THE DETECTIVE SEEKS THE HAUNTS OF THE MOLLIES.
After several days very profitably spent among the coal, canal, and dock
hands, in the vicinity of Philadelphia, acquiring some knowledge of
their habits and occupations, and at the same time, in a measure,
habituating himself to the wearing of a rather novel and uncomfortable
costume with which Mr. Franklin had been kind enough to provide him, the
agent, according to orders, returned and reported to the superintendent
that he was fully prepared to commence his work in the mining country.
When the young man glanced at his figure, as reflected in a mirror, he
found it difficult to believe he was really himself and not some wild
vagabond who had usurped his place. The transformation was
satisfactorily complete. He beheld in the glass the shadow of a man of
about his height and proportions, it was true, his head covered by an
old, dilapidated and dirt-colored slouch hat, with plentiful space for
his cutty-pipe in its narrow, faded band; a grayish coat of coarse
materials, which had, from appearances, seen service in a coal bin, and,
while never very fine in make or fashion, was considerably the worse
about the cuffs and skirts, both being frayed out to raveled raggedness,
from rough usage by its former owner. The vest was originally black, but
the years had come and gone in such numbers since, that the dye was
washed away, and with it had fled the surface of the cloth and most of
the worsted binding in the region of the pockets. The pantaloons, of
brown woollen stuff, were whole, but too large for him in the body, and
worn strapped tight at the waist with a leather belt, which, from its
yellowish and broken condition, might have been a former bell-thong off
the neck of some farmer’s cow, appropriated after exposure to all kinds
of wear and weather for a series of years. The bosom of a heavy gray
shirt was seen beneath the waistcoat, and exhibited no visible vestige
of a collar; but a substitute was formed by a red yarn cravat, or
knitted comforter, drawn closely around the wearer’s neck and tied in a
sailor’s knot in front. The under garment had that which ordinary shirts
are seldom supplied with—a pocket, at the left inner side, for tobacco.
His boots were of the stoga, hob-nailed, high-topped style, and in their
capacious legs easily rested the bottoms of the pantaloons. With face
unshaven for a week or ten days, and hair quite dry and straggling, from
want of proper attention, it is probable that McParlan’s mother, had she
been present, would have refused him recognition. He could only be
convinced that he was himself, by reference to his voice, which sounded
familiar to the ear. In his satchels, ready packed, were supplies of
writing paper, envelopes, stamps, etc.; also a suit of clothes a little
better than that upon his person, for occasional Sunday wear. Razor and
strop he had none. Their absence was no loss, however, as he did not
propose shaving his face until circumstances might call for the
resumption of his natural character.
[Illustration: “_Dormer calls his hotel the Sheridan House._”]
Monday, the 27th of October, 1873, was an eventful day at the
Philadelphia Agency, and formed an epoch in the life history of at least
one man, remembrance of which will never fail until his latest breath.
Then it was that James McParlan, attired and accoutred as just
described, his heart hopeful for the future, but in fact unknowing and
unknown, kicked the dust of the city from his heels, at the Callowhill
street depot of the Philadelphia and Reading Railway, and after
purchasing a ticket for Port Clinton, depositing his two valises—which
bore every outward evidence of having seen much tough usage and extended
travel in domestic and foreign parts—in the seat beside himself, in the
smoking-car of the afternoon train, set out upon his voyage of discovery
in the stronghold of the Mollie Maguires. He was James McParlan no
longer—but James McKenna, as I must hereafter call him—and he looked
backward upon the receding town, and considered whether he would survive
ever again to take his old name and place in the world and see the
broad, teeming streets, handsome structures, and beautiful girls of the
Quaker City. To him it then seemed he was cutting loose from all the
nether world. Those who knew him best would pass him by unheeded in his
transforming disguise and adopted name, and even his intimate
associates—excepting Mr. Franklin and I—in Chicago and elsewhere, fully
believed him to be adrift upon the blue waters, shaping his course to
lands “beyant the seas,” only to return after the lapse of many months.
Would he _ever_ return? That was a question, he soon decided, which, for
a favorable response, rested with himself and the manner in which he
conducted his researches. He was sure that I watched anxiously over him,
and that Mr Franklin was prepared to do everything for his good, but
very largely would he be the worker-out of his own destiny. His life and
success, or his failure and death, reposed in his own strength, guarded
by his own intellect. While these and similar thoughts crowded upon his
brain, the detective was traveling onward. Smoothly and swiftly the cars
glided over the track, past Belmont Glen, and beyond the outskirts of
the city. Then came Fairmount Park, Laurel Hill, seen from the far
distance, and closer at hand the broad, still waters of the Schuylkill,
of which Ireland’s great poet sang and on whose shores he once found
that repose which his weary head had elsewhere sought in vain. It was
not within the heart of a man of McKenna’s temperament, or in one born
on the soil of the beautiful land that gave him birth, to resist the
temptation to search out Tom Moore’s cottage and feast his eyes upon its
walls and roof; and he raised the blind, admitted the sunlight, and his
senses drank in, in reverent silence, the variegated and pleasing
landscape. After a time came Valley Forge, the scene of so much
suffering by the American soldiers under General Washington, in the
memorable winter of 1777-8. Indeed, the country throughout this vicinity
is replete with points bringing to recollection interesting dates and
facts of history. Through the kindness of a fellow-traveler, who sat
smoking in a seat near him, my officer was made familiar with some of
these most eventful localities. And still there appeared to be no end to
the succession of hills and vales, wooded mountain sides and fertile
fields. Yet onward swept the train, bearing its precious living freight.
Passing beyond the populous city of Reading, late in the afternoon, the
agricultural lands began, as the stranger thought, a silent struggle
with rocks and rills and more rugged mountains. As they still proceeded
swiftly on their route, the rough country gained the mastery, and the
fleeting show increased in boldness, culminating in a grand and craggy
beauty when the locomotive whistled “down the brakes” at a point some
distance short of Port Clinton. By this time portentous clouds had
arisen darkly in the west, as the sun sunk to its couch, and there were
other premonitions of an impending storm of wind and rain.
Port Clinton is seventy-eight miles from Philadelphia, at a spot where
the two great forks of the Schuylkill—the Schuylkill proper and the
Little Schuylkill—form a union, both having had their origin, not so far
separated, in the distant northern coal-fields.
[Illustration: “_He entered, resting his burden upon the floor!_”]
It was eight o’clock in the evening when McKenna, with baggage swinging
from his shoulder, stood for the first time upon the floor of the
massive, brown-stone, turret-roofed depot building at Port Clinton and
looked about him for a house which might yield him a night’s lodging and
supper, as he was both sleepy and hungry after his ride and the unusual
excitements of the day. Starting out into the increasing darkness, he
was unable to see and appreciate the tall mountains towering above him
on all sides; but, feeling his way carefully, he crossed the canal
bridge and sought a public house. Seeing a bright light not far away, he
directed his steps toward it, and in a short time came to a structure
which proved to be a village tavern or saloon. Thinking, despite the
sounds of revelry heard within, that it might be a proper stopping-place
for him, he entered, rested his burden on the floor—weary enough with
its carriage, and wishing thus early, he had been content to leave
one-half the baggage at home—and civilly inquired of the presiding
genius—a big, burly fellow, with milky-white eyes, a cherry-red nose and
very stiff, black, straight hair, planted widely apart on his
bullet-shaped head—who had evidently “too much taken” of the liquids he
dispensed to others—when they had funds to pay for them—if he could have
supper and lodging at his hotel. He did not half fancy the crowd he had
come up with. Mostly of the lower class of Germans, the men were in the
midst of a spree that bid fair to last until another day. Liquor had
already gained control of their senses, and their personal appearance
was even more forbidding than that of the person who so suddenly
appeared among them, and for this there was no possible necessity. Those
of the number who labored at all found employment in digging a tunnel,
which was in course of excavation in the neighborhood. These were a few
points which the new arrival gathered from the talk of the occupants of
the small, low, smoke-begrimed bar-room. Cocking up one of his eyes very
fiercely, the landlord looked scowlingly out of his other, from beneath
its black, beetling brow, and insultingly replied:
“No! I geeps no victuals nor shake-downs for peebles like you! Git oud!
You wants der beds and der meats, don’t ye? Git oud der haus! Go makes
your schleeps mit der bigs! Oud of dis blace, or, mein Gott in himmel, I
gicks ye right away oud!”
The stranger, not choosing to move as fast as he thought he should, the
landlord continued, while he advanced upon McKenna:
“Look dis way, poys! Dish is anoder of dose blundering dramps! Pitch him
oud! Teach the skalamag better manners than to pass de country around
schteeling peeble’s horses, cows, and dings! Put him oud quick!”
Protesting that he was no tramp, but seeing there seemed no hope of
securing rest or food under that inhospitable roof, the traveler took up
his baggage and hurriedly retreated from the apartment, just as a
general rush was made for him by the bystanders, the desire being to
seize upon his person with no peaceable intent.
It was not a part of McKenna’s business in those regions to have a
set-to with half a dozen infuriated and intoxicated men, though he would
willingly have risked something to give that inn-keeper a beating;
hence, he slackened not his speed until he had reached the middle of the
street, where he stopped a moment to consider which direction he should
take.
Here was a dilemma! Here was luck for him! To make matters worse, the
rain, which for some hours had threatened, began to pour down in
torrents. Presently a man made his appearance, coming from the bar-room
and approaching the detective. When near him the citizen said:
“Faith, an’ ye jist missed being kilt enthirely by the mane scuts there
within!”
McKenna gathered hope. This man was an immigrant from the ould sod.
“Where do you come from, and what is it ye’d be afther havin’ here?”
“I’m late from New York—later from Colorado—an’ what is it I’m here fur?
Is that it? What should a dacent Irish lad want whose stomach is full of
emptiness and ne’er a morsel of bread or mate in the wallet? What I want
is worruk, and somethin’ to relave my hunger! A place to slape in
wouldn’t be inconvanient, aither!”
This seemed to content the man from the tavern.
“An’ if ye are sakin’ work, you’re no thramp, for little’s the hand’s
turn of that they ever do; an’ I know you’re no thafe, from your accint,
which is like me own, barrin’ the Dublin twang, so I’ll even be better
to ye than the Dutchman—who, by the way, is not as bad as he seems. You
jist came upon him in an unlucky time, an’ the drink at the fore too!
Only yesterday it was that a brace of strollers stole away his only
cow—begging the pardon of the whiskey-barrel, an’ its contints is not
exactly suitable for swatening the coffee, sure,—and they druv her off
to the next neighbor’s beyant, where they sold the baste, fur all the
worruld as if they owned her—the blackguards! As natural as iver can be,
Mr. Staub—that’s the tavern-keeper’s name, an’ mine’s Timmins, be the
same token—has no love left to squander on tramps; an’ takin’ you fur
one—an’ where could have been his two eyes, an’ his ears, meanwhiles?—he
gives you the back of his hand nately, and the hardest words he can lay
his crooked tongue to! He thought you a thramp, and he mistrated you as
one! Still, Staub’s a clever man when the drink’s not in him, an’ many’s
the poor fellow I’ve seen him take in out of the cowld, and give a sup
an’ a bed, who hadn’t the shadow o’ sixpence to bless himself wid!”
“Sure, an’ I’m no tramp!” answered McKenna, “an’ what I wants in the way
of atin’ an’ drinkin’, for the present, at laste, I’m able to pay fur!
I’ve two strong arms, an’ an honest heart, God be thanked! an’ when my
cash is all spent, I can dig, or do something honorable for more,
without help from such rubbish as big Misther Staub!”
Timmins, the soft-hearted, responded:
“I’ll e’en do better by you, me laddy-buck, than the scullions you have
left! Come home wid me fur the night, an’ stay longer if ye likes; you
are as welcome as the birds in spring—an’ tho’ its comin’ late we are,
my old woman will give you somewhat for your stomach, an’ a bed to rest
your tired bones upon, at all events!”
As an argument in favor of his acceptance of the offer, just at that
moment the rain poured down heavier than before, and the wind beat the
large drops into the faces of the men with a force which was
uncomfortable.
“I’ll go wid you, Mr. Timmins—an’ many thanks for your kind offer!”
And, taking one valise in his left hand, keeping the right free for
whatever might occur, the operative committed the remainder of his
portable property to Timmins’ care. Permitting that personage to lead
the way, they started.
“I wonder if I’m about to be robbed and murdered, thus early in my
career in these mountains,” was the thought that flitted through the
detective’s mind as he followed the form of his retreating host, with
his right hand resting on his repeater, which he had convenient in his
coat pocket. But nothing to further excite his fears occurred. Timmins
only appeared anxious to keep the traveling bag from the rain, by
tucking it carefully under his arm, and covering it with the folds of
the cape of his heavy cloak. They advanced rapidly, and Timmins, in
default of a lantern, exerted himself to illuminate their devious way
with sharp sallies of genuine humor, elicited in original comments upon
the state of the weather and “illigant condition of the highway.” The
stranger laughed heartily, which was compensation sufficient for the
jester, who was merely trying to make himself agreeable.
“An’ here we are, betimes, hard by the home of Mr. and Mrs. Timmins—and
that’s me an’ my good wife—but divil a glimmer of a light is there in
the windy, which is something uncommon with Mrs. Timmins!”
The conclusion of these remarks brought the pedestrians, soaking wet,
and desirous of putting themselves beyond the reach of the rain, by the
side of a large wooden structure, which might be tenantless, from all
that any outsider could hear, or see, for that matter, in the darkness
of the night.
“Phat’s up now, I wonder?” said Timmins, who found his effort to enter
the place stubbornly resisted from within. There was no bolt or bar, he
said, but come open the door would not. A soft, partly yielding but
insurmountable obstacle, resisted the pushing of the two men, who
unitedly tried to shove in the barrier.
Then movements were heard inside, and presently came a woman’s voice:
“Is that you, Tony?”
“Yes! It is _me_! An’ phat the wonder is it that fastens the door? It’s
kaping myself an’ a stranger out here in the drinchin’ rain, ye are!”
“Wait a minute, Tony. An’ glad I am, sure, that ye came as ye did, and I
not cold as a stone, fit fur me grave clothes! Let me light the candle
an’ maybe I can help yez! It’s the body of a man—whether alive or dead,
I can’t say, that so bolts the door agin yez! An’ me an’ the wee childer
here all alone until this minit! God be praised, ye came in the very
nick of time!”
Here was a denouement for the detective’s first day’s work, and one he
was not well pleased with. His companion, Timmins, from the manner in
which he spluttered and tore about the front yard, was either very badly
frightened or very mad, McKenna could not decide which.
“I’ll soon see who the scoundrel is, an’ dead or alive, I wouldn’t stan’
in his boots for any small sum! When I get at him, I’ll——”
A light now appeared within, and the man’s threat was cut short by
hearing the creaking of boards, as if some person carefully crossed the
floor. Then Timmins put his face to the entrance, and a whispered
consultation between himself and his wife took place, the purport of
which the traveler could not comprehend.
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