The Styx (26 page)

“Someone chase you out, then, sir?”

Byrne was looking south at the ferry dock. The boat was empty. The passengers, McAdams and the big Negro, were nowhere in sight. He reached into his pocket and brought out a dollar.

“Take me to the jail,” he said, thrusting the money at the boy.

The kid looked at the money

“You’re kidding,” he said, his tone skeptical to an offer to get paid to go where he’d wanted to be all night. Byrne brought out another two dollars and pushed all of it into the boy’s hand.

“Right. This way,” the kid said, grabbing the cash and leaving his post behind.

They went west on Clematis, crossed Narcissus where the shops and restaurants were darkened and the street nearly empty. But Byrne could hear music and laughter coming from a block north on Banyan where most of the saloons would still be open and evening drinkers would do what they ultimately did late into the night. The boy seemed more anxious than he was and skipped a few steps ahead. They crossed Olive Street and before they were halfway up the block Byrne could see the flickering glow of torches being held high at the next corner. Closer still he counted nearly a dozen people gathered in the street, keeping their distance from an enclosed, box-like wagon with barred windows high on the sides and a small square in the door to the back.

“It’s the prison wagon,” the boy said over his shoulder. “They ain’t took her out yet.”

The jailhouse was a two-story wood framed structure with four small windows set high on the first floor and flanking a slated door. There were three standard windows on the second floor, their panes flickering with reflected firelight. An outside staircase led up along one side. Byrne scanned the crowd. The first person demanding attention was a black-suited man the size of a finely fatted heifer who was planted near the jailhouse door. His hat was clamped on his head like the cover on a teapot. Byrne could not see his eyes, but the man was digging between his thin lips with a toothpick like there was something worthwhile in there. There was an aura about him, perhaps it was the distance that everyone else kept from him or the nonchalance he showed at what was clearly a tense event. Byrne pegged him as the sheriff. At the other side of the door stood the skinny armed deputy who had questioned Byrne at the bridge two days ago. His eyes were down and he was in low conversation with the bulging man. The shadows were such that Byrne could not see his bobbing Adam’s apple. Another man dressed in the same dark utilitarian suit as the others appeared at the top of the staircase. He hurried down, his heels banging on the steps, the sound of gangling keys in his hands. At the plank door he twisted a key in the lock and pushed it open, the entrance now like a black maw in the firelight. Though the wagon could have been stopped just outside the jail door so that the prisoner would endure barely seconds of exposure to the gathering crowd, the sheriff had obviously set the stage for a bit of drama. He got more than he bargained for.

The key man crossed to the wagon, stepped up to the rear door and unlocked it. When he swung open the hinges and climbed inside, people turned and whispered to one another. An obvious drunk from Banyan Street openly blurted: “They ought to hang the nigger bitch right now.” There was a short silence and then Byrne heard an almost imperceptible thud, something hard against something soft, but when he turned he could see nothing in the shadows. The low sound of violence escaped everyone else’s attention except for the fat sheriff, who cocked his head and also looked briefly out into the darkness but then seemed to disregard it.

After a few moments the key man backed out of the wagon. At the end of his extended arm came the shackled thin wrists of a smallish Negro woman. Byrne could see that in addition to the handcuffs she was also wearing leg irons. There was a white kerchief tying up her hair and she was wearing a man’s shirt and the same style of pants with the single stripe on the leg that Byrne had seen on the prison work crew at Jacksonville Beach. The key man yanked her toward the jail and she stumbled and went down. The cry that escaped her was small and bird-like and made up of both pain and fear. The key man did not turn his head but continued to drag her across the hard pack.

“Dear God in heaven,” came an exclamation of anger from the crowd, and for the first time Byrne caught sight of Marjory McAdams marching in from the shadows, her Negro companion rubbing his knuckles and trailing behind her.

“Must you treat this woman like some kind of animal?” Marjory shouted.

The key man stopped in his tracks at the sound of an authoritative female voice. Marjory stomped directly to the jailer’s side, gave him a frozen stare and then bent to the woman, touching her hands and then her face and mewing consolations that Byrne could not hear. No one moved at first. The sight of a young woman dressed in high fashion, her flowing ball gown dragging in the dirt, coming to the aid of a Negro working girl being hauled into the calaboose on a murder charge stunned them. The heavy man at the jail door seemed the only one not affected. He tipped his hat up as if to better absorb the scene and then motioned to the deputy to intervene, saying something that Byrne could only hear as a low rumble.

The deputy crossed the distance in three elongated steps and said: “Ma’am, ya’ll gonna have to step back now. This is a official transfer of a prisoner and they ain’t no time for your whinnin’.”

When the deputy grabbed McAdams’ shoulder Byrne wasn’t sure whether it was his touch or his statement that lit her fuse, but Marjory came bolt upright, the crown of her head barely missing the deputy’s chin and then stared into his face.

“If you touch me again, sir, I will abandon my duty as a civilized woman and scratch your eyes out.”

The deputy tucked his chin and pulled back as if he’d been slapped. The entire gathering went quiet for a full beat and then someone at the edge of the darkness guffawed.

“Ha!”

The deputy blinked, gathered himself, and raised his free hand over his shoulder while uttering: “Why you prissy, high-fallutin’ bitch I’ll…”

Three men moved—Byrne and the Negro chauffer with incredibly similar speed and fluidity, and the sheriff with a single step and the forming of the word “STOP!” at the edges of his mouth. Everyone else sucked in their breath.

The deputy’s face was no more than a foot from Marjory’s and his hand had not yet begun its forward motion when the whooshing sound of a steel whip split the space between their noses. Both sets of eyes went large with the feeling of cut air. The baton instantly retraced its path between them but this time stopped like an immovable girder across the deputy’s raised wrist. His hand would be going no farther.

The deputy first looked to the Negro, guessing wrongly that he must be responsible. But the chauffeur was staring at Byrne, not believing someone could have been so fast and accurate. Marjory’s eyes followed the gleaming steel shaft from the deputy’s hand to Byrne’s fist and then to his face.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” The sheriff’s voice finally escaped his mouth, and the resonance was nearly as arresting as Byrne’s baton had been.

“Morgan, back off!” he said to the deputy and strode across the street, bringing more than just his girth to bear on the scene. It was as if his huge presence itself forced the deputy and the Negro and Marjory to move simultaneously apart. Only Byrne seemed unaffected. He’d been in the company of large powerful men before. Still, he was so focused that his baton was still raised to the level of the deputy’s hand, which the lawman had taken with him.

The sheriff waded in.

“Miss McAdams, I believe,” he said, his lowered voice now dripping with courtesy. “Surely this is no place for a lady like yourself. Such an unseemly event.”

Marjory squared her shoulders. “Unseemly, indeed, Mr. Cox,” she said. “The idea that you would be dragging this poor woman through the streets like some animal carcass from a hunting party of yours certainly qualifies for the term.”

Sheriff Cox did not avert his eyes. “This negress is a killer, Miss McAdams. I believe that disqualifies her from your description, ma’am.”

“As I Expected Sheriff, you have a failed understanding of the law of civilized countries, including this one, that anyone accused of a crime is presumed to be innocent until they are declared guilty by a court,” McAdams said. “She is not a killer until a judge and jury says she is.”

The fat man’s eyes narrowed and his thin lips went tight.

“In fact, Sheriff, I doubt that you even have a sworn warrant for this woman’s arrest,” McAdams said. The sheriff stayed silent, searching, it appeared, for some kind of rejoinder. But the deputy called Morgan couldn’t stand it.

“Now just a goddamn minute, you little smart ass. This nigger bitch don’t have no rights and she done shanked a white man in the belly an’ that’s enough law for us.” He pointed a long finger at Marjory and then took a step toward Shantice, who still lay curled on the ground. Byrne saw or felt a dark shadow move beside him. The big Negro had appeared like a wall between the deputy and the tiny woman. The deputy came up short, astounded either by the man’s fluid speed or his audacity.

“Why you…” His face was flushing while he reached into his coat. A long-barreled revolver came out with his hand. The flash of Byrne’s baton swept the air and snapped the deputy’s wrist like a limb cracking in the wind. The man yelped and the gun fell to the ground.

Now it was the sheriff whose movements were quick and sudden. He stepped forward and with an amazing strength grabbed a handful of his own deputy’s jacket and pulled him back as if he were weightless.

“Now just hold on, by God,” he boomed, his voice reverberating off the storefronts of Clematis Street. He put his palm up to Byrne as if it were the hand of the deity he’d just claimed. “Ya’ll just calm down, boys.”

The Negro chauffeur seemed to shrink in the face of an authority he knew almost by instinct to obey. Byrne lowered his baton to his side.

“Pinkerton, this ain’t none of your affair,” Sheriff Cox said. “I’m the law here, even if Miss McAdams believes she’s the lawyer. And I am lawfully taking this prisoner into custody.”

Byrne was only slightly surprised that the sheriff would know of him and his Pinkerton affiliation. He stepped back.

The sheriff motioned for his key man to help Shantice Carver to her feet.

“If you wish to attend the woman’s arraignment by the judge on Friday afternoon, Miss McAdams,” he said, matching her diction and turning to face her. “Then you are, as a citizen of these United States, fully within your right. The charge will be murder.

“Now folks, clear the damn streets,” he commanded, and all involved began to move in opposite directions.

Byrne looked over his shoulder once to see the deputy scuttle back across the yard, holding his wrist to his belly.

The trio of Byrne, Marjory and her chauffeur moved up the street to where the bicycle carriage was parked. Marjory was still flushed with anger. The two men were uncomfortable and independently decided to let her cool.

Byrne held his hand out first.

“Michael Byrne,” he said.

“My name is Santos,” the man said, shaking Byrne’s hand. “Carlos Santos.”

Santos’ big hands and strength reminded Byrne of his friend, Jack. His voice and look reminded him of west side neighborhood called Little Africa in Greenwich Village where the Italians and blacks had been razor fighting for years. Byrne couldn’t see a lick of Spanish in the man, but his protection of Marjory McAdams stood him well as far as he cared. The handshake was a bond.

“My apologies, gentlemen, for not introducing you,” McAdams finally said, her fists still clenched in knots. “But that fat bastard, pardonnez-moi.”

“Pardon which, your French, Miss McAdams, or your manners?” Byrne said. Santos looked at him and started to smile. Marjory lost an edge off her anger.

“That man is infuriating and dangerous,” she said, civilizing her tone.

“He’s a lawman with power,” Byrne said. “They get that way.”

Now Marjory was concentrating on his face.

“And why is it, Mr. Byrne, that you are here in the first place. This, as the sheriff said, is not your concern. Your only duty would be the protection of Mr. Flagler and his trains if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, well, protection can take many forms,” Byrne said, trying out the explanation he’d have to give Sergeant Harris. “The fact that a wanted killer was being returned to the jail was too close to ignore.”

“I see. And your reason for stepping in with that, that, metal whippet of yours?”

Byrne could see no better answer than the truth.

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Marjory continued to assess him. “Very well then, Mr. Byrne. If you are of a mind to do the right thing, come with us.” She turned to Santos. “We need to visit those who had taken responsibility for Miss Carver’s safety and find out what happened.”

The big man held out his hands in a questioning gesture.

“But ma’am, that’s a three mile journey north and this carriage isn’t going to make it past the city streets.” He was looking to Byrne for help, but none was forthcoming.