The Empire of Shadows Read online

  William admired her dreamer’s soul, but as always Ella let it rule her practical side. Father and Stoddard had ended up using the picture to promote Raquette Lake for development. They knew that a view of a relaxed family, enjoying the civilized comforts of a rustic camp in the woods would speak volumes. That was one thing William liked about Stoddard, he was an artist, but he’d always had a sound head for promotion and business. William looked out over the lake again.

  He couldn’t see the far shore now, veiled in slanting rain. The downpour hammered on his roof with an insistent roar. “I can’t let you win,” he said to the smiling face in the photograph. “Sorry, Ella, but I simply can’t.”

  Durant walked out the screen door onto the porch of what he called “The Cottage,” built just the year before. The door slammed behind him on squeaking springs. He stood, hands in his pockets, staring out over the troubled sheet of water. Hundreds of thousands of acres of forest, lakes, and mountains surrounded him. It was a wilderness, not so much different than when the Iroquois hunted there.

  There were some hotels now, and his little fleet of steamers ranged the lakes carrying sports and excursionists, but these were only scratches on the surface of an otherwise pristine natural setting. Such things were necessary. The sort of men he wanted to sell to, the Huntingtons and Vanderbilts of the world wanted their wilderness in civilized doses, easily enjoyed from the comforts of a sheltering porch.

  His father, Thomas C. Durant, had come to love the Adirondacks somewhat late in life. William recalled how excited he’d been after returning from his first surveying trip.

  “It’s spectacular, Willie! Unspoiled forest as far as the eye can see, lakes and rivers jumping with trout. And lumber! Trees without end, William. Can’t cut them fast enough. And when our railway is done, we can haul the logs out and the tourists in.”

  As with any grand plan, there were those who did not agree, those who’d gotten in the way. Most had welcomed the Durant family’s investments in the area, but enemies were made nonetheless. William wondered about that, wondered if somehow those enemies had resurfaced.

  Ella had known something of it, though she’d paid little real attention to anything financial or legal years ago. Could she have remembered those troubles, told Van Duzer of them? It was possible, though unlikely.

  William considered the idea, considered how it might help Van Duzer and Ella. After a while he dismissed it. It had all been perfectly legal after all, and, unpleasant as it had been, it was in the past, buried. What any of it could have to do with Ella’s getting her share he could not fathom. Father had kept it very quiet. Father had always known how to keep things quiet.

  His father was a great man. His mother had told him. It had been clear to him at an early age that his family enjoyed a special status. The family of the president of the Union Pacific deserved no less. He, Mother, and Ella cruised through the upper channels of European society, had been received by royalty, and became accustomed to the very best that a cultured upbringing had to offer. There were the homes in New York and Saratoga and North Creek and Raquette Lake, the private railway cars, the servants, all of which had come as a birthright. But somehow, none of that truly symbolized his father’s wealth and status, at least not for him. For him it was always the golden spike.

  Ella had actually held it once, out in Utah when they held the ceremony. His father posed with the spike, a ceremonial hammer held as if he’d driven spikes himself. She’d been sixteen then, and Father had let her hold it afterwards.

  “It was hot and heavy, Willie,” she’d told him. “The sun had warmed it up so it almost burnt my hand.” William had always imagined what that golden spike must have felt like, hot from the forge of the sun. The man who could drive that spike was more impressive, more important than any number of houses or private Pullman cars could ever make him. Thomas C. Durant had earned his golden moment. William was determined to earn his.

  At first, after his father had pushed through the deal with the New York legislature securing the rights to build the Adirondack Railroad, it was hard to see any golden moments in his future. The Adirondacks seemed a dreary backwater compared to the great cities of Europe or even New York. It was fit only for lumbermen, failing farmers, and the occasional sport, so he’d thought. It hardly seemed a place to leave his stamp on life. William settled into a chair on the porch, watching the rain cascade in sheets off the roof. He hadn’t thought much of the Adirondacks then. Compared to building the Union Pacific, it was entirely less glamorous.

  He remembered the first time he’d seen this place. “Camp Pine Knot,” his father had called it. It wasn’t much more than one rather crude one-story main cabin and a couple of tented platforms that served as kitchen and dining rooms. The exteriors were rough-hewn timber with the bark still on. The outhouses were sided in sheets of bark, as was part of the main lodge. He laughed aloud at the pouring rain, remembering how Mother and Ella had almost refused to stay, even for one night.

  “It’s horrible, Daddy!” Ella had cried, stamping a high-laced boot on the old porch. “I won’t stay here. I won’t! You and Willie may like it, but it’s not for Mother or me!” she’d said, looking to their mother for support. “Mother, you tell Daddy. I’d rather stay in that horrible Merwin House, back on Blue Mountain than this—place.”

  She had been convinced at last. Father could be very convincing. But, in truth, it hadn’t been Father’s doing entirely. The place itself had cast its spell. William had seen it many times since. As certain as the moon and tide, those who came were taken in. The effect was nearly always the same, but the causes were infinitely different. The green cathedrals of the forest, the blue-green vistas from the mountaintops, the cry of the loon warbling across the lake, these things could charm beyond all understanding.

  Ella had fallen under the spell for a time, though she was loath to admit it. The parlors and drawing rooms of London or New York held her in sway now. But, for William the spell had never faded. Though he loved the luxuries and varieties of the city, he found himself drawn ever more often to this single remote place in the world. He was tied to it in ways he understood all too well and others he understood not at all.

  Five

  Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

  —HEBREWS 11:1

  The Albany night boat was bustling with activity. Tupper had spent over an hour watching it from a safe distance, noting the steady stream of passengers, stevedores, and deckhands filing on and off. He watched for patterns and opportunities. He’d changed his location more than once for a better view, or to avoid undue attention from the occasional cop. There did seem to be more of them out this evening, not that he was any judge of police presence on the North River piers. Cops or no cops, he didn’t want to be noticed.

  Getting on that steamer without notice was a puzzle, prepared though he was. He had no intention of buying a ticket and having some clerk recall his face, or get his name on a passenger list, even if it was a false name. He had to get passage with no one knowing.

  “Patience and cunning are the tools of the hunter,” his grandfather had told him more than once when he was a boy learning to hunt. They were more important than a gun, though Tupper’s hand never strayed far from his. A bullet was just an exclamation point, a conclusion and a reward for cunning patience. A bullet could be a failure too.

  “A hunter shoots when the choice is his. Anything less is the way of the butcher and a waste of lead.” His grandfather had been a very wise man.

  Tupper saw his chance as he knew he would. He ambled across West Street, hands in pockets, eyes darting from under the brim of his hat. Without pausing he grabbed a large bag of rice from the pile of provisions the stevedores had been loading. Throwing it over his shoulder, he marched slowly up the rear gangplank. He reached the deck of the big triple-decked steamer and turned toward a rear gang-way where he’d seen others go before.

  “Hold up there!” a voice be
llowed behind him. Tupper pretended not to hear, hoping the man was talking to somebody else. “You. Hold up! The rice goes straight to the blasted galley, goddamn it. How many times I got to tell you idiots?” Tupper stopped and looked at the man from the shadow of his hat, holding the sack close to his face.

  “You deaf?” the fellow shouted. He looked like a foreman and carried a manifest in one hand and a pencil in the other. “Get going,” he shouted, waving the pencil toward the midships area. Tupper grunted in reply and walked in that direction. He figured he’d take the first door into the interior of the ship. Beyond that he planned on trusting his instincts.

  Across West Street, opposite the dock, a man emerged from the shadow of a low front porch of a chandler’s shop. He’d been there almost as long as Tupper had been waiting, concealed by barrels and piles of cordage. He dodged across West Street, avoiding wagons with an athlete’s grace, all the while keeping focused on the deck of the steamer. He waited by the gangplank, leaning against bales of cotton, watching everyone who went on and off. His arms were crossed and he picked his teeth in a leisurely way, but his eyes were bright and darting. He knew there were only two ways Tupper was likely to leave New York, the Albany night boat and the train from Grand Central. Another man was watching there, though the train was the less likely of the two. He congratulated himself on guessing right about the boat. As the last of the luggage, ship’s stores, and freight were loaded, he felt for his ticket. He grinned and walked up the gangplank.

  As luck would have it, a deckhand popped out of a door just in front of Tupper.

  “That the way to the galley?” Tupper asked without showing much of his face.

  “Two doors on the left.”

  Jim found his way and after a bit of searching dropped his sack with a pile of others in a storeroom off to one side. He asked a distracted cook where he could find a water closet and was directed to the “head,” as the cook called it. He closed the door behind him and latched it tight. Ten minutes later Jim peered out while a couple of waiters passed up the corridor. When it was clear he slipped out and made his way up through the ship to the main saloon. As he did he heard the massive walking-beam engine start to shudder and throb to life.

  The main saloon was spacious and well appointed, with rich Belgian carpets, carved and gilded woodwork, large crystal and brass chandeliers, and a number of comfortable upholstered chairs scattered around the room. A balcony ringed the two-deck-high space allowing access to staterooms around the sides of the ship. There were a few gamblers at the tables in the center of the room trying their luck early at faro, roulette, or poker. No one noticed him as he picked a copy of the Tribune from the news rack and settled into an overstuffed, high-backed chair deep in one corner.

  It was a very different Jim Tupper who spread his Tribune out in front of his face. The work clothes were gone, stuffed into a small carpetbag at his feet. He was dressed like a gentleman, or as close to it as he could come from Bess’s inventory. Deep claret pants, pleated at the waist, a paisley vest in matching burgundy and black over a ruffled, white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and a floppy bow tie completed his transformation. A trim bowler covered the stubble of hair on his bruised and wounded head, shading his eyes just enough for safety.

  He felt like a peacock, and about as unnatural as an ongwéonwe could feel in the clothes of the honióo, but he fit in well with the other passengers. The baggy work clothes had covered his fine duds as neat as bark on a cedar. Tupper relaxed in his chair, feeling more confident with each passing minute.

  He was smirking behind his paper, hardly noticing the headline about the murder of the night before and the dramatic capture of the wild Indian suspect. The evening editions hadn’t made it to the ship yet, or there would surely be a story about the escape as well. He had signaled a waiter for a drink when he saw the cop.

  The light from the chandeliers made his double row of brass buttons shine like searchlights. An electric jolt shot through Tupper, nearly sending him to his feet in panic. His heart jumped in his chest, as if it would burst out and run off on its own. The waiter stepped up to take his order just then and blocked the cop from view. Tupper ordered a whiskey, and when the waiter turned the cop was gone.

  It had happened so fast, Tupper almost doubted he’d seen the man at all. It was with a grateful hand that he took his tumbler of whiskey a few minutes later. He wanted to down it in one gulp but forced himself to sip as he felt the ship start to rock. The engine rumbled louder and Tupper could clearly hear the river’s protest as the immense side wheels thrashed the stinking Hudson.

  Tupper was exhausted and the chair was deep and soft. He ached from his beating and his nerves were fried from the constant vigilance of the last day. The whiskey warmed him into a drowsy stupor. He stretched his legs out before him, easing deeper into the chair. He didn’t notice how his pants rode up, exposing the bone handle of the bayonet at the top of his boot. As the sun set over the palisades, Tupper’s eyelids drooped and his chin fell on his chest.

  Despite the noise of the boat and the chatter of voices in the parlor, within an hour he was about as unconscious as a man can be. It was some time later when the man from the dock slid into place behind Tupper’s chair. He listened to him snore while watching the rest of the parlor. Leaning against a fancy, fluted column, he hid behind a newspaper and watched. After a while, once the crowd had dwindled, he folded his paper, then as he appeared about to walk off, he dropped it beside the chair. When he bent to pick it up, he slid the bayonet out of Tupper’s boot and inside the folded paper. Tupper snored undisturbed.

  Six

  It was the largest and by far the most luxurious hotel in the woods, and its erection in that remote spot, thirty miles from a railway, was a stupendous and remarkable achievement.

  —ALFRED DONALDSON

  The elevator operator closed the gate and moved the large brass lever at his right hand to the down arrow. The steam elevator sank fast and Rebecca smiled and clapped. This was about the sixth time she’d ridden the elevator this afternoon, but the novelty hadn’t come near to wearing off yet. With a deft flick of his lever, the big box, which had its own electric light, came to a billowy halt. It bounced twice, settling at last on a level with the floor. The operator winked at Rebecca as he opened the gate to the parlor level of the Prospect House.

  “It stopped raining! It stopped raining,” Rebecca cried, looking out at the dying sun sparkling off the lake. The last of the storm was just a gray smudge over the mountaintops. “We can see it now, right Mommy? We can see the deers?”

  “I don’t know, ’Becca, might be the only deer you’ll see today are on the walls,” Tom said, pointing to the mounted heads in the hotel office.

  “No, Dad. She’s right,” Mike said, supporting his sister, a rarity to be sure. “They told us before that they have a deer in a pen down by the lake, a white deer.”

  “A white deer?” Mary said.

  “Down by the lake? In a pen?” Tom said with a grin. “Lead on Michael. This we have to see.”

  Walking out on the wide verandah that the hotel termed a “piazza,” they had a spectacular view of Blue Mountain Lake and the mountains that hemmed it in for miles around. Blue Mountain shouldered everything else aside. Rising almost from the water’s edge, it thrust its massive scar-faced head over two thousand feet above the lake. Forest covered everything except the tiny town.

  The other hotels, Merwin’s and Holland’s, which nestled against the mountain’s feet, were visible, set amidst broad areas of cleared land spotted with stumps. A large windmill stood close by the shoreline, the only scar on the sparkling blue and green landscape. The air was fresh and cooled just a touch by the storm.

  Balsam and spruce scented the breeze, and it seemed to Tom that he breathed deeper there. He didn’t know if that could really be, but it seemed that way. He supposed it was the years of breathing city air—coal smoke, manure, garbage, fish markets, abattoirs, breweries, stock-yards, and fat-re
ndering plants—that had constricted his lungs. It was not the kind of air a man wanted to drink deep, especially not in summer, when the smell of death could crawl through the streets like a fog in some quarters.

  Mary must have been thinking the same. She sighed. “Isn’t that wonderful? I love the smell of the pines.” Rebecca, less impressed with the country air, pointed, and pulled at Mary’s hand.

  “It’s down there. The man in the elevator told us. It’s in the pen by the windmill.” A fence surrounded the windmill creating a corral maybe a hundred feet across. The earth within, bare, black and muddy was studded with small boulders. Not much grew there except tufts of struggling weeds, cropped close. There was no deer in sight.

  “They said it was out here,” Mike said, scanning the pen with a frown.

  “Maybe it’s around the other side,” Mary suggested, hoping Rebecca wouldn’t be disappointed. She could be a handful when she got in a mood. Just then a small steamboat rounded a point of land off to the west. It was creamy white with a gay, stripped fringe of canvas awning hanging from its flat roof. Two small boats were stowed upside down on either side of its tall, black funnel, which rose from the center of the single-decked craft. A group of passengers lined the rails. With a puff of steam, a whistle tooted twice, the sound echoing off the mountains in fading multiplication. It was at once a friendly, human sort of sound, but profoundly out of place as well.

  It left Tom with an odd feeling as the whistle was absorbed by the forest. It was a fleeting thought, pushed out of his head by the appearance of the white deer. Like a ghost, it materialized from behind the windmill and charged from one end of the enclosure to the other, wide-eyed and agitated.

  “See! See! I told you there was a white deer!” Rebecca cried in triumph.

  “The whistle must have spooked him,” Tom said as he watched the deer bound about the pen in the mud. “Damned if I ever saw a white deer before,” he said with a raised eyebrow. He’d seen too much fakery at the freak shows on the Bowery and Coney Island to take much of anything at face value.