The Daughters of Jim Farrell Page 7

  When the tea had steeped and Mary filled the cups, including the fourth cup that sat in the empty place by Virginia, Joshua Adams cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien, not only for the tea but for carrying the notes back and forth between your husband and me. I am most eager to hear what he has to say.” Joshua looked around. “But he doesn’t appear to be here. Will he be home soon?”

  “Not likely. He’s at the pub drinkin’ his tonic of whiskey and beer. It’s for the lungs, don’t you know. He’s losin’ his wind. Claims he’s got the miners’ asthma. I kept tellin’ him no, then the other day he coughed up blood, and that was that. No use sayin’ any more about it. But ‘tis not him you need to be talkin’ to. He knows nothin’ that would interest you. It is himself you need to be askin.’” Mary pointed to a corner cluttered with barrels.

  It took a moment to see him, the man who had been in the shadows all this time. He seemed to blend into the dark like a vapor. Then he moved. He was a large man, with broad shoulders and strong, sinewy arms well suited for wielding a pick or drill or shovel. Even his overalls and heavy boots were the garb of a laborer. He moved slowly, and Kate wondered if it wasn’t so he could size them all up. When he reached the sphere of lamp light, Kate saw that he was a plain man with blunt features, dark brooding eyes, and thick unruly, black hair that made him look wild.

  He stood by the table, studying each of them in turn, then finally took the empty seat beside Virginia. “I’d not be speakin’ to you at all if my sister had not talked me into it.” His voice was deep, his brogue even thicker than Mary’s. “She said I owed it to your mum, a woman well known here in these parts for her Christian charity. And since you’re stirrin’ things up now, my sister thinks your mum needs to hear what I know, though I’m not at all sure what good it will do. And I doubt it will bring her any peace.”

  By the thickness of his brogue, that it had not time to soften, Kate guessed he had only been in this country a year or two. To be sure, he was an “Irish speaker” like his sister, and spoke Gaelic. And he was from Donegal. Kate knew that many Irish in Higgins Patch came from County Donegal, that part of Northern Ireland that was rural, poor and Catholic. And though Kate was Irish herself, she was not only third generation American, but her Irish roots were from the soil further south, in Protestant County Dublin. And the two couldn’t be further apart.

  Dublin was heavily influenced by the English, having once been the seat of British rule in Ireland, while Donegal was mired in Gaelic culture and superstition. People claimed it was County Donegal that many of the Molly Maguires had called home, but Kate never believed it. Until now.

  “I appreciate your willingness to see us,” Kate said, suddenly wanting this meeting to be over. “And thank you for your kind words concerning my mother.”

  “Shall we get on with it?” Joshua Adams pushed aside his tea and leaned over the table.

  “Can we not know your name first, sir?” Virginia said, one eyebrow arched and looking so fetching Kate cringed from worrying that this dark stranger would think so too. Virginia had removed her hooded black cloak and it now lay folded on the bench beside her. Out of a desire to not embarrass their hostess with a show of finery, Virginia’s dress, like Kate’s, was void of the normal frills associated with feminine fashion. Even so, she looked lovely.

  “Your name, sir?” Virginia repeated.

  “It’s Patrick. Patrick O’Brien,” the man said, still looking as disagreeable as a snake while he studied Virginia. “And I’ll not be rushin’ now, Mr. Adams.” He turned to glare at the Pinkerton. “Do you not learn manners where you come from? Here, in this house, we allow our guests to finish their tea before talkin’ business.”

  “I thought I was being mannerly, Mr. O’Brien. My only intention was to conclude this matter as quickly as possible and leave you to your rest. I assumed you’d want the balance of the evening to yourself.”

  “I would, indeed. But it will be the devil to pay if my sister thought I insulted you by hurryin’ your visit. She places great store in Mrs. Farrell’s friendship, and would not be pleased if my treatment of you was less than proper.” He glanced at his sister, and for the first time the darkness left his face as he smiled.

  Joshua Adams picked up his cup and drained it. “Excellent tea, Mrs. O’Brien.” Then he returned the cup to its saucer. “Your gracious hospitality is most appreciated.”

  “Ah, there now.” Patrick O’Brien planted his large hands on the table. “Let us talk about more serious matters. But first I would see the money you promised. My sister didn’t want me takin’ it, but I’m not ashamed to say we could use it. A day’s wage is still a day’s wage.”

  Kate pulled a handful of coins from her cloak pocket, and making sure all ninety-six cents was there, put it on the table in front of him. To her surprise he didn’t even look at it.

  “Shortly before Mr. Blakely’s death, two men came askin’ if I wanted to earn some money.” Patrick looked directly at Joshua Adams. “When I inquired just how would this money be made, they said they had need of a man my size, a man who could scare some sense into the likes of Mr. Blakely. ‘Convince him,’ they says to me ‘to sell to the railroad and make it look like the work of the Mollies.’”

  “Why would these men come to you? Why would anyone think you’d be interested in that kind of job?” Joshua said, making Kate want to give him a discreet kick under the table, but she restrained herself.

  “Is that your way of askin’ if I’m one of ‘em? One of the Molly Maguires?” Patrick’s face darkened as he leaned his elbows on the table. “And if I was now, would I be tellin’ the likes of you?”

  “Patrick, be civil,” admonished Mary O’Brien as she left her place by the stove and stood near her brother.

  “I know what the newspapers say. How they call the Mollies ‘wild Irish’ and ‘illiterate brutes’ who drink too much and use their fists instead of their brains to settle matters. But what they don’t say is how the English and Welsh always get the best jobs while the Irish are passed over and forced into doin’ the work of butties or laborers, fillin’ sometimes as many as six to seven coal cars a day and gettin’ only one-third the wages. And though we’re willin’ to work full coal that’s hardly good enough for the new masters. Now that the railroad has taken over the Mattson they want us to do more work for less pay. Imagine anyone tellin’ them swells in their fancy suits that they should haul more coal and be paid less for the privilege. But they can do as they please, can’t they now? Haven’t they got their railroad police crackin’ the heads of anyone they think is makin’ trouble for them at their collieries? And that’s not all. Them newspapers don’t tell you how the collieries force workers to buy everything from their company store, do they? A store where they charge three times what a thing is worth. The ‘pluck-me’ store, everyone calls it.”

  “Patrick O’Brien, enough of that talk, now!” His sister placed her hand firmly on his shoulder.

  “You see what I have to put up with? A razor tongue she has.” Patrick gave his sister’s hand a pat. “I was only tryin’ to tell Mr. Adams, here, that the Mollies are just men like himself, hopin’ to make a better life. Is it wrong for a man to want a better life? For him and his family? To want to be paid fair wages? To work in a safe environment? And not havin’ to purchase his goods at the company store for fear of losin’ his job? And if this good life can’t be had for the workin’ and strivin’, and if a man finds himself facin’ injustice at every turn, with no one to help or even listen to his grievances, then I ask you now, doesn’t that man have the right to use his fists if need be? What difference the means? ‘Tis the end that matters.”

  “Oh saints preserve us! You’re wearin’ these good folks out!” His sister nudged him with her elbow. “Get to the part they’ve been waitin’ to hear.”

  “Yes . . . you want to know about those two men. Well, didn’t I show ‘em my knuckles. And
the toe of my boot, too. And what I told ‘em was that I’d have nothin’ to do with any business that meant harmin’ old Mr. Blakely. He was a fair man. His colliery one of the best. Didn’t he keep a Widow’s Row for those who lost their husbands in the mine? And never forced ‘em to take in so many boarders they had to sleep in shifts, neither. And I never did hear any talk of him orderin’ the coal cars to be topped off. Not like the Mattson Colliery who makes it a practice of framin’ their cars with extra boards so they can hold four tons each but only pay the miners for three. I bet you didn’t know that now, did you?

  “Mr. Blakely looked out for his workers, too. Never skimped on laggings or shorin’ timber. You could trust his roofs not to come down on a man and bury him alive. Same thing when it came to ‘robbin’ the pillars’. If it looked like there’d be trouble, he’d send men in to shore the roof, or he’d leave part of the pillar standin’.”

  He paused, and as Kate watched him take the delicate painted cup in his large, rough hand and gulp the strong inexpensive Indian tea, she remembered the stories her mother had told her about the dangerous practice of “robbing pillars” where solid pillars of coal, which were left to hold up the roof while the rest of the coal was extracted from a chamber, were finally removed, causing the roof to cave. Two of Mother’s relatives had died while robbing pillars.

  Patrick put down his cup. “Just know I respected Mr. Blakely and would never be part of doin’ him harm. There’s not a man in Schuylkill County who wouldn’t have been proud to work for that man if ever there was an openin’ in his colliery, and that’s a fact.”

  “So these men wanted you to scare Mr. Blakely into selling, and you refused? Did they ever tell you who they were working for? Who hired them?” Joshua Adams asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” returned both Kate and Joshua at the same time.

  Patrick O’Brien reached over and slowly gathered the coins lying on the table, then slipped them into the pocket of his overalls. “They said Jim Farrell sent ‘em.”

  “That’s a lie!” Kate said, springing to her feet. “How dare you defame my father’s name like that!”

  Patrick’s face clouded, but instead of the expected scowl, there was compassion in his eyes. “It may be a lie but ‘tis not my lie. ‘Tis what the two men told me, and that’s the honest truth.”

  Joshua Adams tugged on Kate’s arm forcing her to sit down.

  “Why didn’t this come out in the trial?” Kate said, feeling utterly miserable.

  “You think any here in the patch would willingly involve themselves in matters concernin’ the likes of Franklin B. Gowen? Everyone knew Mr. Farrell was in his employ. And it was clear they were goin’ to hang him anyways. My sister said all things considered, ‘twas no need of bringin’ any more hurt to Mrs. Farrell. A wife can’t be held responsible for everything her husband did.”

  For a long time all that could be heard was the sound of wind whistling between the boards.

  “It seems to me we need to look at this logically,” Virginia said, finally breaking the silence. “Either Father sent them . . . .”

  “Virginia!”

  “or someone else did. The question we should ask is ‘who had the most to gain?’ Some would say Father. There was, after all, a goodly commission involved but . . . .”

  “Virginia, this is hardly the place . . . .”

  “Kate, we must look at this objectively. You want the truth? Then let’s search for it. With open eyes. If we do that then we must say, yes, Father had something to gain, but he wasn’t the only one. Franklin B. Gowen had an even bigger stake. Everyone knows he’s looking to own all the mines in the county. And everyone agrees that the Blakely Colliery would be a great prize. But how would blaming the Mollies for any mischief serve Father? One could say it would divert attention from him and onto others. But it would help Mr. Gowen even more, for in order for him to realize his grand scheme of controlling the mines he must destroy the WBA, and he must destroy the Molly Maguires; the two things that stand in his way.”

  “Miss Virginia, I hardly think Mr. Gowen wants to destroy the Workingmen’s Benevolent Association or any other group seeking justice and working within the confines of the law.” Joshua rose from the bench looking agitated. “But we can explore these theories at a later date. I think we’ve taken up enough of Mr. O’Brien’s time.”

  Kate added her agreement with a curt nod. But when she rose she was startled by the expression on Patrick O’Brien’s face as he watched Virginia unfolded her cloak and drape it over her shoulders. The hardness had dissolved and was replaced by one of surprise—as though discovering something unexpected—and also by what Kate could only describe as, awe. His lips formed a slow, broad smile; his eyes glistened as if looking at a holy thing; as if he were watching an . . . angel. And it took all of Kate’s willpower to keep from snatching Virginia right then and there, and dragging her from the house.

  “What do you mean by behaving so flirtatiously?” Kate said, her question exploding like a keg of blasting powder in Virginia’s face. All the way home from the O’Brien’s Kate had been fuming. Had been biting her tongue. Had not said a word fearing to make a scene in the patch or in front of Joshua Adams. And when they got home Kate had said nothing even while dragging her sister all the way upstairs and into her room. But as soon as the door was closed, the words spewed from her mouth.

  “‘Can we not know your name first, sir?’” Kate mimicked her sister’s earlier words, fluttering her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner and placing her folded hands beneath her chin.

  “You look ridiculous.”

  “Just as ridiculous as you tonight!”

  “If you’re referring to my effort at politeness when I spoke to Mr. O’Brien . . . .”

  “Politeness? Your behavior exceeded the limits of proper conduct and bordered on . . . on . . . .”

  “On truth? Admit it, Kate, what you’re really angry about is that I didn’t react the same way you did when Mr. O’Brien told us those two men said Father had hired them. I spoke my mind and you resent it.”

  Kate sighed as she walked to the bed and sat down. She was slowly getting accustomed to her tiny room that had once been the linen closet housing all the family’s curtains, bed sheets, quilts, table cloths and such before being converted into a bedroom so her real room could be rented out to boarders. Even now she could detect the smell of camphor that still lingered in the cramped space which, aside from a bed, contained only one small side table holding a Bible and a chipped green oil lamp. Now, the sight of the Bible helped dispel her anger.

  “You sounded like you thought Father was guilty.” Kate’s forehead crinkled. “You . . . never hinted at anything like that before. Do you? Do you think Father killed Mr. Blakely?”

  Virginia removed her cloak and sat beside her. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it, but I really don’t know.”

  “I couldn’t bear that,” Kate said. “I couldn’t bear it if I thought Father was guilty.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kate entered Martin’s Dry Goods Store feeling confident that her strategy would work. She clutched her quilt as she glanced around the spacious room full of shelves, wooden barrels, flour and sugar sacks, and a large L-shaped counter. But the store was empty of customers, and even the Roaches were nowhere to be seen. They must be in back unloading stock. She’d just have to wait. Perhaps she’d use the time shopping; see if anything interested her. Now that she didn’t have to use her quilt money to pay Joshua, she could buy a few necessities. She spotted a glass and brass oil lamp that would make a fine replacement for that battered one in her bedroom, then decided it was a silly luxury.

  Next, she examined the bin of cast iron molds and pots, then the cluster of shelves containing assorted crockery, decanters and writing implements. Seeing nothing of interest, she went to the counter and placed her quilt on its polished
wooden top. As she stood waiting, she scanned the wall behind the counter. It contained dozens of long shelves, each holding several bolts of beautiful fabrics. Hester certainly had an eye for cloth. Her collection included bleached muslin, percales, sateen, ginghams, India linen, calicoes, batiste and wools.

  But Hester also carried accessories for ladies who preferred “fancy work.” The shelf on the end with its embroidery and crochet goods was one of Kate’s favorites. She sighed as she scanned the collection of floss and hoops, embroidery patterns, crochet and knitting needles, thread and yarn. These days, with all the work of running a boardinghouse, she had little time for such pleasures. Next, she scanned the glass cases on the counter that contained ribbons, pins, thimbles, snaps and hooks. She could use a packet of snaps. Only yesterday Charlotte complained that two of her dresses were missing theirs. And come to think of it, Kate had a button missing on one of her favorite dresses. Surely she would find a match in one of the many glass jars containing assorted buttons. But not today. She couldn’t spare the time.

  Her eyes went back to the fabrics. Now where was that beautiful wool she had just seen? Oh, there. It would be perfect for making one of those bolero jackets Virginia loved. Maybe she’d buy a few yards and make one as a Christmas gift. She’d have to buy a paper of needles, too. And some thread. She shifted her feet. But she didn’t want to spend all day doing it. She looked around again.

  “Hester? Mr. Roach? Any one here?”

  A rustling noise came from the stockroom, then the bulbous figure of Martin Roach stepped into the open doorway. “She’s not in. You just missed her.” As usual, he was impeccably dressed, wearing his customary dark brown frock coat, low cut vest, and lighter-color tubular-shaped trousers. His small bow tie came to little points just below the folded collar of his white shirt. His short brown hair was parted to one side, and oiled to lay flat on his head, making his ears appear, to Kate, as large as endives. But what she found most amusing was the wide mustache resting across his upper lip like a fat, hairy caterpillar.