MORE WORK OF THE MOLLIES.
The detective was now competent to encounter modern as well as old-time
Mollie Maguires. He apprehended no more trouble from the questions of
Dormer, Lawler, or even Jack Kehoe himself, and felt that however
imperfect his introductory work with the order in the coal country might
have been, he was then prepared to meet all members of the order, and
enabled, from his late instructions, to suit his companions. The danger
coming from sudden inquiries, made by strangers, he no longer dreaded.
Just as well posted in the mysteries of the society as anybody well
could be—he had already learned that there were no degrees beyond the
initiatory in the Ancient Order—he believed he could work his way into a
division, or into the good graces of the people as well as any man with
whom he had conversed. In fact, his memory, which was retentive to a
degree, treasured every sign and password and toast much better, he
discovered, than did the minds of many of his associates, some of whom
had joined the body many years before, and who would therefore be
presumably far more familiar with its interior workings than a mere tyro
in the business. As a general rule his comrades were wholly uneducated,
and their laborious occupations debarred mental exercise. In this regard
McKenna held an advantage, and was really better qualified for office in
the division than any member he had ever met. He had not been long in
the order when this was apparent to his friends, and they commenced
talking of him in connection with one of the chairs to be vacated at the
next annual election.
Surely, he must not for the present leave Shenandoah.
This was a strangely inconsistent society. Having for the public eye a
motto to all appearances as elevated in tone as that of any secret order
in the land, and professing the noblest moral principles, its members
were, with some exceptions, assassins, murderers, incendiaries, thieves,
midnight marauders, gamblers, and men who did not scruple to perform
almost any act of violence or cowardice that a depraved nature or
abnormal animal instinct might conceive. Having “unity and true
Christian charity” as its ostensible guiding-star, its constituent parts
were at war each with the other—excepting in the perpetration of dark
deeds, in which they stood firmly together—and one member jealous of the
power obtained by another. Professing benignity and the utmost
benevolence, it was a combination of enmity and malice for purposes of
blood and outrage, brutally manufacturing widows and orphans—not caring
for and cherishing them. Its adherents were certainly not particular as
to the moral endowments of their initiates. McKenna was quickly
accepted, yet he had not been at all cautious in concealing from Lawler
and his friends that he was—at least, professedly, an escaped manslayer,
and one who would not hesitate to deal in counterfeit currency, or
pursue any other calling by which money could be made or old grudges
repaid.
Then there was Dormer, who had formerly stood well with the
organization; yet he was by no means angelic in disposition or
reputation. Nor were Lawler, Monaghan, Kehoe, Dolan, and a dozen others,
with whom McKenna had come in contact, at all of the character called
saintly.
It was easy to see how fair the aims and objects of the original fathers
of the society might have been when beginning the movement. It could
even be believed that, in some parts of the country, the primal endeavor
might yet be in force, but, in the mining districts of Pennsylvania,
surely they had long since disappeared from view. Evil had taken up the
reins and obtained undisputed sway. Acts of beneficence and charity had
been succeeded by scenes of violence and carnage. Wicked-minded and
reckless persons were at the helm, and made choice of their kind to fill
the ranks. Good men had no chance. A murderer, an assassin, a violent
party was sought after and coveted by the divisions, while one of known
rectitude of purpose and strict integrity was not wanted, and sure of
being rejected were his name by accident proposed. Hence it was well
that McKenna took the course he did when first arriving in the coal
regions. His jolly, devil-may-care manner, his habit—not really a habit,
but an assumption of one—of being nearly always intoxicated, ready and
willing to sing, shoot, dance, fight, gamble, face a man in a knock-down
or a jig, stay out all night, sleep all day, tell a story, rob a
hen-roost or a traveler—just suited those with whom he daily came in
contact.
Returning to a date preceding McKenna’s induction to Shenandoah
Division, let me bring in some of the acts committed by the Mollies and
their opponents, forming a kind of introduction to others of wider
celebrity, if not of greater magnitude, which it will soon be the
chronicler’s duty to narrate.
It was the middle of March, 1874, that McKenna was invited to witness
one of the milder amusements of the rougher portion of the people of the
mining country—a dog-fight. The canine contest was appointed to occur at
Number Three Breaker, and McAndrew, Ferguson, and Monaghan were the
detective’s companions. The locality was only a mile from town, and the
attendance was large, some two hundred men and overgrown youths having
gathered to see the expected ferocious proceeding. But all were fated to
disappointment. From a failure to come to time on the part of one of the
owners and backers, the ring was just one dog short. The animal on hand
had to be taken home, his pugnacity unsatisfied, and the spectators,
unable to get up a battle between two human beasts, were compelled to
disperse, considerably disgusted with this peaceful result of what
earlier bid fair to be a savage and enjoyable sensation. On the route
homeward, McAndrew said he would stop at a house where he was
acquainted, and see if a dog could not be procured. The attempt did not
succeed, but as the men were standing near the place, Dr. Shultz, who
was known to nearly all the party, came that way. He paused to chat with
McAndrew, and among other matters stated that a man, named Peter
McNellis, had been shot the previous night at Jenkins’ Patch. The deed
transpired at McNellis’ own house, and was the work of one Canfield,
whose father was shot, but not mortally, the preceding Saturday.
McNellis had been attacked while in his dwelling, but the doctor could
not say if he were dead, or would die, but the hurt was pronounced very
serious by the attending surgeon. McNellis’ brother had been three times
notified by the Mollies to quickly leave the neighborhood, or accept the
consequences. The missives conveying this delicate bit of information
all bore the signature of “Mollie.” The McNellis family, it appears,
chose to accept the “consequences.”
When the doctor had ridden away, Ferguson exclaimed, referring to
McNellis:
“May he never rise again, the scoundrel!”
In which wish all his comrades heartily concurred, and McKenna, seeing
that he was expected to express himself regarding a Sheet Iron lad,
complied, saying:
“An’ may the divil fly away wid his sowl!”
On the morning of the twentieth of the same month, one Dougherty was
shot while passing from home to his work. It was reported that the
victim in this case was a Mollie, and the outrage had been brought about
by some of the dreaded Iron Clads.
This made the third or fourth person that had been killed during the
time of the operative’s residence in the vicinity of Shenandoah—and all
before he had become a member of the organization of Mollie Maguires. I
make mention of this, in the present connection, from the reason that
enemies have undertaken to instruct the public that until my detective
was sent to and appeared in the coal region, and was duly constituted a
member of the order of Mollies, the murderous society lay comparatively
dormant. This endeavour to have it seem that McKenna fomented discord
and caused crimes to be perpetrated which led to the arrest and
punishment of his companions and intimates, is so absurd, that only
those who desire to do so, put any faith in it, and for such persons and
their wretched opinions I have supreme contempt. McKenna was constantly
instructed to avoid prompting outrages. He obeyed his orders faithfully.
The truth is, he entered the stronghold of a gang of assassins, and,
despite his presence, they succeeded in doing a few murders. He could
not stop them. Before closing, I shall show some of the troubles that he
did succeed in preventing. Dating from 1868, and from that year down to
1873, murder and other violence ran riot in the coal districts. Since
the authorities have been able, through our exertions, to punish
assassins and conspirators, there has been a noticeable decrease in acts
to be punished. When the Mollies’ ever-convenient _alibi_ was shattered
and scattered to the wind, they had nothing left to fall back upon, and
there was no chance for them. They were forced to flee the country, or
remain and behave like good and orderly citizens.
When McAndrew heard of the last act of blood—the shooting of
Dougherty—(this was not the man of the same name—who was no
Mollie—causing so much trouble at Tamaqua, as related in another and
preceding chapter)—he was very indignant, and passionately exclaimed
that “if such things continued, there would soon be regular war in
Schuylkill county!”
These words must have reached the ears of some of the Chain Gang—or
those who were not Mollies—as, only a few days subsequently, a message
was received by Muff Lawler that a portion of the Modocs (Germans) and
Sheet Irons had made common cause against McAndrew, Monaghan, Garritty,
Ferguson, Lawler, and several others, all of whom would meet the fate of
Dougherty if they did not cease their cruel work, or depart from that
portion of the State. When Monaghan heard about this, he said:
“Some fire will fly and some blood be spilled before _I_ get out of this
neighborhood!”
He evidently did not intend to be frightened away with merely hard
words.
An incident, which may be given in this connection, was related by
Lawler to McKenna, one night, after his return from a meeting of the
Miners’ and Laborers’ Association, to which Muff also belonged. It was
about a Welsh boss in one of the mines, not far from Shenandoah, and had
only recently occurred. According to Lawler, this superintendent, whose
name was not given, had been discharging all the Irishmen operating
under him and putting his country men in their places. The natural
result was, the Mollies notified the boss that he must leave. He
disregarded the injunction, saying that it would “make no difference, if
he obeyed, as the proprietors would run the colliery if he were in h—l!”
A few days after using this language, a man visited the exasperated
Welshman and gave him a warning letter.
“Where are you from?” asked the boss.
“From h—l!” answered the messenger, and quickly disappeared.
This boss did not listen to the warning, and as a consequence, the
Mollies, in a body, demons as they were, went to his house, at the dead
hour of night, broke up his furniture, ill-treated his family, and
taking the stubborn fellow into the yard, in his night garments, beat
him with clubs until he was nearly dead. He was satisfied from this
treatment, which might be called striking evidence, that the colliery
was not exactly a healthy place of residence or refuge for him, and, as
soon as able to do so, removed to Pottsville. In this case, as in many
others, no arrests were made, and no efforts put forth to hunt up the
guilty parties. It could hardly be expected that there would be, when it
is considered that the Mollies controlled the magistrates and other
officials of the city, and partly those of the county.
McKenna, judging from Lawler’s manner while relating the story, more
than from the words he used, suspected that the beating of the Welshman
had been performed by him, or at least by men acting under his orders.
Still, as he was not yet a member of the Mollies, he could not be
expected to have reliable information on the subject. Mike concluded his
story by saying that he never allowed his men to know about his
movements, and ordinarily, when anything was to be done, he preferred
attending to it himself rather than let others into the secret.
“So there’s a ring within a ring!” mentally ejaculated the detective, as
Lawler left him to attend upon a customer at the bar.
The strike of that winter, which has before been alluded to, ended nigh
the first of April, 1874. About this time McKenna heard, from one Foley,
living near Indian Ridge colliery, that at the water station a man named
Keating had been shot and instantly killed. The event occurred about
five o’clock in the afternoon, and, as usual, the murderer made his
escape. It was again charged that the Sheet Iron lads were the guilty
parties. Lawler and the detective were at the colliery looking for work
to do, when they learned about Keating’s death.
Another of the more innocent diversions of the Sleepers was the
indulgence in cock-fighting. In this, from his known intimacy with
Lawler, the operative was naturally expected to take part, and he did
not disappoint his friends. Knowing that whatever he did he must, under
the circumstances, gain fast hold upon the good will of Lawler and the
remainder of the gang, thus exhibiting his qualifications for a good
Mollie, he strained every faculty with that view, and even consented to
take charge of the interests of the tavern keeper in the impending
chicken-fight, acting as trainer, manager, and all hands, in getting
ready the birds for the great occasion. As fortune would have it, in his
boyhood he had received a few lessons in the art, hence was not wholly
unprepared for the position and its duties. Having ten of the game
chickens to commence with, he devoted considerable time and attention to
their breaking-in for the pit.
The opposing birds were bred in the vicinity of Girardville, coming from
the flock of, and to be handled by, one Dennis Murphy.
Here is something of the style in which McKenna trained Lawler’s pets.
In the first place the chickens were clipped and gaffed in scientific
style; that is, their spurs were skilfully amputated and steel gaffs, or
artificial spurs, fitted in their places. The fowl were then physicked
with a soft compound consisting of oil, bread, and milk, and some sugar,
which reduced them somewhat in weight, the process continuing until the
proper shrinkage had been accomplished. Empty barrels were taken, and a
piece of one stave carefully removed, forming a coop, which was properly
ventilated, and each chicken thus given a separate shelter. After their
usual strength had returned, daily exercise of a peculiar kind,
calculated to give them muscle and endurance, was entered upon. McKenna
would get upon his knees, on an old mattress spread on the ground in the
back yard of the tavern, for the purpose, and taking a bird between his
two hands, toss it high in the air, then catch it again and repeat the
process, until he was weary or the rooster was nearly exhausted, when it
would be returned to its coop. Every bird had to take this lesson once
each day, and under it all rapidly gained in fighting qualities. No soft
food was now permitted, but they received plenty of water and corn,
wheat and oats. If one refused to feed he was immediately presented with
a supply of raw apples. Out of the ten thus treated only seven came out
capable of contesting in the pit. Some of them, less than one year of
age, were called stags. Those more than a twelvemonth old assumed the
dignity and cognomen of game-cocks.
On the occasion selected for the match, Lawler’s house and grounds
presented the characteristics of a grand gala day. Murphy was early on
the spot—scarce two hundred yards from the tavern—where were congregated
men, women, and children to the number of two hundred or more, all
interested in seeing and enjoying the exciting sport.
There was at first a great difference in opinion as to who should be the
winner, the bets ranging from five to ten dollars each battle, and being
plentiful for both sides. Of course Mike Lawler was reaping at the same
time a plentiful harvest through the sale of drinkables at the bar. It
employed his own services and those of his wife to keep pace with the
impatient orders of the thirsty ones. Meantime McKenna, dressed for the
occasion in his Sunday clothes, with his hair straightened out and his
beard trimmed, wearing a new, soft hat, which was the envy of all the
men and the wonder of all the women, was attending to his part of the
business.
At first the odds ran heavy in favor of Murphy’s brood,—and they
certainly were very handsome chickens; but when McKenna put aside the
brand-new hat, and, with a red bandanna handkerchief wound in the shape
of a turban round his red head, a strap encircling his waist, coat and
vest off, sleeves rolled up, and game chicken in hand, entered the ring,
the betting changed, and the difference was two to one in favor of the
mufflers. They were certainly ferocious-looking bipeds.
It is needless to attempt a description of the chicken-match.
Appropriate language fails. But it is sufficient to say that Lawler’s
mufflers carried off the honors. As a consequence, McKenna acquired a
wide-spread reputation throughout the mines as a manager of such
affairs.
[Illustration: _“Lawler’s Mufflers carried off the honors.”_]
Murphy accepted defeat all in good part, as everything had been fair and
above-board, and challenged Muff Lawler for a return match, to take
place early the next month, at his house, near Girardville. This was
promptly accepted by the Shenandoah party, and time named, when the
crowd dispersed, leaving the innkeeper to count over his day’s gains,
which were not inconsiderable.
Of course McKenna’s services were once more in requisition to train the
birds, and afterward to fight them. When the morning arrived he had to
carry the chickens on his back, in a bag, a distance of over three miles
to Connor’s Patch, where Murphy lived. The road was rough, his burden
not light; and when he returned, again the winner of the fight, to
Shenandoah, late at night, from Girardville, he was weary enough, and
heartily sick of cock-fighting as a profession, or even for amusement.
There was a great crowd assembled at the Patch—if anything, larger than
the one Lawler had secured—and Murphy, though twice defeated, said he
was “enthirely contint wid the results!” So were most of those in
attendance.
Lawler gave a treat to all the “boys” that night, as he was confidently
expected to do after winning two fights in succession, and everything
passed off smoothly, with a single exception. One Dick Flynn, charged to
the muzzle with bad liquor, and being naturally of a fiery disposition,
was very mad because he had lost five dollars which he ventured on
Murphy’s chickens, and wanted to fight Lawler, to secure his revenge.
The innkeeper having other duties to attend to, besides being in a
sportive humor from the success of the day, only laughed at his big
antagonist, telling him to “call at another time, when he could have all
the fighting he might feel in want of.”
Flynn lived in the town of Colorado, was a known ruffian, capable of
shooting a man from behind a bush, or performing almost any infamous
act, and it is more than probable that Lawler had rather make no attack
upon him. Be this as it may, Flynn left late at night, swearing many
oaths and loudly threatening that he would beat Lawler or kill McKenna,
his “butty,” if he had to wait a dozen years for the opportunity. It
would appear, from an incident transpiring a few weeks later, that Flynn
had a good memory, and did his best to carry this promise into
execution. The event, however, will have to await relation in another
chapter.
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