FATHER BRIDGEMAN GIVES JACK KEHOE A BLAST.
The night before the one on which McKenna had determined to take his
departure from Pottsville, while in Dormer’s saloon, some words passed
and a quarrel arose between the detective and a young person named
Philip Nash, and the drunken desperado undertook the task, it seemed, of
teaching the stranger some of the tenets of the Molly Maguires by actual
demonstration. Whipping out his revolver, he made known his intention of
finishing him just then and there, and, had not the operative been on
the alert, and immediately covered Nash with his own weapon, it is more
than probable that at least one career of usefulness in the mining
region would have met with a speedy termination. As it transpired, Nash
appreciated it was life for life, which was far from his sort of game,
and he waited action until Dormer, with his powerful person, arrived and
stood between them, when he quietly lowered and put away his pistol,
McKenna following the example set, but taking especial care to have the
protector within ready reach of his right hand.
“Phil Nash!” exclaimed Dormer, “what is this you’re afther doin’ now?”
“I’ll whip this fellow, or me name’s not Nash!” was the angry response.
“Two can play at that trick!” retorted McKenna.
Then the combatants came together again, despite the presence of the big
pacificator, Nash aiming a swinging blow with his fist upon the
detective, but happily missing him. McKenna was more fortunate. His
stroke, full at the side of the face of Nash, hit the mark, stopping
with force behind his opponent’s left ear, and tumbling him to the floor
as if he had been a felled ox. When able to do so, he regained his feet,
and, for the second time, essayed to draw his revolver; but Dormer,
seizing both the young man’s arms, held him in a vise-like grip, as a
mere child, saying:
“No you don’t, Phil! You’ve tried that once too often already, and I now
recommend ye to drop the matther directly! McKenna, here, is an
old-timer, an’ was inside the ring when you were a wee gossoon! An’
you’re breakin’ the rules in attackin’ him!”
It was strange to see how quickly Dormer’s words wrought a change in the
irate bruiser. He released himself, promising to obey the saloon-keeper,
and, saying he’d make it all right, caught both of the operative’s hands
in his own, and abjectly begged to be forgiven for his violence.
“Sure, an’ I didn’t know ye wur wan of us!” he said.
Of course McKenna, who was unhurt, and had not been knocked down, could
well afford to be generous, and freely forgave the miner. They exchanged
civilities, and drank a noggin with Dormer, to seal peace and
reconciliation.
During the short walk to the depot, the ensuing day, McKenna was
accompanied by Dormer and Kelly, now his warm and inseparable friends.
At the train, the tavern-keeper took the detective aside, and gave him,
beside the letter to Lawler—which he had previously put in his
possession—several separate slips of paper, bearing the names and
addresses of a number of leading Mollies. Among them were John
Gallagher, of Coaldale, and John Mahoney, _alias_ the Cat, of Gilberton.
Each slip contained the information that the bearer was a particular
friend of the writer, looking for a job of work.
“Jist plaze to remember,” said the Pottsville giant, “that you’re not to
brathe a blessed word to any wan, that I tould ye a single point! You
see I’m out, at the present, an’ it wouldn’t be the right thing to be
makin’ myself too forward like, wid even an old head in the business!
So, kape dark! None of ’em will refuse ye help in gettin’ work, depind
on that!”
“I’ll jist mind well what ye say, an’ many thanks for your kindness,
beside!” returned McKenna, as the bell struck thrice, warning passengers
that the cars were about to move.
“Good luck to you, anyhow! An’ be sure ye come to my house for your
Christmas!” were Dormer’s parting words, as he clasped McKenna’s palm
closely. Dan Kelly was equally warm in his requests, and profuse in
regrets connected with their separation. Promising to be back in
Pottsville by the holidays, if he could possibly make it convenient, the
traveler stepped aboard the coach, and sped away on his journey.
The detective, thinking it inexpedient to go direct from Pottsville to
Shenandoah, decided upon visiting some other localities before stopping
there. Perhaps he might secure valuable points which would set him
before the Mollies in a favorable light. He had, early in the week,
directed Superintendent Franklin to forward any letters of his to St.
Clair. Stopping over, therefore, at that town, he received from the
postmaster a missive containing instructions to go to some of the
neighboring places, and then repair to Shenandoah. He answered these,
and also wrote to Dormer, saying (what was not true) that he had met and
agreed with a man to work on a new water basin, in the mountains; hence
should slightly defer his visit to Shenandoah. He also told the
innkeeper that he need not write, as it was impossible to say where he
might remain, but agreeing to give him the proper address as soon as it
could be decided upon.
The next point to honor with his presence was Girardville, where McKenna
knew there were many Mollies. Arriving there, he secured a room at a
second-class hotel, and started out to see the place. At one of the
saloons he encountered a man, who was named to him as Tom Durkin,
_alias_ Lanky, a tall, raw-boned, ugly-looking fellow, who was drinking
very heavily. This party the detective easily attached himself to, and
soon learned that he was about to go to Shenandoah, to see some
relatives and old-time associates.
“Do you chance to know one Muff Lawler?” inquired the detective.
“Know him? Do a child know its mother? Know him? Be the staff of St.
Patrick, that I do! Right well! An’ are you acquainted wid him?”
“Not personally,” answered McKenna, “but I’m on purty good terms wid
Bushy Deenan, Capt. Gallagher, Dan Kelly, and more of his friends in
Pottsville. An’, sure, they’re a jolly crowd!”
“Faith, an’ I’ve been in this country, it war four years last
Michaelmas, an’ never met their equals, nowhere! An’ you knows that set
do ye?”
Lanky shook hands with the detective, making much show of pleasure, and
put his right forefinger to the right side of his face in a peculiar
style, at the same time watching the movements of his companion. Then he
asked:
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Not just at present,” responded McKenna, “but in the old times I was
well posted!”
Of course this was enough for Durkin. They were companionable,
fraternal, convivial, and thus traveled about the town together, Lanky
introducing his new friend to all his associates as “a fine chip of the
old block,” or employing words of a similar significance. Finally, it
was with some difficulty that McKenna shook him off, late in the day,
and, pleading business as an excuse, left him to finish his spree
solitary and alone.
Here was another point gained by McKenna. One of the latest signs of
recognition of the Sleepers, or of some similar society, was in his
possession. But he did not dare to use it, well remembering an
unpleasant episode previously occurring to him at Pottsville. On that
occasion, having encountered Fenton Cooney, a miner from Wadesville, at
Dormer’s, he was spoken of as an ancient Mollie—Cooney being actually
what the detective assumed to be, and a sharp one at that. Cooney at
once proceeded to test the new-comer, who, fortunately, was acting as
though greatly intoxicated. Quickly apprehending that he was no match
for the inquirer, from the direction that his questions took, he imbibed
a stiff glass of grog at the bar, with his interviewer, and shortly
thereafter fell over on a bench and immediately passed into a state of
semi-unconsciousness, from which even Dormer himself, by a powerful
shaking, failed to arouse him. Cooney was very angry, and told the
innkeeper that he had a notion to kick the drunken man—drunk only in
simulation—from the house. Dormer proved a friend, and insisted that it
was all a mistake; there was no doubt in his mind of the man’s former
membership; but he was a victim of liquor—which was his only noticeable
failing—and, if taken when duly sober, he had faith that Cooney would
recognize him as all he represented himself to be. Some things he had
forgotten, it was true, but he remembered enough to satisfy him that he
was all right. Cooney, not so easily deluded, roundly swore that he
could never believe the stranger a true friend until he produced his
clearance card from the body to which he had belonged. Escaping so
narrowly from this impending trap, the detective was more careful
thereafter. Evidently he must see clearer and travel further before
successfully imposing upon well-informed Sleepers. It proved also quite
fortunate that he cut adrift from Lanky, as, before night, that besotted
individual found himself under arrest for an aggravated assault upon a
man who had indiscreetly spoken against the Mollies in his presence.
It was the middle of December, 1873, that the detective made his _début_
in the pleasant little town of Girardville. One of the first persons for
him to meet was Pat Birmingham, a school-teacher, who addressed him:
“Stranger, didn’t I see you, a few days ago, at Dormer’s place, in
Pottsville?”
“Faith,” responded McKenna, “ye did that! I remimber ye perfectly! I wor
just a little under the influence, on that occasion. An’ it’s that way I
am much oftener than is good for me moral char_ac_ter! But I’m jist
reformin’ a bit now—by the same token, will ye have a sup wid me?—I’m
flush, an’ don’t mind tratin’!”
“I don’t care if I do have a taste,” answered the schoolmaster.
During their trip to a saloon where the pedagogue said they kept the
best Irish whiskey in town, McKenna gave out that he was just in receipt
of his pension from the government, granted him on account of wounds he
had suffered from while serving, under Commodore Davis, on the flag-ship
Blackhawk, at the capture of Memphis, in 1862. And it was well taken by
Birmingham, as was the liquor, when they had found it. McKenna managed
to water his portion considerably, so that its effect upon him was not
noticeable.
“I suppose from the company I found you in at Pottsville,” said the
teacher, “that you are an Ancient!”
“An’ phat is that?”
“A Mollie Maguire!”
“Sure, an’ you’re wrong there! That is a thing I’ve heard of, but know
nothin’ about.”
“Just the way with all of them! I believe if I asked Pat Dormer, he’d
deny being a member, point blank! It’s all right, though! Every man to
his faith! But I’ve known some who are Mollies and, at the same time,
quite decent people and honorable citizens. Now there’s Jack Kehoe, for
example, in the tavern over the way. He’s the most staunch man in the
business, but, for all that, a very good neighbor, an’ I never saw him
drunk in my life, or beating anybody, inside or outside his saloon. That
you can’t say of everybody, Mollie or not Mollie!”
“I have heard of Kehoe,” said McKenna, “but I have not the pleasure of
his acquaintance. Before I lave the borough, I mane to give him a call.
Still, I wants ye to understand that, tho’ rough appearin’, an’ given to
rather hard company, I’m not quite a Mollie Maguire!”
This was thrown out as possibly suggestive to the citizen that he invite
him into Kehoe’s; also, by denying all knowledge of the society, to
cause the hearer to more firmly believe in his membership. Birmingham
did not, or would not, take the hint, and neglected to ask the new-found
friend across to see Kehoe, but, as had been intended, he did gain
strength in the idea that McKenna was connected with the mysterious
brotherhood. Some further talk ensued, when the men separated, the
pedagogue to attend to his pupils, and the operative to pursue his
investigations.
[Illustration: “_Kehoe’s Residence._”]
The afternoon of the following day McKenna left his hotel, fully
determined to secure an acquaintance with Jack Kehoe. The weather was
stormy, business dull, and he would probably find a number of men
congregated in the tavern. Kehoe’s residence—the Hibernian House—which
is expected to play an important part in the pages of this work, was and
still is a two-story frame building, situated convenient to business,
not a great distance from the Catholic church in Girardville. Having its
gable to the street, and a single square window at either end, directly
beneath the peak of the roof, the usual supply of casements and doors
for a structure of the size, and painted a dull, red color, on the
ground floor, front, was the bar-room, and in the rear of that the
kitchen. From the latter apartment a staircase gave access to the living
rooms of the family in the story above. There was also a door from the
bar, leading to the cook’s domain. Throughout the interior the
arrangements for occupation were of a comfortable but inexpensive
character, and everything was cared for in a manner evidencing the
capacity of Mrs. Kehoe, in the _rôle_ of housekeeper, as better than
ordinary. It was also reported in the town that she was the sharper
member of the hymeneal firm, and fully in accord with her husband on the
Mollie Maguire question. She probably approved his membership, not
because of any particular bloodthirstiness in her disposition, but
because the affiliation brought money to their family purse and
politically elevated Jack Kehoe.
Kehoe, as the operative had already heard, was a native of the city of
Wicklow, Ireland, some twenty-seven miles from Dublin, and a man of but
common education. His wife had been a Miss O’Donnel, of Mahanoy. Their
family consisted at the time of five children.
When the detective entered the saloon, he found several miners within,
clad in their holiday suits, showing that they had not been working that
day, or were on the night shift. The proprietor of the place, in person,
was behind the counter, evidently in good humor, and everything passing
to his satisfaction. McKenna stepped modestly to the bar, ordered a
drink, swallowed it, paid the reckoning, and then occupied a seat on a
bench while he filled and smoked his short pipe. Some pleasant words,
dropped to a man near him, regarding the weather, were answered
cheerfully, and soon the conversation took a wider range, engineered by
the new arrival, and culminated in that person’s second call at the bar
to inquire of Kehoe as to the prospect for work brightening up, and
asking about the chances for a stranger getting employment. Kehoe
responded quietly, without a very pronounced brogue:
“Well, times are rather hard here at present, but there’s a show of
their soon mendin’. I hear that some collieries now lying idle, are to
begin operations in a short time. If they do, then more hands will be
needed. Perhaps some of the men here may know, better than I, the
opportunities for immediate jobs. They are mostly miners. I say, Mike,”
turning to the man McKenna had previously been speaking to, “is there a
show for work, for a stranger, that you know about?”
“Shure, an’ I don’t mind me of any! But some one else may!”
And Mike, as he was called, with several others, came up to the bar, as
if willing to be consulted. McKenna, thereupon, acting as he seemed to
be called upon, under the circumstances, very promptly set forward
drinks for all, which Kehoe prepared and the company disposed of with
evident relish. The general expression, however, was that the operative
would hardly be able to secure a job until more collieries commenced
active work.
While Kehoe stood concocting the different beverages, the detective
embraced the opportunity, without appearing to do so, of observing the
man more minutely. He was seemingly two or three years past forty, but
time, in his flight, had been lenient, and left few noticeable traces
upon his countenance. There were some impressions of crow’s feet at the
outer corners of his small, sharp, light-blue eyes, occasionally a gray
hair among the plentiful brown ones of his head and in the equally dark,
full whiskers and mustache. The beard was noticeably lighter in color at
the far ends, as though somewhat faded. The eyes were set too close
together to give a square, honest look to the face, as a whole, which
was slightly cadaverous in appearance. The nose, unnaturally sharp, as
though pitted by small-pox, assisted in forming for Kehoe a fox-like and
cunning look, and the forehead was straight and reasonably high. It was
the impression of McKenna that, if Kehoe should ever get others into a
difficulty, he would probably manage to keep out of it himself. He was
athletic, erect, and could hold his own in a crowd, but did not seem
inclined to quarrel, or risk his person too rashly in an encounter from
which ingenuity could extricate him. Not above medium height, or weight,
his shoulders were square and strong, and his limbs muscular and well
proportioned. His hands, which had seen labor, now looked fair and
white. Generally agreeable in manners to strangers as well as
acquaintances, he claimed a number of friends, yet no really warm and
devoted personal followers. Formerly a miner, the tavern proving more
profitable and less laborious, he had of late years done very little
manual labor. Whisky-selling and politics were giving him plentiful
money and power, and he liked both exceedingly well.
McKenna’s proffered treat had touched the feelings of Kehoe in a tender
place, favorably introduced him to a portion of the Girardville
community, and it was not so very long before he was on the best of
terms with all in the house. Finally finding that his reputation in that
line had preceded him, and having been invited to do so, he was
prevailed upon to strike up a song, and gave, without accompaniment,
“Larboard Watch,” followed soon by “Kathleen Mavourneen.” At the request
of a native of Scotia present, he then sung, in fair voice and accent,
the “Collier Laddie,” by Burns, beginning:
“Where live ye, my bonnie lass?
An’ tell me what they ca’ ye;
‘My name,’ she says, ‘is Mistress Jean,
And I follow the collier laddie.
My name,’ she says, ’is Mistress Jean,
And I follow the collier laddie.’”
This particularly pleased the miners, one of whom felt so merry over the
strain that he called up the crowd and proposed a toast to “Bobby Burns,
Mistress Jean, and the stranger singer.” It was drank with highest
honors, and then the landlord could do no less than follow suit. This
business was kept up until nearly night.
When the hangers-on had dropped off, one by one, to their homes, Kehoe
stepped from the bar, sat down by the stranger’s side, and showed
himself unusually communicative. He ended by calling McKenna to the
counter and drinking a toast, which, from its sound and sentiment, he
was positive must have been a Mollie signal; but the detective knew too
well the result to try a response, and contented himself with drinking
it in silence. Kehoe went further and gave him the identical sign, with
the hand to the face, which he had noticed Lanky using the day before.
To this also McKenna remained blind. He was not to be caught.
“I see that you know nothing at present,” said Kehoe at last.
“Faith, an’ that’s exactly true for ye,” responded the detective. “It’s
a very long time since ever I was within.”
“That makes no difference, for I am also an old-timer, dating back to
’66.”
And Kehoe peered suspiciously at the stranger from his half-shut eyes,
while he awaited some identifying movement or word from McKenna.
Here was more trouble. Another Ancient had been encountered who was not
to be trifled with. It was no longer stolid Pat Dormer who stood before
him.
“Now for it,” thought the bothered detective. “Deil a thing have I to
trate him wid, barrin’ some balderdash that I gave in Pottsville, an’
which I’m positive ’ll not fool Kehoe.”
Once again fortune favored him. At this very opportune moment a man from
Pittsburg, called by the saloon-keeper Tim Gallagher—a traveling liquor
dealer, opened the door, entered, and greeted Kehoe as an old
acquaintance. He was introduced to McKenna, who was treated by Kehoe and
his friend as a true Ancient Order man, and informed that the last
arrival was at the head of the society in Pittsburg. Several other
persons now coming in, Kehoe forgot all about his investigation, and the
operative was very far from giving him any hint to return to it. Just
before supper-time, Gallagher, Kehoe, and McKenna—who that day by chance
wore his Sunday suit of clothes, the weather being too cold for his
first costume—all sallied forth, leaving the tavern to the charge of
Mrs. Kehoe, to make a few informal calls upon city friends and
companions. Gallagher, as they walked, enlightened his co-member upon
the condition of the order in Western Pennsylvania. He said the part of
country named was full of the spirit of the order, and they had
everything their own way, the clergy being with them very cordially, if
not inside the ring. During their round they stopped at the house of the
resident Catholic clergyman, Father Bridgeman, who, despite his many and
violent denunciations of the Mollies, was a personal friend of
Gallagher. After the usual greetings the Pittsburg man asked the priest,
jokingly:
“Have you ceased scolding the Sleepers yet?”
“No, I have not!” said the clergyman, “and never shall while they remain
as they are.”
“Why is it that the Church in this part of the State acts so differently
in this regard from the Catholics in Pittsburg?”
[Illustration: _“A withering curse rest upon it, and upon all in any way
connected with it.”_]
“The cases materially differ,” answered the priest, warming up quickly.
“With you, in the west, the members have something like friendship for
one another, and the order is not managed in the interest of
politicians, tavern-keepers, and other bad men. Here it is in the
control of a few unscrupulous fellows, who care not for God or man, only
for themselves and their own pockets. Yet they call themselves Irishmen!
They can sneak around and whip and kill some unfortunate person—some
mining boss, or superintendent, or destroy property, thus scandalizing
those in the Church of the same nativity—but they do not dare to turn
out in regalia on St. Patrick’s day, with honest Irishmen, for then they
would be known and marked for the murderers and assassins they are. Oh,
it’s a bad, bad society! A withering curse rest upon it, and upon all in
any way connected with it!”
The priest evidently felt every word that he said, and, though one of
the most generous of men, could find no good language to waste upon the
Mollie Maguires.
Kehoe listened to the denunciation, his head slightly bowed, but said
nothing in reply. The color of his face changed a little and his lips
quivered perceptibly, yet no words escaped him. Gallagher spoke
evasively, and the detective remained silent. After some talk over other
and more pleasant matters, the party took leave of the priest. He made
no excuse for his harsh language. He believed that it had been deserved,
and had, therefore, nothing to take back. In the streets Kehoe
maintained a moody silence. His small eyes wandered from object to
object, however, resting on nothing long. He was wounded by the
imprecations of his clergyman, yet could find no means of escaping their
weight. Gallagher and McKenna endeavored to rally his sunken, sullen
spirits, but in vain. Up to the time of their separation he seldom
spoke. Excusing himself, the operative returned to the hotel for supper,
and spent the evening writing in his bedroom. After sealing his report
and preparing for an early start for Shenandoah—where he determined to
go at once and encounter the lion, Lawler, in his native jungle—he
retired to his bed and wooed repose.
————●————