ARREST OF ASSASSINS.
Quite a fraternal feeling had existed between the two men murdered on
the first of September at Raven Run, Wm. Uren having been a native of
the parish of Germoe, Cornwall, England, but a short distance from
Sanger’s birthplace. He entered the Greatwork tin mines at the early age
of ten years, with his father, and remained until about nineteen, when
he bid his relatives adieu and sailed for this country, landing at New
York in the fall of 1872. After working nearly a year at Dover, New
Jersey, he removed to Schuylkill County and was employed by the Messrs.
Heaton as a coal miner. While in England Uren was a regular attendant at
church and Sabbath-school. In Pennsylvania he kept up the same course,
early enlisting as a teacher in a Sunday-school, which place he held at
the time of his death. Uren, with other bosses and miners, including
Sanger, was coffin-noticed by the Mollies as early as 1874, and in
consequence Sanger invited the young man to board at his house. They
soon formed an intimate and enduring friendship. The winter of 1875 and
following summer, to the day of the assassination, passing peaceably and
without any apparent attempt to carry out the promises of the
organization, as far as he and Sanger were concerned, Uren began to
believe all danger passed or blown over. They thought nothing would
actually be done. Thus had it always been. No sooner did a threatened
man come to the understanding that his life was perfectly safe, than, in
this very peculiar country and with this very peculiar class of people,
he was, as too many cases proved, in the exact position to prepare for
leaving this world, for the fiends incarnate causing all the trouble in
the coal region were abundantly capable of waiting for any length of
time, keeping their wrath warm and pouring it, at any unsuspected
moment, upon the devoted heads of their victims. Therefore, Uren, when
set upon, was no better prepared to defend himself against the power of
his enemies than his friend, Sanger. There was nothing that either could
possibly do but to stand up like men before the deadly pistols and be
shot cruelly down.
A more sorrowful scene than that enacted around the couch of the dying
Uren was never witnessed. His fellow-countryman, Sanger, was already
gone. It was not long before he followed. The funeral of the two men,
like their murder, was a double one, and both were buried in the same
grave. The parents of Wm. Uren are yet living in England, with four
sisters and five brothers. They receive no more assistance from their
dutiful son and brother. They know their main help this side of the
Atlantic has been cut off by the bullet of the assassin.
McKenna was again in Shenandoah when he received a note from Linden
informing him of certain remarks that person had heard made by a citizen
of Tamaqua concerning the Secretary. They were not exactly the kind of
words generally causing a man to feel more secure of or harbor firmer
belief in his personal safety. Said Linden in his letter:
“A citizen by the name of Boyd remarked to me to-day that the only
chance for an excitement in dull Tamaqua was when that man with the big
head (alluding to the wig, I suppose) and blue coat came upon the
street. Then people began to say to each other, ‘What a shame that such
a fellow (this means you, McParlan) is allowed to live! He ought to be
strung up!’ You need to keep a sharp look out, wherever you are, for
about everybody here is thinking that you are a suspicious fellow
generally and a particularly bad Mollie!”
This was not very inspiriting information for the officer to receive,
and, the next day, was supplemented by the following, showing that
Linden had called at Shenandoah and not been able to find or communicate
with his fellow-operative:
“I was in conversation, yesterday, with several influential men, and it
was the universal expression that all would soon have to emigrate or
make the Mollies leave. They talked vigilance committee very earnestly.
One of the party asked another if ‘that fellow, McKenna, was about the
city yet?’ He replied ‘yes!’ Then said the first speaker: ‘That is the
smartest business man of the society! He has the best head and does the
most work; in short, is the most dangerous scamp among them!’ You will
observe that my former recommendation is enforced by this. Look sharp!
Don’t be imprudent! Have an eye out for breakers, day and night!”
A wayfaring man has, before this, perused letters of a more calming and
conciliatory tenor. Indeed McKenna remembered having read passages, even
in yellow-covered romances of the blood-and-thunder style of literature,
which, torturingly bad as they were, gave him much more unalloyed
pleasure than those two missives from Linden. Yet he was thankful to
their author for them. His intentions were good, and his recommendations
among the best that could be made.
Here there arose another apparent conflict between duty and inclination.
The first said: “Stay here and procure testimony which shall punish the
assassins.” The second chimed in with a broad hint to pack up his
clothing and other goods, purchase a ticket for Chicago, and hasten away
toward the setting sun. McParlan thought he had but just commenced his
work. It would be time for him to desert the post if forced to do so, or
when Mr. Franklin might deem his duty in the country quite complete. In
any event, he concluded to stay some time longer, even though the wishes
of the citizens of Tamaqua and Shenandoah might be executed. He knew
that, if the excited people of the vicinity could only be aware of his
true purposes, they would willingly carry him in their arms, or draw him
in a carriage, shielding him from harm with their own bodies; and this
inward consciousness of rectitude, which buoyed him through many a
stormy day in the years he had been in my service, kept his head above
water and steadied his nerves while he continued his professional work.
He knew that, if he lived yet a little longer, the residents of
Schuylkill, Carbon, Columbia, and Luzerne Counties would praise and
bless him. If he died, they would discover that his life was sacrificed
that they, and generations to them yet unborn, might have and enjoy
protection from the Mollie Maguires, under the law, and secure immunity
from the black dragon which for a score of years had made their land a
terror and a shame in the nation.
These and similar ideas were passing through the brain of McKenna, the
afternoon of the third of September, 1875, when the perusal of the
evening newspaper confirmed his worst fears. John P. Jones was added to
the long list of victims of the mysterious society. He had been shot
that morning. The operative soon learned the principal facts connected
with this assassination and embodied them in a report to the Agency.
John P. Jones left his house, which was in Lansford and contained his
wife and seven children, at about seven o’clock in the morning, bound
for the breaker where he was employed, carrying his dinner-pail in his
hand, and following the pipe-line toward the old railway embankment,
which he had been, by Mr. Zehner, Mr. Beard, and others, repeatedly
urged not to take, as they were aware that his life was by no means
safe. He felt, like Sanger and Uren, entirety satisfied that the
Mollies, who had so long been confronting him, were of a more forgiving
nature than the public credited them with being or that their desire for
his blood had been satiated by the several recent sacrifices. Instead of
heeding advice, and extracting warning from the deaths lately occurring,
and using a locomotive to carry him up and down the line, as he could
easily have done, or even refusing to work unless some such course was
observed, he put his revolver in his pocket and went off cheerfully to
what proved his last journey.
The assassins, James Kerrigan, Mike Doyle, and Edward Kelly, were
waiting for him. He saw them not, but continued his walk as though
nothing more than usual stood before him. Not a premonition of impending
evil; not a thought of coming death; not a glance around, to see if the
cowardly assassin was in ambush prepared to kill him.
[Illustration: “_Then Doyle and Kelly drew their pistols and fired on
Jones._”]
But they were there, lying in wait, Kerrigan, as usual, standing at a
little distance and wholly unarmed. Jones left his home by a rear door
and moved down the pipe-line. When the trio of murderers reached the top
of the path, he was some yards from the same position. He heard their
footsteps and turned aside, patiently pausing for the others to pass.
Still not a suspicion could have crossed his mind that he stood at the
gateway of death. The men had no intention of permitting him to obtain a
hint of their design. They halted, when close to him, and then Doyle and
Kelly drew their pistols and fired on Jones. Each discharged one shot.
Their victim made a spasmodic blow at his assailants with the tin
dinner-pail, when Doyle fired again. Turning off toward the bushes,
Jones raised his hands and cried out: “I’m shot! I’m shot!” In a moment
he fell forward upon his face. After this, Doyle fired two more bullets
into his already riddled body. The Superintendent had not time to draw
or think of a weapon, and in a few minutes the life of the man was
ended. His heart beat no more. While Doyle was finishing the savage job,
his companions were running away across the mountains. The reports of
the pistols brought many workmen on the railroad to the spot, and Jones’
corpse was immediately taken to his home. Several persons had seen the
assassins retreating over the hill, and one man was so near them as to
be frightened, thinking his turn to be shot would come next. He made
rapid progress in placing himself out of harm’s way.
The citizens of Tamaqua were not long in ignorance of the incidents
attending the killing of Jones, and the excitement, which before had
risen to a high pitch, reached the verge of general madness. People
procured arms and went upon the streets in numbers. Men, women, and boys
were aroused, and everybody appeared intent upon arresting or killing
somebody. The Mollie Maguires alone kept quiet. Finally it was
discovered, by some one who had been quietly following the little miner
since the killing of Yost, that James Kerrigan was away from his home.
Silently and doggedly a few persons kept watch over his house. Early in
the forenoon he returned, remained but a short time, and was shortly
afterward seen to start out with a small bundle in his hand, and,
sticking from one pocket, a flask of liquor. Cautiously the men kept on
his trail and tracked him until he reached a spring where Doyle and
Kelly were waiting. He had no more than time to give them the
refreshments, when the three Mollies, evidently warned by a preconcerted
signal from Carroll, who walked along, making himself conspicuous upon
the railway track, started to run. But the people confronted and soon
captured them. They had no arms about their persons, and when examined
at the jail only some cartridges were found in their pockets. A little
later, however, some officers, while making a search, unearthed three
pistols and a heavy club, secreted under the trees in the leaves near
the spring. The sheriff, the next day, escorted Kerrigan, Kelly, and
Doyle to Mauch Chunk, where they were committed to prison, to await
trial, the crime having been committed in Carbon County.
The supposed murderers were in a safe place. Was there testimony upon
which they could be convicted? It was doubtful. They were unquestionably
the guilty parties, and might be well identified as far as descriptions
went, but the actual witnesses were standing at such a distance from the
scene it was possible that a jury, especially without having
corroborating evidence, might be deceived and fail to find sufficient
fact to warrant conviction.
One good effect, at least, was produced by the arrest of the three
Mollies. The remainder of the members of the order were, for the time,
struck dumb. Their hands were powerless. They could perform no further
acts of violence, for fear of prejudicing the interests of their
brothers then in custody. Peace would be assured, at least until the
trials could take place. But that the defendants would be sworn clear by
the oaths of the fraternity few were found to doubt.
As in one of the earlier murders of the year, the killing of Jones was,
by many innocent and well-meaning but uninformed people, charged upon my
detective, James McParlan, _alias_ McKenna. I do not allude to this
censoriously. They did not know what they were doing, and were judging
from outward appearances alone. Seeing him, for a series of years, the
associate of murderers, thieves, and Mollies, and apparently the
toughest man among them, it was no more than reasonable they should
suppose him really one of their number and a leader in many of their
criminal works. Mr. Reese, of Shenandoah, whose life the operative had
just been the means of preserving, sent word, on the tenth of September,
a week subsequent to Jones’ taking off, that he desired to see Mr.
Linden. When they met, Reese told my officer that an Irishman named
McKenna was supposed to have originated, planned, and assisted in
executing the crime, concluding with the death of John P. Jones, of
Lansford. He added that, so well were the good people of Tamaqua
satisfied of the truth of this assumption, though they were without a
particle of positive evidence, he, Mr. Reese, had no doubt, if McKenna
appeared in the town, they would turn out in hundreds and hang him to
the nearest tree. This state of feeling exhibits the closeness with
which the operative was doing his work, and is another evidence of his
skill. The reader who has followed me thus far can tell how entirely
void of all criminal act or intent the record of that officer had been.
The public now knows that he was laboring, even at the risk of losing
his own life, to clear the country of those who had for years been
perpetrating crimes of blood in the anthracite region. It understands
that he went there for a purpose, and I hope to be able to show, before
the close of this volume, that he was eminently successful in his
undertaking.
This feeling, on the part of the deadly enemies of the Mollie Maguires,
that McKenna was the deepest and most guilty man in that wicked
organization, is an evidence of the discretion and tact the detective
had continually exercised. Without seeming to be fully in sympathy with
and inside the order, without an apparent acquiescence in its doings,
his task would have been abortive. It was this confidence on the part of
good people that he was a very bad man, and the belief on the side of
the Mollies that he was as hard and as bloody a character as even Tom
Hurley, Yellow Jack Donahue, or Jemmy Kerrigan, that gave witness of his
standing and efficiency as a secret detective. The mere suspicion, by
the fraternity, that he might possibly be other than the party he
affected to be would surely have been seized upon as the signal for his
death.
Despite his apprehensions, which were more excited by the promised
formation in the coal region of a vigilance committee than by the
information just recorded, or the idea that his identity would be
revealed to his companions, the agent stuck courageously to his verbal
contract with me; did not desert his post, but, stopping for a time in
Shenandoah, busied himself, as before, in keeping inside the inner
sanctuary of the infernal society with which he was connected. He
thought occasionally of going to Tamaqua and resuming his attentions to
Kerrigan’s wife’s sister, and eventually did so, but for the few days
following the assassination at Lansford he was almost continually in the
company of Thomas Hurley and the rest of the Shenandoah branch. Hurley
was fairly famishing for more blood. He had not done, and could not do,
enough. The scent of gore had fallen on his senses and he longed for
another draught. One day he said to McKenna:
“I tell you, Jim, so long as there is a pot over the fire, the fire must
be kept to it!”—meaning that, as the era of murders had begun, it must
be continued. The inventive genius of Hurley was constantly on the
stretch, manufacturing cases in which the pistol might be used with
effect. This was one reason, undoubtedly, that McAndrew took it into his
head to have Reese put out of the path. McKenna was the cause of the
signal failure of that scheme.
In one of the operative’s reports for this date, he wrote, evidently
feeling exactly and keenly the sentiment that his pen expressed:
“I am sick and tired of this thing! I seem to make no progress, and the
terrible and long-continued state of excitement in the town and the
country around here will one day end in something more fearful than has
yet occurred. I hear of preparations for bloodshed in all directions.
The sun looks crimson to me, and the air is tainted with the smell of
blood. We must do something to stop the sanguinary whirlwind that bids
fair to destroy everything!”
Long before this I had arrived at a similar conclusion. A crisis in the
operation had arrived which demanded immediate, masterly work.
Therefore, Mr. Franklin met Linden in Pottsville, the ninth of
September, and McKenna was directed to communicate with them at the same
place. He had little difficulty in cutting loose from his associates,
saying that he was forced to visit an adjoining town to meet his
principal in the bogus money business, and, after promising that he
would only be absent a few days, took cars by a roundabout route and
reached Pottsville the same night, making sure that no doubts of the
object of his mission had been aroused in the minds of the Mollies, and
that none of the order were following him.
Affairs had reached the pass that Linden was, in some places, known as
my representative in the coal fields. It was brought about by one of my
open policemen unfortunately shooting a man who acted suspiciously and
also being himself wounded. O’Brien was arrested, tried, and in due time
acquitted. Linden acted as his friend and counselor, and thus revealed
his connection with the Agency. It was time, however, the season being
ripe for the act. Linden and McKenna must not be known to communicate
with each other. Any attempt to do so which would be seen by the Mollies
must serve as an excuse for the agent’s execution. It was as much as his
life was worth to be found with either Linden or Franklin. Still a
meeting was necessary, and he did not falter. Putting up at a smaller
house, McParlan went, after darkness set in, to the Exchange Hotel,
where he knew Linden had his apartment, found that officer at home, and
there remained, locked in the sleeping-chamber, until Mr. Franklin came.
The three men held a very long and interesting conversation, during
which our plans for the future were discussed. The operative detailed
all that he knew of the Gomer James, Sanger and Uren, and Jones murders,
aside from his written reports, of all of which Mr. Franklin made
extended notes. He also answered such inquiries respecting names and
localities as were put. McKenna was kept in the room through the night,
or until nearly morning, when he left and repaired to his own
boarding-place, not appearing on the streets again until the
Superintendent had left for Philadelphia and Linden was far away, going
toward the scene of his future operations in Carbon County.
In a day or two McKenna was summoned to Philadelphia, thence traveled to
New York, and had a meeting with General Superintendent Geo. H. Bangs.
The result of the journey the ensuing pages will explain.
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