it without telling it as it happened, even if I did not witness all of it. Each event led so rapidly to the next, and it was so chaotic and strange; to relate events out of sequence would confuse and misrepresent them.
I awoke from a fitful, short sleep when Hans did. He was distant and resigned, not happy to be doing this yet quite deliberate and firm, as if stimulated by the prospect of what was to come; I think there must be something in a man which relishes danger or battle, the chance to test one's mettle and confront one's enemy. He dressed as if for a regular business day, in his fine suit, and washed and groomed himself with as much care as if he were going to meet an important client. I attended to him closely.
At nine, the other men came for him in a great, heavy dray, Schweitzer Superior proudly emblazoned on its panels, with two big horses driven by Labinski; Winston, the boy, came on his own mount alongside. They waited outside as Hans put on his good pigskin gloves. He embraced me only formally, though I would have held him harder and more tenderly. I thought frantically of a blessing or a wish to bestow, some way to state my love and gratitude.
"Please return to me," I told him. And I meant it in many ways.
"I have every intention," he said curtly.
And then the door was open and he was down the steps and the dray moved away, Hans and Labinski towering on the driver's bench, Winston making a dashing outrider. Then I was alone with Cook, but could not bear her kindly prattle and went upstairs to our bedroom. I could not sit for a moment, but paced and fretted with my hands so that I snapped a button from my dress. I picked up Hans's pillow from the bed and buried my face in it, just for the scent of him, and, still pacing, stupidly cried until it was quite soaked.
What I know of the events that occurred in my absence, I learned from Winston not long later, and from the others since.
It was a clear day, promising to be hot. Inside the box of the dray, Krauss and Dietch sat, dressed in their masons' leather among a collection of tools of the trade they thought might prove useful. Winston rode ahead. They met Deacon Skinner and Dr. Mahoney at the assigned spot on Stockton Street and proceeded to The Red Man, pulling to a halt directly in front of the carved Indian.
Even the worst parts of the Barbary Coast go quiet at some point, as vice exhausts its enthusiasts, weariness sets in, and drink's effects accumulate. At nine thirty, the downtown streets are bustling, windows being washed and sidewalks swept, wares being arranged in displays, business men hurrying all brisk in clean suits, carriages and cable cars coming and going; but morning is the low ebb for the Barbary Coast streets. There were still drunkards asleep in the doorways when the raiders arrived, and the litter of trash and broken bottles of the night's activities had not yet been disturbed by traffic.
They could see from the street that a few men moved inside The Red Man, for even such a place must replenish itself, bringing casks from the cellar, raking out the worst filth, mopping up the spilled whiskey and blood to prepare for another day's inundation.
In the hope of a civilized transaction, Hans went in with only the deacon and Dr. Mahoney; the others waited outside, with Winston at the door to watch for any signal they were needed. Silas Skinner stood behind the bar, counting his take from the night before, assisted by Jack Bell. An older man now, Jack Bell looks every bit like a pirate, even to the ring in his ear. His face is scarred, no doubt from knife fights, his teeth yellow streaked with black. He looked up with a challenging expression as these three well-dressed men came through the door.
"Wrong place, wrong time," he rumbled.
At the sound of his voice, the other two men, working at the far end of the room, looked up.
"Mr. Singer," Hans said, "we have come to buy the wolf-man from you."
Singer, stringy white hair hanging on either side of his mantis face, did not look up from his counting. "Isn't that same little mick I told to shove off last week? I have no patience with stubborn men, and today I've got a headache. Pester me at your peril."
Hans pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and laid them on the counter. "We're both gentlemen here. Let's start at four hundred."
"He's dying anyway," Dr. Mahoney put in. "You'll only get a couple more days out of him. Why not sell him while he's still worth something?"
Jack Bell laughed uproariously, and in the most obscene language said that they already had plans for his future: When he got too weak to fight, they would put him in sex shows with human women and female dogs. "We'll make a real killing then. And won't he be a happy dog! When he dies, we'll stuff him and still get a quarter to see the dummy."
"Five hundred, then," Hans said, putting more bills down.
Singer shot an irritated glance at Jack Bell, then went back to stacking bills and coins. Jack Bell scowled and snapped his fingers in the air. "Boys! Didn't I tell you to clean up the place? Throw this garbage out."
The two men approached Hans and the others from behind as Jack Bell went to come around the end of the counter, and another man appeared in the back room doorway. They were all tough men, ready fighters and confident of themselves. But Hans turned and looked down at them. Hans's eyes, when they grow serious, have an effect. The men paused two paces away and went no closer.
"Six hundred, Mr. Singer," Hans said. "Or nothing. Choose now."
By then Jack Bell had reached Hans, full of bluster and glowering with rage. He swung at Hans with his famous fist. Hans made no move but to catch his arm in one hand, then turned it so that the elbow locked and pushed it down and down until Jack Bell had to kneel or have it break. Hans did not even lift his other hand.
Singer looked up with poisonous ire in his face, and in another second he had reached below the counter and come up with a shotgun. He lifted it to shoot but hesitated when he saw that the scatter-gun would hit Jack Bell and his other men as well as Hans. In an instant, Hans lifted Jack Bell and bodily threw him over the bar and against Singer, and they went crashing over into the shelves of bottles.
"Mr. Winston," Deacon Skinner called, "if you please."
Within seconds of the sound of so much breakage, both doors erupted: Singer's other hands coming through the back, our little army through the front. The two men nearest Hans flung themselves at him, but he brought his fist down on the first and crushed him to the floor, and though the second managed to grapple with him he too only lasted an instant. Hans tossed him and made a great wreckage of the tables and chairs.
Labinski and Krauss had come in with mason's hammers, the short-handled ones with ten-pound heads, with which they drive their stone chisels; Dietsch had chosen a pickaxe handle. In all, Singer had nine men besides himself and Jack Bell. There was a melee between the men from each side. Old Deacon Skinner was the first to fall, pushed easily aside. Hans laid down another of Singer's men, but then as he grappled with the next, another swung a chair that broke over Hans's he
ad. It hit with such force that blood gushed out immediately, soaking into his hair and over his face. But stunned as he was, he managed to command himself and do the wisest thing, which was to go around the counter to where Singer and Jack Bell were sorting themselves out. He "put Jack Bell to sleep with a tap to his head" as Dr. Mahoney said, and lifted up the sputtering Silas Singer by his hair.
A pistol fired from the back doorway, and Labinski fell down, but immediately Krauss flung his hammer and hit the shooter's chest so hard he fell back and down. Another drew his gun, but Winston boxed him on the chin and then broke his nose and that man dropped, too, losing both his gun and his nerve.
Hans ignored his dizziness and blindness. He lifted Silas Singer by his hair, right off the floor, so his men could see. "Tell them to stop," he ordered. "Or I will get angry with you."
Silas Singer spat and hissed like a cat, but hanging there like a marionette, he did as Hans told him. It took another few moments for him to be obeyed.
Labinski was the worst hurt, a bullet through his thigh. Dr. Mahoney began to tend to him immediately. Our crew made the others stand together and, having retrieved their guns, ordered them to keep still. It was a very tense situation, with all the men so angry, their blood up to fight. Humiliation fed the ire of Singer's gang. They were contained for the moment, but the trouble had just begun.
In the abrupt silence, a strange noise came from the back room, a violent thumping and rattling and a half-human voice that moaned and keened. The wolf-man was agitated. From the door, our men could see the whole cage shake and quiver beneath its canvas.
Deacon Skinner recovered himself and with Krauss went to the cage. They pulled away the canvas and saw the wolf-man in his terror, bounding at the bars, baring his teeth, and making every fearsome display. Though he was clearly ill and damaged, fear had filled him with a raw frenzy. The sound he made chilled their blood, so like a man or a woman, so much an animal's senseless cry.