A ROW, A REMOVAL, AND A RAFFLE.
The true cause of the disturbance was not at once disclosed, but its
progress and bearings were easily determined by the eye and ear of the
spectator. Such a reign of confusion and roar of voices; such a Babel of
tongues, it had never been the fortune of the operative to see or hear.
In the center of a considerable group of persons stood the young
husband, Julius Krozenski, brandishing a long stiletto and loudly
swearing that he would take somebody’s life. Meanwhile a friend, less
under excitement than the bridegroom, firmly held the angry man back by
the collar. Facing the Pole, somewhat in the shadow of a large tree,
stood an athletic Irish miner and his equally muscular wife, both much
wrought up, but neither exhibiting or employing any more deadly weapon
of offense or defense than their unusually acrimonious tongues, which
they exercised with all their strength. Soon Mrs. Krozenski made her
appearance, and, walking straight to the side of her newly-made liege
lord—but by no means, as the sequel will show, her master—she
scientifically seized him by the left ear, told him to “put away his
knife,” and then, with an affectionate and effective twist of the
imprisoned auricular appendage, hauled the irate man away. The burst of
laughter which followed this evidence of power on the part of a wife was
highly exasperating to Julius, and he slipped his tether, again drew his
knife, and rushed back toward his opponent. Once more Mrs. Krozenski
caught him by the ear, once more he had to replace the weapon in his
belt, and once more the victorious lady led him in the direction of the
house. This escaping and catching process was repeated several times,
and on each occasion, the peacemaker succeeded in capturing and carrying
away her husband. At last he was safely returned to the kitchen and
seated on a log of wood at the wife’s side, where, for some moments, he
remained as mild and quiet as possible.
Now the reception ceremonies were continued, and nothing more occurred
to disturb the usual routine of proceedings until O’Neill and his wife
ventured to enter the apartment. This was too much, and Krozenski burst
out afresh, worked himself into a new frenzy, and quickly rising, again
reached for and produced his long-bladed knife, which, unfortunately,
his spouse had permitted to remain in his possession.
The detective soon learned the cause of the difficulty.
It seems that O’Neill, who was a miner, and an intimate associate of the
bridegroom, had formerly entertained the hope that Julius would marry a
maiden sister of his own—was, in fact, somewhat angered that he did
not—and, in Krozenski’s presence, made the remark, while dancing, that
Mrs. Krozenski was not as graceful in the polka as that gifted young
lady. This was a very mild criticism for O’Neill to make, but it was
heard by Krozenski, who had imbibed too much of the blackstrap to have
any great amount of sense remaining in his head, and he resented it by
calling the Irishman a liar and following the hard word with a stinging
blow in the face. As was perfectly natural, O’Neill came in to take a
hand, backed by some of his immediate neighbors. In the mêlée the
bridegroom had drawn his knife and been joined by some of his
countrymen. This part of the fracas was ended by the masterly manner of
Mrs. Krozenski, whose principal idea appeared to be to have her
reception continued and prevent her husband from thus early leaving her
a widow.
It was all very well until O’Neill, having armed himself with a
revolver, entered the kitchen, which was crowded with men and women.
This was more than the husband of Mrs. Krozenski could possibly endure,
and as before stated, he rushed once more to the deadly fray. He could
not bear to have O’Neill there to gloat over his abject submission to
Mrs. Krozenski. O’Neill, nothing loth for a further continuance of the
battle, promptly fired upon the bridegroom, narrowly missing a lady
standing near, and not hitting the target by a foot. This was enough to
cause all the Polish, German, Welsh, and English miners in the room to
side with Krozenski, while those from Ireland were not backward in
joining the O’Neill and his plucky little helpmate. McKenna’s friends,
promptly deserting him, or expecting that he would follow, entered the
field. The detective, being duly sober, saw at a glance that the Irish
element was in the minority, and, despite abundant courage and
considerable experience in such matters, would inevitably meet defeat,
and he assumed the _rôle_, for the first time that evening, of
conservator of the peace. There was imminent danger, in view of the
proclivity of the Poles for using sharp knives in such troubles, that
some of his companions might be dangerously injured, if not killed.
Beside, the Mollie Maguires, as a body, were not interested in the
affair.
Krozenski had gone in with the full intention of killing O’Neill; and
O’Neill was equally intent upon performing the same kindly office for
the Polander. Each man was backed by his corps of partisans. The tumult
that developed defies powers of pen and pencil to depict, and, in point
of vocal and physical performances, exceeded all that the agent had ever
heard or read of in the same line at famous Kilkenny, or equally famous
Billingsgate. Bricks and stones were the principal missiles employed;
pistols and knives played their part; heads were broken, and faces and
noses contused; crabsticks crossed; eyes draped in beautiful black and
blue, teeth lost, shins bruised, chops swollen, and shillalahs fell with
telling effect. The shouts and cries that rent the night air were
guttural Teutonic, Gallic, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon, Welsh, Polish, and
sometimes a mixture of all, perfectly unintelligible to any of the
nationalities participating. Dust arose in clouds, and was almost
suffocating in density. The whole affair much resembled the common idea
of a miniature bedlam, and was in truth a small pandemonium let
loose—chaos come again.
[Illustration: “_Jolly noise! Jolly noise!! Jolly noise!!!_”]
When the turbulence was at its highest pitch, while it was difficult to
think of, and utterly impossible to hear anything, excepting the medley
of noises immediately surrounding him, McKenna’s attention was drawn to
the part taken in the fight by the aged grandam of Mrs. Krozenski, who
seemed greatly to enjoy the rumpus going on around her. Jumping hither
and thither, like a veritable witch without her broomstick, the little,
frisky old lady, her broad lace ruffles and straggling gray hair flying
about her withered face, with shrill tone and violent gesture urged on
her countrymen to the contest, and added at least her share to the
general disorder. At last, when the police had arrived, and been driven
away with clubs, when the combat had been resumed, and shouts and shots
and rattling of many sticks again filled the air, the grandmother of the
bride climbed upon the back of a common chair, which had been brought in
by her granddaughter, and standing as erect as possible, she loudly
clapped her bony hands and screamed in her cracked treble voice:
“Oh, jolly noise! _jolly noise!!_ JOLLY NOISE!!!”
This genuine burst of enthusiasm roused the energies of the detective,
thus far held firmly in reserve, and he drew his revolver and fired
three shots, in rapid succession, into the floor, directly under the
crone’s perch, shouting in a double-bass voice, as loudly as he could,
after each explosion:
“Peace!” “_Peace!!_” “PEACE!!!”
The aged dame beheld the flame and smoke issuing from the revolver, and
heard the reports; then, thinking that she was certainly hit, if not
killed, she toppled over backward to the floor and straightened out in a
dead faint. McKenna at once dragged her insensible form out of harm’s
way, and then joined those who were trying their utmost to quell the
disturbance.
The pistol shots, and the loud voices of McKenna and Mrs. Krozenski—the
latter having quit the fray to attend to her relative—soon caused the
belligerents to hesitate. In a few moments their fury evaporated, and
comparative quiet was restored. Shortly thereafter those who were able
limped away to their homes.
“Faith, an’ I’ve had enough an’ to spare of all _such_ weddin’s!” said
Fergus, examining with care an extra curve that he wore in his turned-up
nose, and wiping the gore from his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“When you catch _me_ goin’ to a Polish war again, I give ye good lave to
put me in me coffin first!”
Monaghan had two eyes in preparation for mourning which he was sure they
would assume by another day.
McNulty was the only lucky one, having escaped personal injury—and found
a silver watch, as he explained, “rolling along on the floor, widout any
kaper or owner bein’ around!” He intended merely to retain the timepiece
until the loser should call for it. But McKenna never heard that anybody
ever saw the value of that watch, through having retrieved it from the
thief.
The Polish husband and wife, with O’Neill and his spouse, and a number
of the originators of the riot, were taken to jail by the officers, who
returned with increased numbers for the purpose.
These scenes read like romance, but they are simply the truth.
Nothing here related is intended to reflect upon the Poles, as a portion
of the inhabitants of the coal regions of Pennsylvania. They are, as
miners, industrious and frugal, and, though slow workers, very reliable
and trustworthy. The men are large, robust, muscular, and capable of
great endurance. The women are also far from sylph-like, but many of
them beautiful in form, face, and figure; with dusky olive complexions,
dark eyes and hair. They are excellent wives and mothers.
Let us now return to the Mollie Maguires.
The next meeting of the midnight clan was held on Sunday, the tenth of
May, and his own room being too small, the Bodymaster notified the
members to convene on the mountain-side near the house. All were present
excepting Fergus, who was not fairly recovered from the blows received
at the Polish wedding. Several of his teeth had disappeared, his nose
was badly bruised, and his beauty—of which he had little to part
with—entirely destroyed. He thought it advisable to remain within for a
few days, having, as he remarked, a great respect for the children of
his acquaintances and not wishing to be the means of frightening any of
them to death by his untimely appearance in their midst.
Bushy Deenan, from Pottsville, being in Shenandoah on a visit, was
present at this meeting in the bush. About all done was the giving out
of the “goods,” received from Barney Dolan by Lawler. McKenna was
careful to commit all to memory. They were as follows:
The password:
“That the troubles of the country may soon be at an end!”
The answer:
“And likewise the men who will not her defend.”
The quarreling toast was:
“You should not dispute with a friend.”
The answer was:
“Not if I am not provoked!”
The night password was:
_Question_: “Long nights are unpleasant!”
_Answer_: “I hope they will be at an end!”
The sign of recognition was the front or first finger and thumb of the
right hand touching the necktie, or top button of the shirt.
The answer was given by rubbing the right hand across the forehead, just
touching the hair.
About this time the detective had his first portion of the process of
inuring himself to the mountain region. It came in the form of fever and
ague, and, during a number of days subsequent to the meeting of his
division, he suffered intensely, at times, from chills, with the
succeeding torrid sensations, which confined him to his room and his bed
at Mrs. Cooney’s. Those who have enjoyed the rigors of this unpleasant
complaint need no description of the detective’s symptoms—that, in this
instance, “ignorance is bliss,” let those who have not shaken be content
to believe.
As a matter of necessity, the officer soon settled the slight difficulty
in which he and Muff Lawler were involved. It was foolish, as well as
unnecessary, to keep up a quarrel with a man so bound to him and in
whose movements he was so much interested. Should he separate from
Lawler, at this juncture, the division would look upon him with
coldness, if not suspicion, and it was his idea to remain on the most
intimate terms with his friends, the Mollies. Lawler made a feint of
going over to Colorado Colliery, to fight out the trouble with Dick
Flynn, and borrowed McKenna’s revolver for dueling purposes, having
little confidence in his own weapon, after injuring himself with it, but
the cowardly Flynn would not come to time, ending the interview with
Lawler—as related by that veracious individual in person—by falling upon
his knees and asking the Bodymaster’s pardon. Thus ended the affair,
without having further recourse to weapons, or the law.
It was now the duty of the detective to collect statistics connected
with the order of which he had been made a member. That he might
accomplish this object, he must travel from place to place. Therefore,
saying his health demanded rest from work in the mines—even should labor
present, and of this there were serious doubts—he prevailed upon Lawler
to grant him a traveling card, directed to the officers of all divisions
in the United States, through which—with the “goods”—admission could be
secured in any city, town, or village. This card had to be countersigned
by Barney Dolan, County Delegate, before it was valid. The name was
easily gained, through a short trip to Big Mine Run.
Night and day during the spring, fall, and winter, McKenna had been
exposed to all sorts of weather and late hours, and it told upon his
constitution, which must have been of iron to have held out so long, and
he grew thin, cadaverous, and his strength perceptibly and rapidly
failed. The symptoms were aggravated by a dry cough, which drove off
refreshing sleep.
Although it was not his intention to stay long away from
Shenandoah—which place, from the material in and surrounding it, he
believed to be the grand center of the field of operations of the Mollie
Maguires—and so informed all his friends—the parting between McKenna and
McAndrew was a scene of mutual regrets. All disliked to have him leave.
This was especially the case with Cooney, Lawler, Monaghan, Fergus, and
little McNulty. But, after many good wishes from the men and women, and
promises on his part that he would return as soon as fully recovered,
the detective occupied a car on the Lehigh Valley Road, the evening of
the fifteenth of May, 1874, and reaching Wilkesbarre, Luzerne County,
the same day, took up quarters at the Railroad Hotel, of which Daniel
Shovlin was then proprietor.
Some bitter experiences were in store for McKenna. There must be the
bitter with the sweet.
Bearing letters from Lawler and others to William Kirk, County Delegate
of Luzerne, he encountered no difficulty in forming the acquaintance of
the chief Mollies of the vicinity. He found that there were at that time
only a little less than thirty divisions, or bodies, in the county, all
of which were in a prosperous condition, as many as thirty or forty
persons being added to the lodge in Wilkesbarre alone during a single
night.
County Delegate Kirk was a gentlemanly person, kept a store, and was
kind enough to say that Schuylkill County, from which his visitor came,
“was, from its course, a disgrace to the Ancient Order of Hibernians,
and should be cut off, root and branch, until there could be a complete
remedy for the difficulty in reorganization.”
He received McKenna cordially, however, and said he was not to blame for
the condition of the order outside of Shenandoah, and complimented him
for the manner in which the business and finances of that division, as
far as he had heard, were being managed. He also took especial trouble
to introduce the operative to the chief men of the society in Luzerne.
It was learned that there were about four thousand Mollies in the
county.
After remaining in Wilkesbarre a few days, McKenna visited the division
at Pittston, and saw and talked with the Bodymaster, whose name was
Melvin. He then visited Kingston, Plymouth, and the adjacent towns,
familiarizing himself with the faces and names of the officers and
members, quietly adding to his list, acquiring a better knowledge of the
manners and customs of the people, and the modes of procedure within and
outside the division room. Among others, he encountered Mike Hester, own
cousin of Pat Hester, of Shamokin, who had not the violent reputation of
his kinsman, but appeared to be a decent young man. The detective had
not been long absent when he was the recipient of a letter from Muff
Lawler, inquiring after his health, and particularly cautioning him not
to use the new “goods” in Luzerne, as the members of the society in that
county had not yet been instructed in them. This the operative had
already discovered, but, as his memory was good and he had remembered
those of the previous quarter, he encountered no difficulty in that
respect. He also met Ned Lawler, the degenerate nephew of his uncle, and
found that he had gained no wisdom by the taking on of years, but was
the same rollicking, reckless fellow he had been while in Shenandoah.
Kirk, when McKenna next visited his place, showed him a letter from Mike
Lawler, pompously worded, but inquiring kindly after the health of his
_protégé_, in whom he said he was more than usually interested.
The matter then most canvassed by the Mollies was a conference, held on
the twenty-seventh of the month at Scranton, between Bishop O’Hara and
five clergymen on one side, and a delegation of twenty-five Bodymasters
from all parts of the country, on the other, to discuss certain changes
in the constitution and by-laws, as well as in the secret work of the
order. Mr. County Delegate Kirk, and Peter Duffy, of Hazelton,
represented Luzerne County. The proceedings of the convention were
harmonious, but no conclusion was arrived at, excepting in hearing the
Bishop’s _ultimatum_. The clergy insisted that there must be a thorough
revision of the rules regulating divisions; that they should cease
holding meetings in bar-rooms, and consent to have a priest for
spiritual adviser, before the Church could recognize or affiliate with
them. The sentence, “If I hear a brother illy spoken of I will inform
him of it,” was also to be expunged from the obligation. They did not
seem to interfere with the secrecy, and the signs and pass-words, and
little was said about the murderous acts which had been done by the
Mollies. It was, after much argument, left in about the same condition
as before. No mere county convention could abrogate work done by the
National Board, or the Board of Erin. Indeed it was doubtful if the
Mollies would ever consent to any changes, Church or no Church, and
whether Bishop O’Hara would not, after all, have to follow the example
of Bishop Wood, and proceed to deal in anathemas and excommunications.
Remaining in Luzerne until the fifth of June of the same year, McKenna
then received orders from Superintendent Franklin—under whose immediate
supervision, guided by Mr. Bangs and myself, he had all the time been
acting—to report at once in Philadelphia, and he immediately obeyed.
It should have been mentioned, in its proper connection, that, while
waiting at the Shenandoah depot for the arrival of the train to
Wilkesbarre, on the fourteenth of May, Tom Hurley had cautiously dropped
something heavy into McKenna’s outside coat pocket, whispering at the
same time:
“Jim, don’t you say I never made you a gift of anything! You’ll have a
hard set to deal wid, over in Luzerne, they’re tellin’ me, an’ my
billy’ll come mighty convanient to have at hand for your defense!”
Of course the operative expressed his thanks. When he arrived in
Philadelphia, having no use for such a thing, he in turn presented the
life-preserver to Mr. Franklin, who will ever treasure it as a relic of
the Mollie Maguires. This weapon is composed of a piece of untanned
cowhide, now as hard as horn itself, some six inches in length, twisted
or braided into a sort of handle, and covered from end to end with
woolen cloth. One extremity is loaded with three-quarters of a pound of
lead; to the other is firmly attached a loop, large enough to admit a
man’s hand, formed of strong linen cord, and intended to allow the billy
to hang loose from the wrist and at the same time prevent it being lost
or wrenched from the grasp of its owner. At close quarters, it proves a
very savage and formidable arm of defense, resembling, but being much
more dangerous than the ordinary slung-shot in daily use by policemen
and others. Twelve ounces of solid lead and raw-hide, dashed against the
thickest skull by a strong-armed ruffian, would as effectually silence a
man as an ounce of the same metal discharged from the bore of a
Springfield rifle.
While at the Agency in Philadelphia McKenna prepared a complete list of
all the Mollies whose acquaintance he had formed, as well as a regular
enumeration of the officers and members, so far as he knew, belonging to
the different divisions in Schuylkill and Luzerne Counties, after which
he was instructed to re-enter the field of operations, in Carbon County,
and to particularly investigate the circumstances connected with the
assassination of Morgan Powell, occurring December 2, 1871, and alluded
to in chapter vii. of this volume. It was suspected that the deed had
been perpetrated by men residing in the vicinity, the system of
exchanges between Bodymasters not having on this occasion been observed.
Taking the proper line of railway, the detective was soon in Mauch
Chunk, one of the most romantic and ancient-looking towns in the entire
State. Here, however, for the present, he need spend but little time.
His business was at Summit Hill, and, taking the cars over the
Switch-back, he was soon in that locality. Going at once to the house of
Thos. Fisher, who kept a tavern and acted as County Delegate, he was
well received, after making himself known by throwing the proper sign,
which was promptly responded to by the Mollie. There were several
members present at the moment, and McKenna was introduced to them. Among
these were Daniel Boyle, the Bodymaster, John Gallagher, and Pat
McKenna—of those of the last name given the detective heard there were a
large number in the neighborhood—naturally they must be relatives. Here
he also saw Maguire, the State Secretary of the order, from Pittsburg,
who was canvassing in the interest of his newspaper, the _Hibernian_,
which was the acknowledged organ of the A. O. H. in this country. It was
here he heard that big, blarneying, blundering Barney Dolan was in
disgrace at headquarters and there was a chance that he would be removed
from his office as County Delegate of Schuylkill, and never receive any
more “goods” for the divisions, simply because he had, in a fit of
anger, loudly cursed the Bishop and the holy Church of Rome. All agreed
that Barney should have been more respectful, and in using such language
had richly merited the punishment of expulsion for life.
McKenna, the detective’s namesake, was a young man, above the average in
intelligence, but loved his dram as well as any of his countrymen in
that vicinity.
Fisher had been tax-collector of the county, with other fat positions,
and was considered the big man of the Mollies in Carbon County.
The detective’s kinsman was even at that early day suspected of having
been engaged as a principal in the murder of Morgan Powell, and Pat very
naturally became an object of interest and a person whose company
McKenna wanted to keep. That young man was at first rather shy, but a
few songs and dances, some drinks, and a distant cousinship once having
been discovered, the heart of the real McKenna gradually warmed toward
the party bearing, for the time being, the same name. The companionship
was kept up for some days, and finally the detective was invited to
McKenna’s residence and introduced to all of his relatives, girls and
women, boys and men. There he made himself comfortable for a short time.
He was also quite welcome, because of the stories he told the women, and
the drinks he gave the men, while with the younger crop of McKennas he
was a great favorite from his lessons in dancing and singing.
During the latter portion of June, bidding farewell to Summit Hill and
its inhabitants, and promising to call again some day—an engagement that
he was determined to fulfill—the detective thought to return to Luzerne,
but stopping over at Hazelton, during his stay he was invited to attend
a dance and raffle at Buck Mountain, and accepted. The chances were only
a dollar, and the article to be won by somebody was a brass clock, the
property of a widow woman named Breslin. The lady in question kept a
shebeen-shop on the mountain, and her husband had, some months before,
been killed in the mine by the sudden falling of a pillar near which he
was at work. Tickets were for sale in every saloon in Hazelton, and
having procured one, McKenna started, in company with some thirty or
forty Mollies, to walk to Buck Mountain. At least more than half the
distance, from the steepness of the ascent, had to be made on foot, as
no vehicle could be drawn up by horse or mule.
The party was held upon the grounds surrounding Mrs. Breslin’s
mansion—if mansion it could be called, consisting, as it did, of one
small room—and the company was as miscellaneous as it was numerous,
there being several hundred men, women, and girls in attendance. But all
could be accommodated, as there were plenty of torches, any amount of
level earth, and seven or eight fiddlers to furnish the music.
Mrs. Breslin—a fine figure of a woman, but one somewhat along in
years—was celebrated the country over for her good liquor, which, on
this occasion, had been prepared in a large kettle, and was dealt out
steaming hot—in fact, it was the Polish blackstrap over again, with some
scraps of lemon added, by way of variety, and honored with the name of
punch—hot whisky-punch.
The operative received an introduction to many of the men and all of the
women, among the latter to a handsome lass, of rather uncertain age,
named Kate McIntyre. Con O’Donnel gave him the acquaintance of this
handsome and sprightly lady. She evidently became smitten with the young
man, and despite the image of the Tamaqua queen, Miss Higgins, who still
held a place in his memory, he paid her considerable attention, engaging
her hand in several successive and successful reels and round dances. He
treated Miss McIntyre to some of the prevalent beverage, found that she
liked it, and took sufficient himself to make him feel jolly. In fact, a
little after ten o’clock at night, the whole assemblage was funny, and
after the clock had been raffled for and won—the winner gracefully
making the widow a present of the timepiece—the mirth merged into
hilarity and gradually into boisterousness. Then the time passed until
midnight, when there was a short recess, during which Mrs. Breslin added
to her profits by disposing of a cold collation, consisting of chicken,
sandwiches, and hard-boiled eggs, of which the parties partook with
appetite.
Miss McIntyre and her gallant, after having refreshments, walked around
the grounds, arm in arm. While near the shanty of Mrs. Breslin, they
nearly stumbled over the prostrate form of a man, who had evidently
absorbed too much of the liquor. The drunken fellow slowly opened his
eyes, saw Miss McIntyre, and, rising up on one elbow, with a gesture
called her to him. But she gazed on him in blank astonishment, merely
turning on her heel, with a look of disdain, and they walked away.
“An’ who is your friend?” asked McKenna.
“I don’t know the man at all,” said Miss McIntyre, “and I’m sure he does
not know me! It was the act of an idiot, who could think of nothing
else!”
“Well, but for his helpless state, I’d just go back and bate the brute
for his impertinence!” said McKenna.
Kate looked admiringly upon her companion, out of her large, dark eyes,
and they passed on and once more joined in the dance.
————●————