Chapter Thirty Two

When he reached the hotel’s u-shaped driveway, hastily stuffed valise in hand, James Farley was disappointed to see other guests already taking the only hansom cab in sight.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” he muttered to himself. After pacing back and forth for a few minutes, fruitlessly hoping for another cab, Farley set off down the drive. He glanced at his pocket watch, “Thirty minutes to departure,” he told himself both as a warning and a promise.

Farley tried not to break into a run. It would be too conspicuous and the police had no reason to suspect he was involved. Of course, he’d performed his share of skullduggery in the past. But when he pulled something off, he made damn sure the evidence disappeared. He should have known this whole operation was doomed to fail when Sinclair grabbed the wrong woman. Nothing went right after that. Not that it was Sinclair’s fault. Who knew they were twins? That twit he was paying money to, probably knew. Just didn’t think it was worth mentioning. And, why would he have said anything? It’s not like Farley told the informer about their plans to kidnap Rachel Levy.

Women. He should have known this job would have problems. Damn women were scrappers and most of the operatives he used hesitated to lay a hand on them. That’s why he’d hired Paul Sinclair. The Chicago man was supposed to be the best when it came to sweet-talking a woman into going wherever he wanted her to go. For sure, Sinclair got that one laundry gal to blab but that had been the extent of his sweet-talking success. And the success had been short-lived since she’d clammed up right quick.

Farley irritably shifted his valise to his other hand and again looked for a cab on the street. All he saw were pedestrians and that electric trolley. Maybe he should grab a ride on that. It was heading the right direction. The trolley stopped at the corner and he hopped aboard, handing the conductor a few coins. “Keep the change,” he told the uniformed man.

Once settled onto a wood slat seat, Farley mulled over his failure. “Where were those damned operatives, anyway? The last few days he’d been working blind. It wasn’t like he could slink around, buying drinks for the drivers and wheedling information from them. That was the job of the two missing men.

Farley’s face twisted in a sour smile. Old Cobb was going to have his hands full the next few days. He’d have to make his own deal with the strikebreakers. They were an unruly bunch. A bit too fond of head thumping, even women’s heads. Liked to show they were tough. Without him there to control them he doubted they’d hold back just because the picketers were women.

The late morning heat was raising sweat on his brow. Farley glanced at his watch. He’d reach Union Station in another few minutes. That would give him fifteen minutes to buy his ticket and hop on the eastbound train. What could they trace back to him? He feverishly tried to remember all he’d done.

He’d had nothing to do with the fire and murder. But he’d been stupid. He was so sure that it wasn’t his operatives that burnt the laundry down that he’d stepped in to push the police investigation in the right direction. All he’d done was draw attention to himself.

He was also clear on the kidnappings because he knew that the coastal steamer was long gone by now. It wasn’t stopping until it reached ‘Frisco. That hop-head Sinclair wouldn’t say anything. In fact, once he realized Farley was gone, Sinclair would leave town.

The two operatives were a loose end if they ever turned up but he never asked them to do anything illegal. Nothing wrong with asking them to spend time with the delivery drivers to pick up bits of information.

By the time Farley climbed down from the trolley he felt reassured. He had nothing to worry about because he was just a few minutes away from leaving Portland, Oregon. He planned never to return. This was one job he wouldn’t be bragging about.

Farley was standing in the ticket line, his valise at his feet, when someone tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Farley, isn’t it?” said a somewhat familiar voice. Farley glanced around and was horrified to see the same police officer to whom he’d spoken at the laundry fire scene.

“Why, umm, it Officer Bingham isn’t it?” he spluttered in surprise and fear as sweat popped out on his brow.

“That’s right,” said the police officer. “Are you leaving our city, then?”

“Yes, yes, business calls. I’ve enjoyed my stay but I’ve been summoned back to the home office,” Farley said while silently cursing himself for sounding overly jolly.

“And what business might that be, Mr. Farley? My sergeant was a bit miffed that I forgot to ask you that question.” The police officer’s face communicated only polite interest in Farley’s answer.

Farley mentally flailed about before finally saying, “Well, I hardly think my business should be of any interest but, that said, I was here in your fair city trying to locate an outlet for a line of parlor organs my company sells.”

The police officer’s eyebrow arched quizzically below the rim of his helmet. “And were you successful?”

Farley thought quickly. He couldn’t think of the name of any establishment that might sell parlor organs. Why the hell had he picked something as unusual as parlor organs? If the plod asked any questions about organs he’d be fumbling for an answer. “Nope, no such luck. Afraid I’m heading back to Chicago an utter failure.” He tried to shape his face into one of disappointment.

“Hmm,” was the police officer’s only response as he stood looking at Farley, who soon shifted uneasily beneath the gaze.

Then the officer’s face hardened. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me to the police station,” he said, taking hold of Farley’s elbow and drawing him out of line.

“What!” Farley spluttered. “I’ll miss my train. It’s leaving in just ten minutes!”

The officer nodded. “Yes, you certainly will miss your train.”

“But, why? I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

That answer caused the policeman to smile grimly and pull a little more forcefully on Farley’s elbow. “Well, that’s not exactly true, is it Mr. Farley? We’ll probably begin by discussing why you just lied to me about your business here in Portland and go on from there.” The police officer gestured toward the floor. “You might want to pick up your valise and bring it along. You won’t want to leave it here on the floor. Someone might steal it. We don’t want to encourage crime, do we?”

Lucinda was staring out the coach window, her face softly lit by tree-dappled sunlight. She was lovely to look at with her honey-colored hair, cornflower blue eyes and curvaceous figure. Today she’d certainly dressed to impress. No one in either street or shop would have failed to admire her. But, he preferred seeing her without the face paint and wearing plain gingham. Whoa, don’t go there he told himself. He turned his attention toward their prisoner, Paul Sinclair and was not happy to see the white slaver openly admiring Lucinda.

“Miss Collins, perhaps you would trade seats with me? That way I can keep a better eye on our guest here,” he said, nodding toward Sinclair. “And, you won’t have to ride facing backwards.”

She smiled at him with what he took to be a hint of relief. No doubt she’d noticed Sinclair’s interest. Sage saw with satisfaction that once they’d exchanged seats, she was careful to place her handbag between herself and Sinclair. Sinclair noticed as well because he sent Sage a knowing smile, dropped his bowler low over his forehead and settled back apparently intent on napping. Within minutes his mouth was slack and he was, to every appearance, sound asleep despite the coach’s rocking. Sage looked at Fong and he too looked as if he’d left for a dream world.

When Sage looked back at Lucinda he was startled to see those bright eyes fixed on his face before she quickly looked away. He turned to stare outside at trees dusty from weeks of no rain. There was very little traffic on the road but that didn’t help the driver avoid jolting in and out of ruts and potholes. While he wished they were making faster time, a tiny part of him wished this coach ride would last forever.

“Lucinda,” he said softly.

She slowly turned her head from the window and simply looked at him. Her eyes were unguarded, open and waiting. He swallowed hard.

“Umm, how long have you had this coach?” was the best he could think to say.

Disappointment shadowed her eyes and the corner of her mouth quirked upward before she said matter-of-factly, “Just bought it last week. The ladies and I like to go on shopping outings during the day. I thought we’d even plan some country picnics.”

Sage nodded politely along with her words even as he choked back the questions he really wanted to ask. “You probably never planned to go as far as Astoria today,” he said. “I hope your coach and horses don’t get damaged in this escapade,” he added. His lips felt stiff as he mouthed the stilted words.

She sighed but agreed, “Yes, I never once considered driving to Astoria. As for the coach, the salesman assured me that it is ‘top of the line’. Our little trip will be a good test of that guarantee.”

“I expect you’ll be selling it when you move back to Chicago. If so, I might be interested in buying it,” Sage said finally turning toward the topic he dreaded.

His comment caused her smooth forehead to crinkle, “Move to Chicago?” she parroted. “Why would I move to Chicago?”

Before Sage could answer, there was a jolt, the coach tilted first right and skewed left before coming to an abrupt halt. The jolt sent Lucinda slamming forward into Sage who grabbed her and held on tight. Sinclair came awake as did Fong. An eye roll from Fong, suggested he’d been listening to their conversation and was unimpressed with Sage’s communication skills.

Their trailing dust quickly caught up to roil past the carriage which rocked a bit as the driver dismounted onto the dirt road. Seconds later soft cursing sounded outside. The man’s grizzled face appeared in the door window. Sage leaned over, unlatched the door and swung it open.

The man took off his hat and wiped his brow with a kerchief. Slapping the hat back on his head, he said, “I’m sorry Miss Collins but we ain’t a’goin nowhere. That big pothole back there done cracked our axle bad. It ain’t safe to drive on her until it’s been bound up.”

Sage looked at Sinclair who sat upright in his corner. How could they keep the man a prisoner if they had to proceed afoot? Sinclair’s lip twisted in a wry smile and he said, with an airy wave of his hand, “Don’t worry about me. I’ve made my choice. If I can do anything to save Rebecca and the other two, I’ll do it. I won’t be running away. I’m done with hiding my head in the dirt.”

Fong and Sage exchanged looks. Fong gave a what-the-hell shrug so Sage said, “Okay then, Sinclair. I’m going to take you at your word and not tie you up. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you.

The four of them climbed down from the coach to stand beside it. Not a farmhouse was in sight. After the rattle and groan of the racing coach, the stillness laid heavy on the ears until the startled birds once again began to chirp and twitter.

Sage turned toward the coach driver who stood beside the coach, studying one of the big wheels and rubbing the back of his neck. “Where are we?” Sage asked.

The driver removed his hat, holding it in his rough hands. “’Bout three miles south of Scappoose. I’ll take one of the horses and trot up there to fetch something to tie up that break so we can limp on into town. This coach won’t be making Astoria today.” The man looked down, clearly expecting an explosion of blame.

Lucinda merely patted his arm. The four of them looked at each other in consternation. “Maybe the four of us should ride the horses to Scappoose. We can send someone back with the repair material while we hire another vehicle to take us to Astoria,” Sage said, scrambling to find a solution to the dilemma. No one had a better idea so they went to the front of the coach where the two horses were softly blowing, no doubt welcoming the halt.

“Stop!” commanded Fong in a loud voice. Everyone froze, watching as he turned toward the river. He pointed at the train tracks gleaming in the morning sunlight. “Maybe we catch train that is coming,” he suggested. Sage strained to hear the rumble of an approaching train but heard only the horses blowing and the birds. Still, he trusted Fong. Seconds later they were running toward the tracks, following Fong. Lucinda ran close behind the Chinese man, the hem of her fancy dress hiked high above her shoe tops.

“There’s no sense spilling tears as long as we’ve got hope,” Mae admonished Rachel’s sister whom she’d finally met. The young woman was thin and clearly weak from her long ordeal so Mae’s tone was tenderly chiding. “You’ve done real good so far, Rebecca gal. Hadn’t been for your scratchings on that whorehouse wall, we’d never have found you and your sister,” she said and was gratified to see the girl’s back stiffen and chin raise.

Mae took the few steps to the porthole. Outside the forest came down to the river’s edge, where leafy trees, drooping willows and tall reeds shone green in the morning sun. She contemplated the porthole with its bolted window as she rubbed her shoulder. That scoundrel had pretty near yanked it out of its socket when shoving her inside this dinky cabin. She smiled wryly. He’d probably been getting even for the stomping she’d done on his foot and the gouge she’d likely made in his shin bone. She might have been woozy, but Fong’s lessons had still worked. She hoped she’d get a chance to tell him. At least she’d been right, the sisters were captives on the Maggie Jane. She smiled again. Maybe this is what they meant when they said being proved right could be a “cold comfort”.

She looked at the window bolts, then back out at the shore. The coastal steamer was sticking to the middle of the river. Even if they could somehow unbolt the window and slip out, they’d have to swim a great distance to shore. Too great. People were always dying in the Columbia from the cold water—even now during the hottest part of the summer. Besides, she was a darn poor swimmer at best. Growing up in Appalachia there hadn’t been many swimming holes. Rocky creeks and tumbling rivers was how the water left the hollers.

She gave up on the window. Turning, she surveyed the cabin with a look. She didn’t need more. There was barely room to turn around. Just two bunk beds hanging on the wall, a stained felt mattress rolled up against the wall and a chipped chamber pot shoved into the corner. Everything in sight was grimy and smelled of burning coal. They probably hadn’t scrubbed it in decades. No doubt ticks, fleas and other vermin made cozy inside the mattresses.

The two sisters sat on the edge of the bottom bunk. Rachel was softly reassuring her sister but her voice turned determined when she looked at Mae and asked, “Okay Mae. What are we going to do? Sinclair told Rebecca that they are sending us to Panama. He wouldn’t tell her why or what was going to happen once we got there. But we’ve heard stories. There’s a real shortage of women.” Though their eyes were big with worry, their proud faces were fierce.

“We’ll die first,” Rachel calmly vowed and her sister nodded in agreement.

Mae wasn’t surprised to hear the resolve in Rachel’s voice. The young woman had never faltered when leading the laundry women. Nor had she been anything but strong when the mangle mashed Debbie’s hand. The same when Sinclair fired her at the end of the workday. Even when her beloved sister had gone missing, Rachel hid her terror and carried on. Faltering just wasn’t Rachel’s style. That was reassuring. The last thing they needed was to fall apart, to turn too stunned by the situation to help themselves.

Mae glanced around. “Well, I don’t suppose either of you have any matches?” The sisters shook their heads. “I guess we can’t set this tub afire then.” She looked up at the ceiling, less than two feet above her head. “How about something hard enough to break the porthole glass? If we got it open maybe we could signal someone on the riverbank? Shout for help before they could get in the door.” Again the sisters offered only shakes of their heads.

Mae looked around again, rubbed her hands together and stepped the few feet over to the bunks. She gestured them to get up off the bunk bed and once they were standing, she flipped back the mattress covering the bottom bunk. “Good,” she proclaimed, pointing at the flat metal slats serving as bed springs.

Grabbing hold of the upper bunk she hiked up her skirt, raised her foot and slammed it down onto one of the slats. It broke free of the frame and clattered onto the floor. Smiling with satisfaction she picked it up and showed it to the sisters. “A bit of work and we can turn these slats into decent pig pokers,” she promised. “Anyone coming through that door is going to get a surprise. We’ll overpower him and get ourselves up on deck.” She wasn’t sure what they could do once they were on deck, just trusting that a change in their situation would lead to an opportunity.

The two other women stepped forward, grabbed the upper bunk and stomped. Real anger powered those stomps. Soon the three of them were wrapping strips of torn blanket around one end of the slats to protect their hands should they be able to stab or brain their captors.

As they ripped, wrapped and tied, Mae talked about growing up in the Appalachian coal fields. “It was god awful hard and dangerous work for my dad and other men. It’s bad now, but it was worse then. The mine owners refused to install emergency exits, fresh air pumping systems, or to make provision for safe shoring inside the mine. In Schuylkill County where I was raised, 566 miners were killed between the year I was born and my seventh birthday. And that don’t account for the nearly 1,700 who were seriously injured.”

“So the miners decided to form a union. Lickety-split the mine owners hired thugs who beat and killed. That made the miners mad and they decided to give the mine owners and thugs a taste of their own medicine. Of course, it only got worse. The mine owner’s thugs murdered my ma’s sister and her whole family. So, my ma and pa got involved. The men were working 12 hour days, six days a week, down in the mine.

My ma and the other women worked in the sorting shed but they were above ground and could travel around a bit. They carried secret messages. It was dangerous time. But folks felt they had to do something. Otherwise they were nothing but slaves making other men rich. Terrible things happened to my pa and other men in that dirty old mining town. I got old enough, I tried to help.”

She solemnly studied the two young women beside her. “You know, you two are carrying on for those miners and the coalfield women like my mother. There’s always going to be men who’ll use people up and throw them away like they’re worth less than a year-old newspaper. It’s up to us to stop them.”

Turning from that somber topic, Mae told them a lively story involving an ornery mule and nasty rooster chasing revenue agents. Soon, both sisters were chuckling as they sat upon the floor mattress with their homemade weapons between their knees. Even as Mae talked, the judder of the steamer’s steel plates beneath them was a persistent reminder that they were traveling downriver toward the bottomless Pacific Ocean.