STIRRING UP A WASP’S NEST.
They were not long in suspense, as Mrs. Timmins, after closing the
interview with her husband, gathered resolution to grasp the seemingly
inanimate body by the arm, and to drag it away from the entrance.
McKenna and his friend then went into the place—used as kitchen,
washing, and dining-room, in accordance with the prevailing custom of
the locality. Anthony Timmins at once seized upon the pewter
candlestick, held the flame of the taper close to the face of the
supposed dead man, almost scorching the eyebrows in his eagerness to
discover who it might be; then, breaking out into loud laughter, he
returned the light to Mrs. Timmins, raised his two hands above his head,
slightly bending his knees as if about to sit down on the floor, his hat
falling off sidewise meantime, and fairly shouted, between the rapidly
following explosions of uncontrollable mirth which had quickly taken the
place of his former anger:
“By the hill o’ Howth! An’ its only poor ould man Fox, of the wee patch
beyant the mountains, as harmless as a suckin’ dove, but, to his own
sorrow, a great drunkard! He’s now what wan might call down, dead
insensible wid the poteen he has taken.”
And Timmins could scarcely postpone more laughter long enough to
introduce his companion to Mrs. Timmins, after which brief ceremony he
said:
“No wonder on earth that we couldn’t open the door, wid all this lump of
fat an’ iniquity braced forninst it! He weighs two hundred poun’ ’f wan
ounce; an’ besides, the heel of his shoe wor caught in the crack under
the door—which by the same token is wider nor will be comfortable next
month—holdin’ it like a wedge, nate and tight against us!”
“Oh, what a dawshy clodhopper I must have been,” said Mrs. Timmins, in
an excellent brogue, “to be scared at ould man Fox! He’s his own worst
inimy, is Paddy Fox, an’ he came here unbeknownst to me—as to who he
wor, at laste—just as it grow’d dark, an’ before I had lighted the
candle, an’ he stumbled into the kitchen, an’ I didn’t know him from the
deil’s own grandfather; an’ I jist ran into the bedroom, the childer wid
me, an’ fastened the door, expectin’ every minute he’d rouse up an’
begin to rob the house! I supposed he wor a tramp, for all the wurruld,
an’ I didn’t dare make a noise, or strike a light, for fear we’d be
murthered outright! An’ how glad I wor when I heard your steps on the
gravel outside!”
So the fright about a dead man barring the door was not much of a scare
after all. At least, there was very small cause for disturbance, as a
drunken person was not such an extraordinary thing to see in that house.
Fox was allowed to remain where he was, Timmins having thrown an old
quilt over him to keep him warm, saying that he would “be all right by
the mornin’!”
Mrs. Timmins, good woman that she was, rekindled a fire and prepared an
excellent supper for the stranger, consisting of bacon and eggs, and
baked potatoes with strong coffee, to which McKenna helped himself with
unwonted relish. After satisfying his appetite, he and Timmins played a
couple of games of euchre, took a few drinks from a keg kept in one
corner, supported on a couple of sticks, and which was under the
exclusive control of Mrs. Timmins—she sold the liquor to her customers
from a tin cup—then the wet, weary, and sleepy traveler retired to his
bed quite in the dark, in a room in the second story of the building,
first having thrown his damp clothes down the staircase to Mr. Timmins,
with a request that they be allowed to dry before the kitchen fire.
Anthony Timmins and his wife kept what was known as a railroad
boarding-house or tavern, for the accommodation of laborers employed on
the adjacent tunnel, and a fair living, and something smart beside, did
they realize from their trouble and toil, Mrs. Timmins being not at all
assisted by the three tow-headed children which followed close to her
heels wherever she went, and called her “mother.”
The slumbers of the detective were sound and unbroken until the hour
that the sunlight of another day fell full on his face and disturbed,
and finally awakened him. Looking about, he discovered there were three
beds in the low room—one, by way of compliment, devoted to his own
particular use, while each of the others held two men, of whose presence
the previous night he had been entirely ignorant. Waiting until his
room-mates had gone out, McKenna went to the door and shouted to Timmins
for his garments, which were soon brought up by that personage, wishing
him at the same time “the top o’ the mornin’, an’ many happy returns of
the same!” The clothing was warm and dry, and the officer felt greatly
refreshed by his season of repose. At the breakfast-table he learned,
not greatly to his surprise, that the company he had to keep was none of
the most select; still it was as good as he had reason to anticipate
under the circumstances. In fact, he thought if he should secure, for
the future, equally decent associates, he might consider himself
fortunate. The men about him asked no questions, but devoured their meal
almost in silence, and then set out for their work on the tunnel.
The long table of unplaned boards—covered with a coarse oil-cloth, which
had once been of a variegated mahogany color, but had faded with much
rubbing and use to a dark dirt hue—was flanked on either side by equally
rough wooden benches of the same length, on which the boarders sat when
they partook of their food. There were no chairs in that house; those
too proud to occupy the benches while at dinner could stand up and
welcome. Furnishing the table were broad tin plates, common horn-handled
iron knives and forks, which the landlady had not for months found time
to give the polishing rub of “brick-dust and a split potato;” pewter
table and tea spoons; a can for vinegar; salt-cellar, and pepper-box of
japanned tinware; pint cups, also of tin, for the coffee; a quart
measure for the milk; another for molasses—sugar was not permitted on
that table. There was fresh bread in plenty, and meat and vegetables,
especially white, mealy potatoes, cooked to a turn, with their jackets
on, in absolute profusion. Butter appeared in bountiful supply, but it
was too vigorous, some of the boarders said, for any other use than to
harness to a carriage to draw grist to mill. In other words, its flavor
was rank and taste abominable. McKenna felt that such food was not good
for him the moment he entered for his breakfast, and, using everything
beside that was nourishing, he quietly gave the butter a deservedly wide
berth.
After the morning meal, and having given some attention to his boots,
which were drawn on with difficulty—first having to soak them well with
melted tallow—McKenna took a short stroll to the railway work, where he
had a talk with the boss, and with some of the hands who were
fellow-boarders. He gleaned from the former that employment for him,
just then and there, must be counted as out of the question. Labor was
to be done, but the price was low, while workingmen were more plentiful
than whortleberries on the mountain. There were too many German miners
and laborers in the vicinity for the prosperity of the Mollie Maguires,
he could easily see, without asking. After making a few other calls, the
traveler returned to Timmins’, where, in his triple-bedded apartment, he
managed to indite a hurried report to Mr. Franklin, informing him of his
whereabouts and movements. This he succeeded in depositing in the
post-office. The address upon the envelope was such as to disarm and
thwart suspicion. It had been prepared for his use before leaving
Philadelphia.
In the afternoon rain fell heavily, and therefore no work could be done
outside the tunnel excavation; even inside it was wet and uncomfortable,
and many of the men remained at home, some drinking, others dancing and
singing, and still others whiling away the time playing various games at
cards. Among these laborers were several members of the Miners’ and
Laborers’ Union, but they were all reticent, after concurring in the
generally expressed opinion that mining and railroading were dull and
money very scarce everywhere in those regions.
The ensuing day the agent settled his bill at Timmins’ tavern, and, as
the weather had cleared up finely during the night, bid adieu to the
landlord, his wife and family, and started for Schuylkillhaven. Arrived
there, he found many men at work, but no possible chance for him to earn
a dollar. The operations carried on were mostly for the railroad. He
encountered a few miners just from the collieries above, and they gave
the visitor nothing in the way of hopefulness as to the condition of
affairs where they had been. Laborers could hardly find engagements
anywhere. And as for his especial subject of pursuit and object of
inquiry, the element predominating was still German; hence, there was
very little to detain him in the neighborhood.
The next point attended to was Auburn, about five miles from Port
Clinton, a small country place, boasting a couple of planing-mills and a
number of business houses. Here nothing transpired of importance, and
McKenna toiled back on foot over the mountain, toward the hour of
sunset, to Schuylkillhaven, where he had deposited his baggage.
A day later the stranger went to Tremont, and thence to Sweet Arrow.
Returning to the first-mentioned place about the middle of the
afternoon, he formed the acquaintance of a number of his countrymen; but
they had no hints to volunteer—and he was very far from asking any
foolish questions in this connection—showing that they were even aware
of the existence of such an organization as the Mollie Maguires.
A day later McKenna encountered Nicholas Brennan, a coal-miner from the
vicinity of Mt. Pleasant, near Minersville. Brennan gave out that he was
also a traveler, engaged in going from one place to another for the
purpose of securing work at his calling for the winter. Their pursuits
being ostensibly similar, McKenna and Brennan soon struck up an
intimacy. After the latter had more than once tasted liquor at McKenna’s
expense, he thawed out considerably, became pliable and talkative, and
soon had much to remark about “the power that made English landlords
quake.” But he gave it as his opinion that such a force could accomplish
very little, if anything, in the anthracite country of Pennsylvania, and
pretended to believe the Miners’ and Laborers’ Union, which had recently
been formed, would prove of no benefit to working-men. Brennan prided
himself upon his discerning shrewdness, and said, early in his
conversation with the operative, he knew, at once, upon first fixing his
eye on him, that he, McKenna, was a boatman, or canal hand, the
correctness of which allegation, for his own purposes, that gentleman
felt constrained to acknowledge. Brennan recommended his new-found
associate to go to Tamaqua, or Mahanoy City, where he thought mining was
moving more briskly than in any other portion of the State—especially
was it more lively than in the neighborhood of Pottsville. He concluded
his lengthy harangue by remarking, in a significant way—referring to the
localities named:
“There’s the ground where the boys are true!”
“Then they are the very places I want to get work in,” responded
McKenna, and, watching the countenance of Brennan, he was sure he
discovered in it an expression of disappointment, as though the reply
made to “the ground where the boys were true” was not exactly the one he
had anticipated receiving. Pretending, however, not to notice it, the
detective proposed a game at cards, “jist for the fun of the thing,”
and, after that ended, Brennan was so much under the influence of
spirits, his companion was forced to cut loose from him. Nothing more
could be elicited, but McKenna was well satisfied that, if not a
simon-pure Mollie Maguire, his late opponent in euchre knew more about
the society than he cared to impart to a stranger. He made mental note
of the words: “There’s the ground where the boys are true!” and could
not help thinking they were in some way connected with the mysterious
order. Brennan was kind enough to give him the names of some of his
friends in the mines; these he also treasured in his memory, to be made
use of as occasion presented.
The next day Brennan was perfectly sober, and, it being the first of
November and a Catholic holiday, he accompanied McKenna to church, and,
after service, introduced him to everybody he knew as “a young man from
Colorado, in quest of work,” the stranger soon becoming quite popular
with a certain class. In the afternoon all adjourned to a convenient
saloon, where McKenna kept up a continuous round of amusements for
several hours, relating wonderful stories of his adventures in the
United States Navy during the late war, all drawn from his own fertile
fancy, but certainly very interesting to his listeners, and by singing,
in good style, some genuine Irish melodies. Brennan and his companions
started, the same afternoon, for Pottsville, only three miles distant,
and urged McKenna to accompany them. He excused himself, on the score of
being compelled to await money, due him for work, which had been
promised by post at that place, and the young fellows reluctantly
departed without him.
Sunday, the second of November, passed without the occurrence of any
incident worthy of note. On the succeeding Monday our detective rode by
rail twenty-four miles, stopping at Pine Grove, where he found the
shafts still some seven miles distant, over a rough and hilly path, and
did not visit them. Small was the loss by this, however, as no work was
being prosecuted, and the employés were scattering to various localities
until such time as operations should be again commenced. After an
examination of the tanneries there, with a few small machine-shops,
without learning anything of value, he returned to Tremont, at which
place he met a man named John Delaney, a miner, who was seemingly on a
regular lark, disbursing his money lavishly, and imbibing drinks
industriously. Delaney was of Brennan’s opinion, thinking work would be
difficult to obtain in the mines, so few were being operated, and railed
loudly against the Philadelphia and Reading Coal and Iron Company,
charging all the existing troubles to that corporation. He boasted that
they—the miners—once kept the Company and their mines idle for eight
long months, and could do so again if goaded to it. He was equally
severe in his denunciations of German, Welsh and English miners, and
their “butties,” alleging that they—especially the Germans—had
everything their own way about the vicinity of Tremont, but it was
different in Shenandoah, Tamaqua, and other towns. Delaney was anxious
to introduce McKenna to all of his personal friends, and, in that
regard, was allowed to have his way, the detective properly considering
it well that he should know as many men of the right character as
possible. They might be useful as references at other localities. He
therefore expressed his hearty thanks to Delaney for his exertions in
this direction. The following day, having eschewed liquor for a season,
Delaney went with his new-discovered friend to Donaldson, where he made
him acquainted with the outside boss of the mines, going even as far as
to ask for work for the “young man,” who, he said, “was jist stharvin’
for somewhat to lay his honest, hard-workin’ hands to!” The boss could
do nothing, however; and, after examining the slopes and walking through
some of the gangways, talking with a miner here and there, they
revisited the upper air. Again it was discovered the Germans held the
ascendency in numbers and power, and managed to keep it; hence, there
was no opportunity for securing employment. He must seek elsewhere for a
body of the Mollie Maguires—the Donaldson mines were not their
abiding-place.
The next point on the list for examination was Middle Creek, two miles
distant, over the mountain, from Tremont, where the men were equally
unlucky, finding no work. A walk back, through rough roads, over
brambles and stones, and dodging laurel and alder bushes, gave the
pedestrians appetites for their suppers when they reached Tremont.
Delaney here separated from McKenna, after a few farewell glasses, and
started for Pottsville, at which place he said he was due, and had
friends and relatives.
During the succeeding Wednesday the detective remained in Tremont, and,
after dinner, enjoyed a walk on the railway track, the weather being
fine, continuing an intimacy previously begun between himself and the
switch-tender, an aged Emerald Islander, who was found sitting nigh the
entrance to his little box, or cabin—short, stumpy, gray-haired,
brown-faced, roughly clad, but honest and sturdy-looking withal—smoking
his pipe contentedly, and receiving pleasurably the cool breeze sweeping
up the valley. Mike Fitzgibbons, the switchman, was a genuine specimen
of the hard-working, steady, reliable Irish peasantry, and he was never
known to neglect a duty.
“An’ how is business wid ye the day?” asked McKenna, as he came up to
the old man’s station, preparing his tobacco meantime, and signaling by
a significant motion, easily understood by smokers, for a light for his
cutty-pipe, which was old and black, as well as fashionably short in the
stem. The switchman tendered his doodeen, which, having been employed,
the stranger returned to its owner, with thanks.
“Arrah! an’ about all days are the same to the likes o’ me! I am to the
fore all the time when I’m not slapin’ an’ atin’ wid Betty and the
childer. I jist mind the trains, to prevint misadventure. Sure, the
Company gives me fair wages, promptly paid, for that same!”
“Thrue for ye,” answered McKenna; “an’ hev ye any objection to me takin’
a seat by ye, on the settle forninst the wall, while I have a puff at me
pipe?”
“Not the laste in the worruld!” responded Fitzgibbons, making space for
the stranger on the bench. After resting and drawing away industriously
at his pipe for a few moments, McKenna remembered a Philadelphia
_Inquirer_ which he had obtained that forenoon and not yet examined,
and, taking it from his pocket, commenced reading. He knew this would
excite his companion’s curiosity. Soon Fitzgibbons remarked:
“Would ye be plazed to rade to me a bit? Me eyes are none of the best,
an’ the little I has I save fur the good of the Company. What do the
paper say about the State elections?”
“I’ll rade to ye wid pleasure,” said the agent, and he proceeded to give
all that he found of interest. After commenting at some length upon the
contents of the sheet, and having his pipe freshly filled with McKenna’s
fragrant tobacco, the switchman was more chatty. In a little while he
entered his box, and returned bearing in his hand a copy of the
well-known Boston _Pilot_, which he proffered to his comrade. After
skimming hastily over the Irish news and some telegraphic intelligence,
he came to an article headed, “The Mobocrats of Pennsylvania.” This he
read carefully aloud to the old man. It was a scathing blow at the
Mollie Maguires, giving them deserved condemnation, and appeared in the
shape of correspondence. After finishing it, McKenna asked:
“What is this all about?”
Evidently much excited, Fitzgibbons answered:
“But isn’t it a sarching piece, though? It slathers them butcherin’
vagabones widout mercy! O, I would like to know who has writ it!”
McKenna kept down his anxiety to learn more, and said nothing, when the
switchman continued:
“Ye have heard of the society? Av coorse ye have! An’ now they’ve got
across the big say, till America, an’ into the mines! But doesn’t that
article cut them deep, tho’? It has created quite a ruction here—and no
wonder! It was a great thing, the getting up of that piece! It do lay on
the lash to the backs of the Mollie Maguires in splendid style!”
The old man was evidently an opponent of the order, or he was
endeavoring to draw out the opinion of his friend. McKenna determined to
let him know what he was supposed to think, but which was the very
opposite of his real convictions.
“It must be that such writin’s will damage the interests of the Irish
people in the coal regions. Don’t you agree wid me in this?”
Fitzgibbons was touched at a tender spot and flared up in an instant,
moving involuntarily further from the operative, his dark but expressive
face ablaze with honest indignation, saying vehemently:
“No! I disagrees wid ye in that altogether! It is the Mollie Maguires
that’s doin’ the wrong! Such articles in the _Pilot_ will have a good
effect, an’ do somethin’—of which there’s pressin’ want—toward breakin’
up the clan! God knows it nades dispersin’ an’ punishin’ too! Such
bodies is a burnin’ shame an’ disgrace to the men in them, an’ they
befoul all Irishmen and all good Catholics! Ye naden’t be surprised if
ye mate them yoursel’! They’ve had ’em here, even, where there live so
few from our country! But Father McLaughlin druv ’em out wid the hardest
words ye iver heard from the lips of a clergyman! God prosper him for
that same! An’ since they left, we’ve had pace an’ quiet in town, wid no
killin’s and batin’s.”
It would not do for the listener to permit such an opportunity to say a
word in favor of his particular friends, the Mollie Maguires, to pass
unimproved. While the sentiments expressed were his own, to the letter,
he must dissemble and oppose them. Therefore he replied:
“Now, fur the life of me, I can’t see why Irish Catholics cannot have a
dacent, paceable society of their own—if there be the laste touch of
sacracy about it—widout the papers an’ the clergy interloguing and
opposing! Wur any harm done by the Masons and Odd Fellows, shure there
wouldn’t be a word in the public press about it. An’ what’s the raison
that this society should be abused?”
“You are all wrong! My experience goes agin’ the order! I knows some men
who hev bin members, but they come out of it. They saw enough! By my
sowl, I’d as soon go colloguing wid the devil, hoof, horns, tail and
all, as wid the murtherin’ rascals! Harken to this, now! If any wan of
the crew wur discharged from work an’ wanted fur to sake revinge—which
the same is swate the worruld over—he jist went to the headquarters of
the society, or to the president, or whativer they call him, which is
the head official, an’ made out that it wur from religious differences
he lost his place, or because he wur an Irishman; and then lots ud be
cast, sure, an’ two or more of the brothers—bad cess to such a
brotherhood!—must go, whether they would or no, an’ jist shoot down the
boss that had cut him off! O, ye may spake all yer soft words, an’ shake
yer head, an’ not belave me, fur I consider it awfully incredible
myself, that Irishmen will do such things; an’ ye may call me
distraught, an’ all that; but I knows what I says, an’ my advice is not
to be afther defendin’ the murtherin’, thavin’ set, if ye want to be
respected in this region of country! Don’t ye bother wid the Mollie
Maguires!”
Before McKenna had time for a reply, the afternoon passenger train came
shrieking around an abrupt curve, the switchman seized his keys and
flag, and ran off to attend to his duties; and the detective, pocketing
the Boston newspaper, intending to return it, retired to his
boarding-place. The _Pilot_, he thought, would prove a valuable document
to him, from the article he had been discussing.
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