The Daughters of Jim Farrell Read online

  “Of course.” Kate smiled, glad that the hat hid his eyes, those eyes she found so unsettling. “But sometimes, Joshua, you’re too cautious. I see no value in waiting to question Mr. Baxter. And I’m determined to go with or without you.”

  “I can see that.” Joshua tilted his hat backward and when he did, she saw that his blue eyes shimmered with pleasure. “But the way Samuel Baxter wields a hammer you just might want to rethink the matter.”

  “Then be my bodyguard. I’ll even let you do all the talking.” Kate offered him her arm. “Peace?”

  “Peace,” he said, laughing.

  It was full sun by the time they reached the cooperage where Samuel Baxter was busy cupping the inside of a stave with a shaving tool. This time he made no pretense of not seeing them. He dropped his work, and picking up the broadax from his bench, held it in a threatening manner. “I thought I told you to stay off my property!”

  “I came to apologize,” Joshua said. “Seems I was out of line when I accused you of hiring those two ruffians to bully the colliery owners. We now know it wasn’t you at all, but Martin Roach.”

  “You . . . don’t know what you’re saying. And Mr. Roach won’t appreciate talk like that.” He brushed his dirty fingers across his lower lip and glared at Kate. “He’s a powerful man in this town now, and you, Miss Farrell, don’t have an important daddy to protect you anymore.”

  “I have the truth, sir, and need no protection. But I do have one question. When you found out that Mr. Roach was using threats and intimidation to broker his colliery sales, is that when you confronted him and demanded a bribe? And is that how he paid you for your silence? By listing his last two sales as yours?”

  Samuel Baxter’s face dropped. “Your presumption is staggering, Miss Farrell. And you have more nerve than any woman I know. But can you prove any of this?”

  “All in time, sir. For when Mr. Roach hears of this he’ll not be happy. As you said, he’s powerful, and the powerful always find someone else to blame. I’m sure he won’t have to look any further than right here for his scapegoat.”

  “No one’s going to make any kind of goat out of me!” Samuel Baxter growled, pointing a nubby finger at her, a finger that looked surprisingly like the butt of a cigar. “You be careful, Missy, or you’re gonna find yourself in a heap of trouble! Mr. Roach knows how to protect his friends.”

  “And just what makes you think you’re Mr. Roach’s friend?” Kate saw a look of panic sweep over Baxter’s face. And as she and Joshua turned and walked away, Kate could still feel the cooper’s eyes on her.

  They went a good distance before Joshua, who had remained silent all this time, pulled Kate to a stop. “I thought you were going to let me do all the talking.”

  “I was. But then the words just popped out. He made me so angry when . . . .”

  “You were rash back there, Kate. Sometimes you let your feelings get the best of you. I know it’s because you are a woman with a passionate nature, one who feels deeply. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I have become so . . . fond of you. But passion in itself is not a virtue unless it’s coupled with self-control.”

  As they walked the rest of the way home in silence, Kate replayed Joshua’s words in her mind. He was right. Her emotions needed to be tempered by self-control. That’s why she was determined not to lose her heart to someone who would be here today and gone tomorrow. Someone who lived in the cross-hairs of danger. But as they continued walking, she knew it was already too late.

  Kate sat in the back parlor listening to Joshua lay out what he claimed was a promising beginning toward proving her father’s innocence. She was glad that in addition to her sisters, Mother was present, too. It was the first time Mother had taken an interest in any of Joshua’s findings.

  They all sat quietly while Joshua stood by the hearth, now covered with the hand painted screen Charlotte had decorated in delicate yellow, blue and magenta flowers, and which would remain in place throughout the warm weather.

  “What we know for certain, Mrs. Farrell,” Joshua said, focusing on the elder Farrell, “is that your husband did not hire anyone to frighten Roger Blakely into selling,”

  “I could have told you that.” Mother sat in the old rocker, knitting a new winter blanket for one of the many bedrooms.

  Though her voice was sweet and not a bit condescending, Joshua appeared embarrassed. “Yes, well, I think we can also add this additional fact to our case—it was Martin Roach who did the hiring. Further investigation is necessary, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find that most, if not all, of his colliery sales were coerced. And if this proves true, then based on Samuel Baxter’s reaction today, it’s possible he found out and began blackmailing Roach, which would explain how Samuel Baxter shows two collieries to his credit when, according to the railroad, he was never officially enlisted as one of their agents. Even so, the railroad wasn’t bothered by his involvement, being more than happy to add those collieries to their string.”

  Kate watched Joshua smile with obvious pleasure at being able to give them such good news. She then glanced at the others. They didn’t seem excited at all. Mother was the most disappointing, for she hardly looked up from her knitting, and when she did, her face was so blank it was as if Joshua had just read the coal tonnage figures for Schuylkill County.

  Charlotte, too, showed little emotion. She just sat in one of the damask-covered chairs with her hands folded, looking a bit confused. Kate sighed. She shouldn’t be disappointed. Charlotte’s disposition had markedly improved since Joshua’s revelation about Benjamin’s grandfather. Her grooming, too. It was as fastidious as it had always been. Even now, she sat with her pretty ruffled dress spread about her just so, and with every blond curl neatly arrayed. But one thing hadn’t changed, she still refused to wear the pearls she was once so proud of.

  Virginia was another matter. She appeared deep in thought, her brow knotted. Finally she spoke. “I have two questions. The first is: if, as you say, all this coercion took place, why didn’t the railroad know about it? Were contracts not signed? Opportunities for the truth to come out? How could Martin Roach perpetrate such a travesty, if indeed he did so? And the second question is one I don’t believe anyone has ever asked, even at the trial, and has only now occurred to me as well. What was the information Mr. Blakely wanted to give Father? According to Father, Mr. Blakely’s note indicated he had something important to discuss.”

  Everyone looked at Mother. And for the first time, she stopped knitting. “Yes, that’s correct. Your father and Mr. Blakely, together, had been looking into a matter for some time. But I can’t say what, since he seldom involved me in his business. However, on that night he did tell me he was going to meet Mr. Blakely about something important, and when I asked him if it concerned the selling of the colliery, he said, ‘no,’ and as you remember, that is what he maintained throughout the trial.”

  Virginia sat on the edge of her chair. “Then we must ask, was this information important enough for someone to kill him in order to keep it a secret?”

  Kate pressed her hands together. “Virginia, you’re amazing! Absolutely amazing! I’m shocked no one has thought to ask this before.” She turned to Joshua. “Do you think it’s possible that Father and Mr. Blakely also found out what Martin Roach was doing, and were trying to gather evidence?”

  Joshua shrugged. “According to the transcript of the trial, your father claimed he never learned what Mr. Blakely wanted to tell him since he was already dead when he arrived. Besides that, he never indicated they were investigating Mr. Roach. If your father had possessed any proof that could clear his name, surely he would have used it during the trial. And his notebook is inconclusive, though one could argue, by the way he listed the collieries, that he had been checking into them. But it’s hardly credible evidence, nothing that would hold up in court.”

  But Kate wasn’t convinced. She knew Virginia had a s
ense about these things; that Virginia could smell a story where others couldn’t. Even before all her articles in the Monitor, which Kate had been secretly reading, Virginia had a nose for news and a way of piecing things together. Once Virginia had even helped uncover the corruption of a former sheriff by observing how he dealt with the Irish Sheet Iron Gang and the Welsh Modocs—rival gangs that often clashed on weekends in Mahanoy City and the Shenandoah area. She had noted that only members of the Sheet Iron Gang were ever arrested, and when she pointed that out and someone finally got around to investigating, it turned out that the Modocs paid the sheriff a monthly sum to protect their members.

  Kate settled back in her chair. Yes she had always been proud of Virginia’s fine mind and deductive powers—the very qualities Kate hoped would ultimately save Virginia from her reckless relationship with Patrick O’Brien. For surely Virginia’s good sense would prevail in the end.

  “Well,” Joshua said, walking up to Kate’s chair and smiling at her in a way that belied he realized there were still others in the room, “I think we’re getting close to solving this case.”

  “I hear speculation, nothing more. Where is your proof?” Mother said, resuming her knitting.

  Two days later, Jasper Wright, who seemed to extract more than teeth in his dental office, and who knew what was going on in Sweet Air well before most others, told Kate that the cooper, Samuel Baxter, had suddenly up and moved without a word to anyone, and wasn’t that strange after fixing up his house like that? But Kate didn’t think it strange. In spite of Mother’s misgivings, it told her they were closer than ever to clearing Father’s name.

  CHAPTER 7

  Virginia held her breath as she hurried to the front door. Widow Clayton had just told her a young boy was waiting outside, a boy with only one hand.

  “Hello, Michael.” Virginia smiled down at the ragged child and tried to appear calm as she wondered what had brought him here.

  “Miss Virginia, there’s been a mishap at the mine.”

  “It’s not Patrick, is it?”

  “No ma’am. He’s as fit as ever.”

  She heaved a sigh of relief then frowned. “I heard no breaker whistle.”

  “No ma’am. Superintendent Foley wouldn’t let no one sound it.” Perspiration-soaked ringlets hugged his forehead like soggy wool as he clutched his cloth cap and squinted at her through the blinding sun.

  “Well come in and tell me about it,” Virginia said, wanting to give the boy some relief from the heat.

  “Oh, no Miss Virginia! I’m not fit for a respectable parlor. My clothes . . . .” He swept his cap across his tattered overalls and scuffed, dusty boots.

  “Then come into the kitchen. I’ll pour you a lemonade while you tell me what happened.” Virginia pulled him into the house.

  The house was nearly empty. Mother, Kate, and Charlotte had gone to the large furniture store in Pottsville to purchase a small tufted chair and footstool to replace the hard Windsor chair in Widow Clayton’s room; the chair Widow Clayton insisted was giving her lumbago. And of the boarders, only Widow Clayton was in the parlor, quietly engrossed in needlework.

  Would she have invited Michael in if the house had been full? She thought of Patrick’s accusations concerning her pride and knew they were true. But little Michael O’Malley seemed pleased enough by her invitation, for he accompanied her without a word, his eyes growing larger when he saw the beautiful front parlor then the huge, well-stocked kitchen.

  She pulled a chair up to one of the long wooden tables and gestured for him to sit. And as he settled in, she retrieved the pitcher of lemonade from the large oak icebox that Mother claimed was lined with zinc and insulated with cork, then poured him a tall glass. From a cloth-covered platter, she took two sizable oatmeal cookies, put them on a small plate and placed it, and the glass, in front of him.

  “Miss Virginia, is this all for me?”

  “It is, and before you go, I’ll wrap two more cookies in paper for you to take.”

  Michael began stuffing the cookies into his mouth, first one then the other, as if he had never tasted anything so good or perhaps fearing she’d change her mind and take them back.

  Virginia waited for him to finish; able to do so only because she already knew his information didn’t concern Patrick O’Brien. Still, she felt uneasy. No mine mishap was good news.

  He drained his glass, then wiped the crumbs from his chin with dirty fingers. “It was a bad mornin’ at the Mattson. Patrick, he don’t know I’m here. I came because I thought you should know that two of his friends died today. ‘Troublemakers’ the mine boss called ‘em, just because they was complainin’ about how the railroad wanted everyone to do more work for less pay.”

  Michael ran his tongue over his lips as though still tasting the lemonade, then frowned. “And you know what they do with troublemakers—assign ‘em to monkey holes where the coal seams can be so narrow a man has to crawl on his hands and knees. Or they send ‘em to work in knee-deep water, or where the roof is unstable, which is where they sent them two. And that’s what did it. The roof collapsed right on top of ‘em. They never had a chance.”

  “Oh, Michael, how terrible! I’m so sorry. Naturally I’ll be at the wake. Tell Patrick that. When is it?”

  “Won’t be no wake. They were single and left no kin, and no money neither. And the keg fund is empty on account of it goin’ to Mrs. O’Brien so she could give her Tom a nice send off, and for travelin’ money to Pittsburg for her and her brood.”

  Virginia knew about the keg fund, a fund miners contributed to monthly to help widows pay funeral expenses and, if possible, a month or two of rent. “Then . . . what will happen to these men?” Though she knew the answer she was praying she was wrong.

  “Oh, they’ve already been loaded on a wagon and are on their way to one of them medical schools. Though from what I hear there’s nothing of use left except maybe a few organs and a limb or . . . .”

  “Thank you, Michael.” Virginia couldn’t bear to hear any more, and marveled at the boy’s calm demeanor. She looked at him, his feet dangling, unable to touch the floor, but oh how old he seemed, more like a little man than a boy. Hardship had aged him, robbed him of his childhood. “I’d like to send a note to Patrick. Will you wait?”

  When he nodded, Virginia wrapped up two more cookies and handed them to him before going upstairs to the library where she wrote Patrick a hasty note telling him how sorry she was about his friends, and that if he wanted, she’d be willing to meet him at the church, Sunday. After taking a few pennies from her purse, she returned to the kitchen in time to see Michael shove his last cookie into his mouth. She tried not to smile as she wrapped up a few more before sending him on his way.

  But as she watched him disappear down the path, sadness overwhelmed her. Two men had died today without the world taking any notice. It was as if they had never existed.

  But she was wrong. Someone had noticed, for the next day she heard how Superintendent Foley received a note with a drawing of a coffin and crude lettering telling him to “leev town or die.” And the only thought that came to Virginia’s mind was: Did Patrick O’Brien send it?

  A storm was brewing. Virginia could feel it. Her articles and research had connected her with Higgins Patch and those who lived there. In heart and mind, she was one of them now. That’s why the fomenting tempest troubled her so. But what could be done? The Philadelphia and Reading Railroad now owned more than eighty thousand acres of coal country and ninety-eight collieries, and they were well on their way to defeating many of the independent holdouts with their price fixing and restricting the amount of coal they would haul regardless of how much an independent colliery mined, making it impossible for the independents to compete with what had become a huge corporation. And though no one liked it, this brewing storm was kept at bay by the heavy hand of the Coal and Iron Police, and everybody knew it was only a
matter of time before something gave way.

  So Virginia was not surprised when, that morning, she and the boarders learned how Superintendent Foley, who had failed to heed the coffin notice, was beaten and left for dead on one of the dirt footpaths leading to the Mattson Colliery.

  What would Father think? Would he regret his role? After all, as a land agent for the railroad he was not blameless for the current problems. Would he try to dissuade Franklin B. Gowen from gobbling up the remaining lower anthracite region? Would he speak out against the railroad’s harsh, unfair tactics, and its abuse of the miners? She thought so. Father had been a fair-minded man who believed in justice.

  But Patrick O’Brien also believed in justice, though it had little resemblance to Father’s. Had Patrick been part of the attack on Superintendent Foley? Her heart fell. Patrick was rash. He would want to avenge his friends. And he was powerful; powerful enough to kill someone with his fists. She had to dissuade him from further folly; to stop him before someone did die. If she told Patrick about the new article she was working on—a scathing piece concerning the railroad, and backed by data from the respected Pennsylvania Bureau of Industrial Statistics—perhaps it would convince him there were better ways of winning an issue other than violence. The Bureau’s recent “Report on Labor” extolled the WBA for their peaceful work in trying to better labor relations while warning of the danger posed by the unbridled acquisition of collieries by the Reading Railroad.

  Surely Patrick would see the need for patience, and allow public opinion to have a chance to turn back the storm. Even the Reading Railroad wasn’t impervious to scorn and outrage. The course of many events had been changed by both. This was the way to go. Violence only begat more violence. But he was working in the mine now. If she wanted to see him tonight she’d have to send a note. She thought of Michael O’Malley. He’d be able to find Patrick after work and give him her message to meet at the church. And Superintendent Foley? What if he died? What would happen then?