Time Out of Mind (56 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
“
He remains a bad example to others, Mr. Beckwith.”
“
You can go straight to hell, Mr. Gould.”
Another fortnight passed before Tilden would consider dis
missing the Pinkertons who were guarding Margaret's
brownstone. It was in that time that Margaret agreed to his proposal. She would bear him a child if she could, and she would remain with him and be his wife in her heart as long
as he wished. But if that should end, if he should choose
to take a wife who was more suited to his station, let it be
understood now that she would not hand over the child as if she were nothing more than a cow whose purpose had
been served. Tilden was horrified that she had seriously
entertained such a concern. He tore a piece of foolscap from
a tablet on which she'd been writing and sat at once to
compose a promise of his affection and his love, his most
joyous acknowledgment of any child that might come of
their union, of his eternal support from his heart as well as
his purse, and that, on all his honor, the subject of one or
the other giving up the child would never be raised. On
that Friday, with the Pinkertons following for the first mile
only, Tilden and Margaret drove to the Claremont Inn,
where they registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harry Whitney.
There and under that name the child was conceived.
It was June of that year before the last traces of the great
blizzard melted from deeply shaded nooks and with them
at least some of the pain Tilden bore from the night of
Ella's death. Nothing more had been heard from Carling or
Jay Gould. Not directly. As for Carling, it was said that
Gould had sent him first to a surgeon for the repair of his face and then to Texas to do penance supervising the con
struction of cattle pens along the decaying Southwestern Pacific Railroad. He would forever be useless to Jay Gould
in New York, where nearly everyone had heard of his hu
miliation at the hands of Tilden Beckwith and had marked him a cur and a coward. A good many held the whispered belief that his attentions, which some said were welcomed and some said were not, had somehow been responsible for
the death of Tilden’s wife. Those who wondered why
Gould kept a man like that on his payroll at all were told
it was a question of which had more on the other, but not
to worry, for Jay Gould would always let a man hang him
self in the end. As for Gould himself, Tilden's firm soon
felt the consequences of his displeasure. One account, then
another, then several more were withdrawn by sweating
men who would not meet Tilden’ s eyes. But luckily for
Beckwith & Company, Jay Gould had more enemies than
friends. A few of these came forward, providing Tilden
with sufficient business that his income was approximately
maintained and that no employees were discharged in con
sequence.
In midsummer, Tilden took permanent rooms at the Claremont Inn and spent all his weekends there with Mar
garet, plus as many weekdays as he could manage. John
Flood joined them on an August Saturday for one of their
outings to the Polo Grounds. Flood had sworn to Tilden’s
lie that the bruises he showed these few months before were
the result of a friendly rough-and-tumble between them
and, no, true enough, there had been no new trouble with
the Carling fellow. Margaret remained doubtful, but now it
seemed forgotten. It was a fine summer day. A good day
for baseball. Although John Flood did not fully share Til
den's passion for the sport, and although a day in Mar
garet's company was inducement enough for him, this day
was a banner one because none other than John L. Sullivan,
lately back from Europe, was scheduled to pitch three exhibition innings before the regular game against the Providence team. Sullivan, Flood pointed out, had played the
game for Boston College and had considered a professional
career before his fight on a dare against Cockey Woods,
the toughest man in Boston, and his shocking fifth-round
knockout persuaded him that a career of swatting heads
instead of baseballs might be worth a further look. You
could count on your fingers, said Flood, the number of men
who've lasted five rounds with him since, yours truly
among them, and not counting the shameful thirty-nine-
round draw Sullivan just fought in France against the limey Charley Mitchell, who kept running and falling down until
his friends saw it was dark enough to claim a draw.
riage parked beyond the outfield stakes; could not believe the man she saw was the great John L. He looked ten years
older than Tilden, not the two that Tilden claimed. His face
was soft and puffy, and he carried what must have been
thirty pounds of excess above his belt. The crowd in the
grandstand noticed as well, because there was more mur
mur than cheer when he took the field and doffed his hat.
“It's the bottle,” John Flood said sadly. “Too many saloons and too many rounds stood by him and by those
who'd say they drank with John L. hisself and shook his
hand. Maybe a draw against the likes of Charley Mitchell
was not such mischief after all.”
Sullivan pitched well enough in the exhibition innings,
throwing underhand as even many professionals still did. The grandstand crowd forgot its first surprise at his ap
pearance and was cheering every called strike and miss. A
two-base hit in his first at bat brought them screaming to
their feet. But John Flood continued to be grim. Near the
end of the final exhibition inning, he excused himself and
walked down the left field foul line toward the Giants' dug
out. A policeman moved to stop him, but then several in
the grandstand recognized the Bull's Head Terror and be
gan chanting his name. John L. Sullivan was in mid-windup when he heard the sound. He stopped and turned, searching
the faces on the sidelines until he found John Flood, then
bowed with a flourish in his direction.
”
I didn't know they were friends,” Margaret said excit
edly.
“
Oh yes.” Tilden nodded. “John says after he fought
Sullivan they drank their way through half the bars and
clubs in New York. They did the same in Philadelphia and Chicago. John went with him on the road and worked his
corner for several fights while picking up a few of his own
along the way.”
Margaret watched as the inning ended on a grounder to
third. Sullivan bowed like an actor taking curtain calls;
then, before the cheers could thin, he strode off to the side
line, where he pounded the shoulders of the waiting John
Flood.
“
My goodness,” she exclaimed, “John Flood is a full
head taller than Mr. Sullivan. How on earth could he have
been beaten?”
“
It's mostly in the hands. Sullivan's are lightning fast
and he's able to hit much harder than other men.”
“
How could he hit harder,” she asked, “than a bear of
a man like John Flood?’'
“
Most bare-knuckle prizefighters,” Tilden explained,
“don't hit nearly as hard as you'd think. Heads, jaws, and elbows are much tougher than knuckles. A fighter must
protect his hands and wear the other man down with body blows and by slamming him to the ground, but most blows to the head must be pulled. Sullivan is different. Through
some freak of creation his hands are much stronger than
those of other men, so he's never reluctant to try for the
knockout punch.”
“
Oh look.” She peered through the glasses. ”I think they're quarreling.”
back and was walking him in the general direction of their
carriage. Annoyance was plain in the champion's manner. “
'I suspect John L. is being told of the evils of demon rum.
Though I think it's demon champagne in this case.”
“
John Flood doesn't drink at all, does he?”
ago. John will tell anyone who'll listen that it was alcohol
more than Sullivan's fists that denied him the heavyweight
belt. Now he's afraid that alcohol will take that belt away
from Sullivan. Sullivan just went thirty-nine rounds with a
man he easily knocked out in three, five years ago. And
he's about to be challenged by Jake Kilrain, a hard man
who takes his training seriously. I for one would have trou
ble betting on Sullivan.”
Oh.” Margaret touched her hair. “They're coming
here. They're coming to the carriage.”
John Flood's frown and John L. Sullivan's scowl turned to pleasant smiles as if on signal as they approached Til
den's hired landau. Sullivan doffed his cap with a glance
toward Margaret and extended a hand to Tilden. “Ah,
young Mr. Beckwith. You are looking well and fit, sir.
I
have become expert on the subject of fitness these last few
minutes.”
John Flood cleared his throat. “‘May I present Mrs. Char
lotte Whitney,” he said, sparing Tilden the need to lie to
an old acquaintance.
Your most bedazzled servant, madam.” He bowed.
“May I say that you are the loveliest flower I've seen this
summer.”
lant, Mr. Sullivan?”
Only champions, madam. It comes with the job. Certain
others, as a rule, remain tiresome nags for the rest of their
lives.” He turned to Tilden, throwing an elbow into John
Flood's stomach in the process. “Your father, Tilden. I
trust he is well?”
He is retired to Charleston and he writes that the sea
air is having good effect. A better tonic, of course, would
be the news that you've beaten Jake Kilrain.”
“
Then I shall make a point of it, sir.”
“
Can you picnic with us, Mr. Sullivan?” Margaret
asked. “We have fried chicken, orange juice, and some
wonderful canned peaches in syrup.”
John Flood coughed again.
”
I can imagine no finer lunch, Mrs. Whitney, and no
grander company with one oversized exception. I have peo
ple waiting for me who will not make faces with every bite
I take. Another time perhaps.”
“
We must make a point of that as well, sir.”
“
Your servant, madam.”
thought as Tilden attempted to follow the action while responding to Margaret's frequent questions about the cham
pion. She was thrilled that he and Tilden knew each other
in spite of Tilden’s insistence that Sullivan probably would not have remembered his name but for John Flood remind
ing him as they approached the carriage. At the seventh-
inning stretch, a new custom unique to the Polo Grounds, John Flood asked if he might excuse himself and return
downtown by other means. There were a few more things
he wished to say to Sullivan about his ruinous habits. It
was time, he said, that someone not in awe of him stepped
forward to take him in hand.
A few days later, Tilden noticed an item in the sports
pages of the
New York World
which read uncannily like
the exchange that had occurred with Sullivan, right down
to the record of .his two fights with Mitchell and his reluc
tance to partake of peaches in heavy syrup, having prom
ised a return to form and a victory over Jake Kilrain, a hard
man who took his training seriously. The article carried no
byline. But Tilden recalled that Margaret had been briefly
in the
World's
employ, and he recalled the tablet from
which he'd torn the page to record his promise of fidelity.
Many of the pages had been filled in her fine hand with
what seemed like random notes. “Is it possible, my dearest
Margaret,” he asked when they dined that night at the Claremont, “that I am acquainted with the author of this
piece?”