New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [253]
“It can’t be long now,” he warned his family. “We’ll be next.”
It was a quarter of an hour later that a vigorous figure with the face of an adventurer and long, drooping mustaches strode into the saloon. Sean smiled.
“Mr. Jerome. What’ll you have?”
Sean liked Leonard Jerome. The daring financier might not have been born at Five Points, but he had the instincts and the courage of the street fighter. He mostly ran with the rich sporting crowd like August Belmont and William K. Vanderbilt. But Jerome liked newspapers and newspapermen too. The rumor was that he was invested in newspapers. And he’d come into the saloon once in a while.
Once Sean had asked him where his family came from.
“My father’s name was Isaac Jerome, so Belmont says I must be Jewish.” Jerome had laughed. “Of course, you have to remember that Belmont’s name was Schoenberg, before he changed it. But the truth’s less interesting. The Jeromes were French Protestants. Huguenots. Came over in the 1700s. Farmers and provincial lawyers mostly, ever since.” He’d grinned. “My wife’s family swears they’ve got Iroquois blood, though.”
“You believe it?”
“A man should always believe his wife, sir.”
In answer to Sean’s question now, he answered: “Whiskey, Mr. O’Donnell. A large one. I’ve a busy night ahead.”
“You expecting trouble?”
“I thought they’d burn my house—they haven’t yet, but they’re coming down here. On the way already. You’d better hide your nigger.”
“I already did. Think they’ll go for the saloon?”
“Probably not. It’s the abolitionist newspapers they’re after: the Times, and others.” He downed his whiskey and gave Sean a puckish grin. “So wish me luck, Mr. O’Donnell. I’m off to defend the freedom of the press.”
“How will you do that?” Sean asked, as Jerome began to stride out of the saloon.
Jerome turned. “I got me a Gatling gun,” he answered. Then he was gone.
A Gatling gun. God knows how he’d got it. The newly patented gun was hardly even used by the army yet. With its swiftly rotating barrels, however, it could deliver a devastating, continuous fire that would mow down any crowd. You didn’t want to mess with Jerome, thought Sean. He knows how to fight dirty.
Once again, now, he checked all the shutters, but he didn’t close the saloon. If the rioters wanted a drink and couldn’t get served, that would really annoy them.
He was glad his sister Mary was safely out at Coney Island.
Monday had started well for Mary. She’d come down to breakfast to find Gretchen already at table, in conversation with another mother. As Mary sat down with them, Gretchen was just remarking that the woman’s son seemed rather like her own boy, and in no time this led to a discussion of motherhood in general. The lady asked Mary if she had children, to which she replied: “Not until I’m married.”
“Quite right,” the lady said with a laugh.
Theodore appeared after that.
They bathed in the morning. This time, holding the rope, Mary worked her way out until the water was right up over her chest, and then she swam out almost to the barrier ropes at the end. And while she was swimming there, Theodore came past and dived down under the rope and went on swimming with strong strokes out into the sea. He was out there quite some time. She and Gretchen were sitting together on the beach when he came back and emerged dripping from the water.
“Most invigorating,” he said with a laugh, and started drying himself with