Judgment

i

AMANDA KENT DE LA GURA LIVED seventeen days after the attack on her home. She lay in her bedroom on the second floor, conscious for short periods, and in relatively little pain at first. During one of the brief periods of wakefulness, Michael Boyle told her eight men had been caught and arrested by the police; the rest had escaped. No connection between any of the eight prisoners and Isaiah Rynders could be established, he informed her somewhat cynically.

Occasionally Amanda heard unfamiliar voices, the faint rasp of saws on the first floor, the rap of hammers. Workmen had already begun repairing the damage, estimated at eighty thousand dollars.

In Amanda's room, there was no evidence of the attack. The draperies had been replaced. The damaged furniture had been removed. The thugs had destroyed furnishings throughout the house, smashed great holes in the plaster, ripped up carpeting and defecated on the floors. But while Amanda slept, Michael supervised the quiet work of making it seem as though her bedchamber hadn't been touched.

Sometime on the second or third day, a doctor bent over her. She didn't recognize him. Since moving to New York City, neither she nor her son had ever required a doctor's care. In fact she couldn't remember the last time she'd been seriously ill.

Now, however, it was a different matter. The doctor told her the pistol ball had lodged in or near her left lung, and couldn't be removed. She knew from his expression she was going to die.

"I've also been attending your son," he said.

"Where"-at times, speaking even a few words was difficult-"where is-?"

"Mrs. Ludwig's home. We'll move him here as quickly as we can. Young Mr. Boyle got him to me in time. He suffered a wicked concussion but I believe he'll pull through."

She fell asleep weeping.

ii

On the fourth day, Michael brought her a Tribune with the account of Hamilton Stovall's funeral, and a letter postmarked in the nation's capital. She could barely find strength to hold the envelope.

"I can't read it, Michael. The hand seems familiar-"

"I opened it, Mrs. A. It's from your cousin's son."

"Jephtha? He's alive-?"

"In Washington. He doesn't think he can go back to his family."

"Is-is there an address?"

Michael pointed it out. "A Methodist parsonage."

"Write him. Tell him-to come here. Shelter-"

"What, Mrs. A?" He bent close to her.

"Shelter him," she whispered as her eyes closed. "Help him-start again-"

iii

On the sixth day, Theo Payne arrived from Boston in response to a telegraph message Michael had sent. Amanda smelled the whiskey on Payne's breath the moment he entered the bedroom, turning his hat brim nervously in his hands.

He sat on a chair at the bedside, listening attentively.

"Downstairs-there's a manuscript. I want-Kent's to publish it. I want-you to stay on as-the editor."

"Stay on?"

"Mr. Benbow-has approached the Stovall estate. They are-willing to sell. The executors have no-have no"-she struggled to get the words out-"objections to my politics, and-and my money is as good as-anyone's. I want you to teach my son all you know, Theo. I want the firm to-to stand for something again."

"You know my position. I am strongly in favor of abolitionism. I would even propose starting a newspaper similar to the one Kent and Son once published." Eagerness livened his voice. "I've had experience in that line, you know-"

"If you do start a paper," she whispered, "it must do more than-than support freedom for the slaves. It must-it must stand for that and-preserving the Union too-"

Payne looked downcast. "I'm not sure both can be done together-"

A moment later he leaned forward. "What did you say?"

Silently, her lips formed two words: "Must be."

After several minutes had passed, he assumed she wasn't going to waken again soon. He began to tiptoe out.

"Theo-"

He started, unnerved by the unexpected loudness of her voice. He turned back. Her eyes were open, clear and alert.

"Theo," she said, "clean the sign."

"The sign? Oh-the one in front of the firm-"

"Better still, have-a new one painted. It's a goddamn disgrace."

He watched her eyes close again, then continued to the door, vaguely ashamed because he wanted to whoop with joy.

iv

Rose visited on the seventh day. It was a tiring experience for Amanda, because Rose seemed all bluster and profanity.

"Damn it, Amanda, you've got to-to get out of that bed-I don't have-another friend who'll tolerate my cigars or-or go out with me in public wearing-trousers-Jesus Christ, how horridly I'm behaving! I can't help it. I can't help it-"

She hid her face with both hands.

v

On the ninth day, summoned at Amanda's request, William Benbow, Junior, arrived from Boston. With the door of the bedroom closed, the attorney showed her the papers transferring legal guardianship of Louis Kent de la Gura to Michael Boyle.

"Only one-mistake," she said. "Scratch out-de la Gura. His name is Louis-Kent."

Old Benbow helped guide her hand so she could write her signature. It was all but illegible.

vi

On the eleventh day, Amanda felt sufficiently alert to hold another short conversation with Michael. She wore a lavender bed gown that Brigid had helped her put on. Her hair, unpinned, lay fanned on the pillow, so nearly white that it was almost indistinguishable from the linen. From time to time, her wrinkled face constricted with pain.

"Michael-?"

"I'm here."

She clutched his extended hand, treasuring its warmth.

"Louis is-?"

"Perfectly fine, though still sleeping a good deal."

"I wish I could see him."

"Why, you will, Mrs. A. You'll be up and ab-"

"No, I"-she coughed-"won't and you know it. I think I-forgot to ask before. Did anyone-find Tunworth-?"

"The night of the attack? No. I expect he was safely in the Astor House when it took place. He's gone home minus one nigger."

"About Jephtha-"

"I wrote him. I invited him here to live."

"Good. Remember, all the Ophir money-is his-along with the profits of the issues I bought with part of that money-"

"I'll see he gets every penny."

"You-mustn't-say that word again, either."

"What word?"

"Nigger. I-don't like it. You're not a slum boy any longer, Michael. You're-part of my family now. You are all I have to depend on-the only one who-can take Louis in hand-see that he grows up to be-straight and decent-and learns the business under Theo Payne-"

"I won't say the word again, Mrs. A," Michael whispered. "I don't think I'm fit for the responsibility you've laid on me. But I'll try to be worthy of it."

She sighed, a faint, reedy sound. "I did so much that was wrong-"

"And so much that was right."

"But"-she seemed not to hear-"at least Kent's will be back in the family."

"Yes. Benbow says all's proceeding smoothly."

"Michael-" Frantic pressure from her feeble fingers. "You must promise me-"

"What?"

"Never tell-Louis how-Stovall died."

"I had already decided I wouldn't. One of the mobsters was found dead with a pistol on his body. A copper whacked the fellow too hard with his stick. So the story is, the dead chap's the one who shot Mr. Stovall. The press has already printed it that way. The ball from your Colt was of much larger caliber. But the police over-looked that. I-I'm afraid I bribed them to do so. There's little point in them prosecuting a woman who-"

He stopped abruptly.