ANOTHER VICTIM OF THE MOLLIES.
For a few days after the return of the unsuccessful delegation engaged
in the work of killing Wm. M. Thomas, in accordance with the order of
the Mahanoy City Convention, quiet reigned and nothing further was done
in that direction. It will be remembered that the date fixed for the
assassination was Saturday, the fifth of June. From the fact that
McKenna judged it foolhardy, on account of the presence of Militia, to
make the trial, it had been temporarily abandoned. In truth, the
assassination was just as practicable then as it ever would be, from the
isolated position in which the proposed victim was working. It served
the detective’s purpose to have the matter rest, at least until his
reports could reach the Agency in Philadelphia, when he hoped, should
the efforts be renewed, there would come officers on the ground to
capture the would-be murderers, or at least save Thomas’ life. But
McKenna had no means of knowing how extremely busy Capt. Linden and his
Coal and Iron force were at that particular moment. The detective was
only inside the Mollie ring, and his friends were kept as much as
possible in the dark as to police movements. In reality, he had about
all that he could attend to—and so did the members of the open force.
None found much leisure for amusement.
The Mollie Maguires, having passed sentence of death upon Thomas, it was
not to be forgotten. Die he must. Some delay might occur, but the end in
view was never relinquished. Meanwhile, Hurley, Gibbons, and Doyle were
taken over to Mahanoy City and boarded, at the expense of the murderous
society, in the house of a Mrs. Cosgrove until such time as O’Brien, the
Bodymaster, might have everything prepared for them. At the end of three
days’ stay, according to Kehoe’s order, O’Brien having signally failed
in leading them up to their prey, the trio went back to Shenandoah.
There they tarried for a time, doing absolutely nothing.
In the interim McKenna experienced a return of disease, for several days
was confined to his room, and much longer to his house. He suffered
intensely, and was under the doctor’s care, part of the time being
delirious. That journey over the mountains, exposure to wet and cold
air, with the accompanying excitement and mental pressure, all had their
share in inducing a relapse of the intermittent fever, with which he had
formerly been attacked, and for a time it threatened to assume a typhoid
and very dangerous phase.
About the first day that the detective was strong enough to sit up in
his chair, take an occasional walk to the door, and enjoy the warm
sunshine, his heart was gladdened with the news that McAndrew had come
home, his job in Luzerne County having terminated. McKenna was never
more pleased in his life than when he grasped the hand of his superior
officer, and McAndrew seemed equally joyful to see the face of his
friend and division Secretary. Their interview, which occurred at
Cooney’s, was long and confidential. McKenna informed the President of
nearly everything that had happened during his absence, including the
orders the members were under from the Mahanoy Convention to kill
Thomas, and at once gave into his possession all the lodge books and
papers. It appeared to him, when this was accomplished, that health had
been restored as through the working of a miracle, and the blood coursed
more calmly in his veins. At least a very heavy load was lifted from his
overburdened mind, and he breathed more freely than for weeks before,
counting from the day of McAndrew’s departure for Wilkes-barre. He held
no longer the place of acting Bodymaster and thanked his lucky stars
that he did not.
Time passed until the 27th of June. McAndrew had resumed active
leadership of the Mollies in Shenandoah, and the detective yet continued
ill, but was apparently fast convalescing. He had been sitting at the
door of his boarding-house, enjoying the beautiful sunset, and wishing
that his strength were once fully restored, when he heard footsteps, and
soon McAndrew made his appearance and took a seat near him. They had
only just begun talking of the weather and other matters, when Tom
Hurley came up and joined the party. Shortly afterward John Morris, a
very young, but solid man, with plenty of yellow hair, blue eyes, and
heavy features, formed one of the group. Then Mike Doyle arrived, as he
said, “jist from Number Three Hill.” Mike Carey was already inside
Cooney’s, and emerged from the house, adding one more to the company.
Following quickly a few words on comparatively trivial subjects,
McAndrew inquired:
“Are any of yez going to Mahanoy City?”
“I am!” exclaimed Hurley.
These words were echoed by Doyle and Morris.
“Well, that’s jist as it should be; for I have orders from Kehoe, if any
man hesitates to obey me commands, to have him cut off for life at the
very next meeting!” Then he added, turning to Carey:
“You must go to Number Three, and tell John Gibbons, who is now at home,
that I want to see him here directly!”
“All right!” answered Carey, and he withdrew.
The men left with the detective to await the arrival of Gibbons did not
say much to each other. They were more reticent than usual. The
operative did not feel at all like talking. His active thoughts were
trying to work out a difficult problem, something like this: In what
manner could he forward news to Thomas that the assassins were again on
his track? How should he telegraph Mr. Franklin, that he might advise
Linden to protect Bully Bill at the hazard of his own life? The only
hope left was, that Carey, who had been his constant nurse and
attendant, might be needed to go to Mahanoy with the rest, in case
Gibbons were to refuse. He looked upon the golden sun, as it went down
behind the somber hills, and just the last glimpse he caught of the orb,
it appeared to him that its color had changed to a blood red. Would it
rise on murder and violence? His heart misgave him that it might, unless
something could be thought of to reverse the present order of things.
The detective was sure that no suspicion yet attached to him. He was
known to be sick and incapable of physical exertion, and McAndrew was
there, at the head of the division. His orders must be listened to and
obeyed. In his soul McKenna wished Gibbons might be absent, or unable,
from some cause, to carry out his part of the arrangement. But his
spirits sunk and his form trembled, so that he had to complain of a
returning chill, caused by the night air, when he saw Carey, side by
side with Gibbons, making his way up the path in the direction of the
house. In a few minutes Gibbons reported. After the usual greetings, he
took off his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and
inquired:
“Well, McAndrew, what’s the matther now?”
The Bodymaster cast his eyes around, to see that all within hearing were
Mollies, was evidently satisfied, and answered:
“These men here—Morris, Doyle, and Hurley—are going, by order of the
County Delegate and our division, to Mahanoy City, to shoot Bill Thomas,
in the morning, as he goes to his work! I want to know if you are to be
along?”
“I’m agreed,” said Gibbons, “as I don’t want to stop around this
neighborhood, anyhow, for I think I may be arrested for a few words I
hev had with one of the bosses of Hecksher’s Colliery—the fool thinks I
mane to shoot him! I don’t care if I take part in the matter! Jist put a
man in my place in the breast an’ I’m wid yez!”
“Carey can take a hand at that; so there’s nothin’ to prevent the four
of ye lavin’ at once!” said McAndrew. “An’ Dan Sweeney shall work for
Morris, that he may miss no time—an’ Hurley is not at work—so he’ll lose
nothing. Are ye well prepared for the business? Have ye all got proper
weapons?”
The responses were in the affirmative, though no pistols were exhibited,
and it only remained for Gibbons, who was in his shirt sleeves, to get a
coat.
“I say, McKenna! You can lend me the old gray coat? You’ll have no use
for it until to morrow, when I’ll give it back to ye!”
This was said by Gibbons.
“The coat hangs within! Jist rache it, an’ wear it, an’ welcome,” said
the operative. To refuse would have seemed particularly suspicious.
The prevailing twilight deepened into darkness, and still the Mollies
had not started on their errand of bloodshed, but, at about nine
o’clock, the stars then shining out brightly, gave them light enough by
which to see the pathway, and, bidding the Bodymaster, Secretary, and
Mike Carey good-by, they quietly departed.
When their retreating footsteps could no longer be heard, McAndrew
ordered the operative to go to bed, “unless he wanted more chills,” and
took his own route homeward.
“Yes, I’ll retire directly.” answered McKenna, who looked around to find
Carey lightly dozing on the doorstep. He had no thought of going to his
room without at least making an effort, even in his weak condition, to
save Thomas or have the assassins arrested in the act. His plans were
indistinctly formed, but he was determined to make a desperate movement
in some direction. Linden’s whereabouts, since his own recent illness,
the detective knew nothing of. The only plan, therefore, possible of
accomplishment, was to send off a cipher dispatch to Mr. Franklin. In
default of that he must try and deposit a written message in the
post-office, addressed to his Philadelphia correspondent. The latter
must naturally be too late, still it would show that he was trying to do
his duty by the man whose life stood in jeopardy. Waiting until he
thought Carey was soundly asleep, McKenna noiselessly arose from his
bench, walked rather unsteadily to the door, and tried to pass into the
house beyond the slumbering Mollie. As he did so, Carey roused himself,
hurriedly rubbed his eyes, and said:
“That’s right! Let’s get to bed!”
“I’m not slapy, an’ am goin’ to write a letther to me sister before I
retire,” said McKenna.
“Very well!” responded Carey, “an’ as I’m to slape wid ye the night, ye
kin sit up and write, while I’ll jist rest me for the morrow’s work for
Morris!”
Here was a predicament. The man was right. Transient visitors were
monopolizing the spare beds in the house, and Cooney had provided,
before retiring, that Carey would share the detective’s couch. What
should he do?
“Upon the whole,” finally said the operative, “I don’t feel slapy—you
see I’ve had rather more of the bed, the past wake, than wur
pleasant—an’ so I’ll sit in here, an’ rest me eyes, without any light,
for a while. You had better go up, so as to be arley awake fur your
breakfast!”
“Oh, as fur that matther, divil a bit do I care fur slape, aither! The
bedroom is close, this fine avenin’, an’ I’ll kape ye company until it’s
made a little cooler!”
And Carey placed his knees against one door-post and his head and back
to the other, thus completely blocking up the passage-way, and soon
begun to snore like the good sleeper that he was.
Every moment he thus wasted passed like a long hour to the impatient
operative. The obstinacy of his companion was enough to provoke the ire
of a more tranquil mind than he was the possessor of, and he nervously
paced the floor of the small apartment, while his thoughts fairly burnt
in his brain. Why was he ill? Why so weak that he could not thrust the
miserable Carey out of his way, or gag and bind him with cords until he
could fly to the telegraph office and send off that telegram? The idea
of stunning him, as he slept, with a blow on the head from a club, even
suggested itself, but was soon given up as too cruel for the situation.
There were no means of getting out of the room, excepting through a
window, and when he sought an exit in that way, Carey awoke once more
and stared about him.
“Are ye gettin’ luny agin, McKenna, that ye want to wait there by the
windy, wid the cool air blowin’ on ye? You’ll have more of them chills!
Sthand back!”
This was a sensible order for the sick man to obey, and it would cause a
suspicion of insanity to refuse, hence he resumed his walk.
Later he turned to Carey and said:
“I tell ye, agin, ye had best get to bed! If ye don’t, there’ll be one
miner late at the shaft-house in the mornin’! Lave me to myself! I can’t
slape, the night, wid the idea of the work that’s to be done restin’ on
me conscience, so I’ll stay below, where it is comfortable for me! Why
in thunder don’t you go to bed?”
“Faix,” replied Carey, “an’ if the truth must be towld, I’m ordered by
the docther never to lave ye until the mornin’. He says ye are touched
in the head wid the faver an’ the medicin’, an’ more’s the token, I
think he’s quite right, for wasn’t ye within an ace of throwin’ yerself
out at the windy, only jist now? Oh, no! Mike Carey knows how to obey
orders, an’ wont give ye a chance to make away wid yerself until ye have
back yer own siven sinses.”
“The divil take you, an’ the docther too! I’m just as sound and sane
this blessed minute as you are—or he aither—an’ all I want is pace and
quiet, an’ that ye same detarmined I sha’n’t have!”
The detective, now completely angry, began to walk the room with rapid
strides and gaze about him in the darkness, searching for some weapon
with which to demolish his too careful guardian and nurse.
Seeing this, Carey shut the door, locked it, put the key in his pocket,
and, walking up to McKenna, took him gently by the arm, saying:
“Come now, be aisy! Don’t look so fierce, but come wid me to your room
an’ go straight to bed!”
Had Carey known exactly the condition of the detective’s mind, he might
have hesitated. It was well he did not, and he persisted in his cajoling
and pacificatory measures, until the ludicrousness of the situation
striking McKenna’s thoughts, he burst into a fit of loud laughter, and
consented—as that was the only alternative—to go to his room. But
neither of the men slept. One turned and tossed feverishly and uneasily
in the bed, and made such a disturbance that the other was no sooner in
a blissful slumber than he was as suddenly aroused. At last, in sheer
desperation, Carey arose, dressed himself, and the operative was in
hopes he would go elsewhere, but he did not. On the contrary, planting
the back of the only chair in the room against the closed and bolted
door, he leaned backward, resting his head near the latch, and soon
slept soundly.
It was not until nearly sunrise that McKenna, almost crazy with
excitement and suspense, was left to himself. Then Carey had to get his
breakfast and be off to the colliery. It was now too late for McKenna to
act, had he been bodily able, and he sunk down, helpless, on his pillow,
perfectly exhausted; and deep lethargy came to his physical and mental
relief.
After breakfast, the morning of the 28th—a meal that, strange to say,
the operative ate with a better appetite than usual—he went to his room
to prepare a report. Carefully locking the door, and hanging his hat
over the keyhole, which he had a shrewd suspicion the chambermaid was in
the habit of interviewing occasionally, to find out, if possible, the
business in which he was engaged while fastened within, he seated
himself at the table and started to write.
That hat was a terrible eyesore to the aforesaid maid-of-all-work, and
she wondered many a time, as she subsequently confessed, “How it was
that McKenna made his room so dark, exceptin’ he were holding converse
with the devil!”
[Illustration: “_‘We fixed him just as he came into the colliery
stable!_’”]
It was light enough in the room for the detective, however, and the felt
hat sufficed to keep prying eyes from discovering his employment. On
this particular occasion the agent was doomed to disappointment, as he
had hardly begun his highly important correspondence when he beheld Mike
Doyle coming toward the house. Hastily throwing the writing materials
into his valise, and carefully securing that depository, he unlocked his
door and patiently waited, knowing that Doyle would probably wish to see
him alone. In this supposition he was right, as the man soon afterward
climbed wearily up the stairs. Doyle occupied a seat. McKenna once more
shut the door, and, as soon as his visitor was a little rested, asked:
“Well, Mike, I suppose ye have missed him again?”
“No! We fixed him jist as he came into the colliery stable!”
“An’ is that thrue?” inquired the detective, trying to appear cool and
indifferent.
“Yes! But I must not stop here palaverin’ wid you, when the rest of the
boys are on the mountain, jist starvin’ wid hunger and thirst!”
“Well, I’ll get some whisky an’ go up wid ye!”
“You go wid me? Why, you’re sick, lad; an’ last night I said to Gibbons
that ye looked like a passible braze might blow ye away like a flash o’
smoke!”
“But I’m betther this mornin’—have passed the crisis of me disase, the
docther has it—an’ a bit of exercise will do me no harrum in the
worruld!”
“Well, if you can sthand it I ken,” said Doyle, and, after securing a
little extra clothing for himself, the detective started for Ringtown
Mountain. Happily, the spot was no more than three hundred yards distant
from Cooney’s residence, and they were soon in the presence of Hurley,
Gibbons, and Morris, who were found sitting upon logs, rocks, and the
ground, all covered with dust and perspiration, completely exhausted by
their morning’s work and the succeeding rapid journey from the Patch to
Shenandoah.
Tom Hurley was the first to talk of the murder. In answer to McKenna’s
query, he said, in substance:
“Oh, Bully Bill’s safe enough for the coroner by this time! When we got
to Mahanoy City, we went direct to Mike O’Brien’s house, as told by
Frank McAndrew, an’ Mike took us to Mrs. Costello’s, where he got us
some whisky and somethin’ to eat, and a bottle of the raal stuff to take
wid us, an’ about daylight, with his directions, we started for the
Patch, where Thomas lived. We went and sat by the drift-mouth, an’
watched Thomas’ house until he came out and went up to the colliery
stable, the big doors of which were sprung wide open. After he had been
in a while, an’ talked wid the stable boss, an’ the boss had left, we
jist walked slowly up to the place. I stepped into the side door of the
stable, through the blacksmith’s shop, an’ Gibbons in the other, an’
blazed away at him, as he stood, wid one hand on a horse’s mane. The
fellow was game to the last. He had no weapon, but he just threw his
black hat in my face, an’ then, after bein’ hit three or four times, ran
behind the horses. I fired again, an’ he was worse hit, an’ rather
staggered. After that, Gibbons and Doyle sent him three or four, an’ he
fell, so did wan of the horses, an’ then John Morris, he came up, put in
his pistol an’ fired the last shot. Bully Bill never said wan word
afther that, but lay quiet like, partly under the horse that was down. I
have an idea that Bill Thomas won’t shoot any more of us in this world.
He’s surely done for!”
The conversation was continued by the other men. John Morris said that
Doyle put in his shots like a man, but Gibbons turned as pale as a sheet
of paper. In turn Hurley and Doyle asserted that John Morris had shaken
so with fear, when aiming at Thomas, that he shot and severely injured a
second dumb beast. Each one made his statement, but the several
relations were of the same general tenor, that Thomas had been killed,
that morning, at the colliery stable in Shoemaker’s Patch.
The detective, after hearing the story of all the men and listening with
evident interest, putting in a word to the effect that the victim had
been rightly served—while, in his heart, he felt that a dastardly murder
had been committed—returned to Shenandoah, hunted out Frank McAndrew,
gave him news of the condition of their companions and their need of
some kind of refreshment. He concluded:
“You get them some food, an’ I’ll take up some more whisky!”
McAndrew consented, went to his house, procured a supply of cold boiled
ham, bread and butter and cheese, while McKenna bought a second bottle
of good liquor, and they went in company to the mountain. In McAndrew’s
presence, the detective heard another rehearsal of the particulars of
the attack and its termination, not materially differing from the one
already detailed.
Gibbons wanted McAndrew and McKenna to give him a card, and he would
leave at once, stopping at Kehoe’s to secure money for traveling
expenses. Having in view the continuance of the assassin within his
convenient reach, the Secretary said he had no printed blanks, but when
he, Gibbons, had once located, he could send him a letter and he would
by that time be able to forward the card duly attested by the County
Delegate. To this arrangement the man assented, and, in a short time,
after obtaining change of clothing—taking care to return McKenna’s
coat—Gibbons departed and the rest of the assassins separated, each
person taking a different route, for their homes. Hurley, Doyle, and
Morris were to return to the colliery that evening, and resume their
usual avocations, which they did.
The same day, my agent sent to Philadelphia a succinct account of all he
had seen and heard. It was wonderful how McKenna improved in health. The
excitement of the morning and night had seemingly checked his chill, put
a stop to the fever, his appetite increased, and strength and nerve soon
resumed sway. In the afternoon Mr. Linden reached Shenandoah, and,
receiving the signal from McKenna, followed him to their place of
meeting and verbally received the information the detective had already
dispatched to Mr. Franklin.
The next official visit made by Linden was to Shoemaker’s Patch.
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