by S. L. Stoner
Fruitless minutes passed as Sage rolled around the storeroom floor, searching for a way to free his hands or snag the gag off his mouth. His only accomplishment was the painful stabbing of more splinters into his face. As he rested from his exertions, he realized that he was hearing a counterpoint of snores and intermittent snorts from the adjoining room. Perfect time to try escaping if only he weren’t tied hand and foot.
A new sound joined the cacophony below. A steam engine, near the open door to the wharf, rumbled into life. Within minutes, the boiler started hissing like a giant teakettle, powering the machine hooked to it into noisy action. As Sage watched through the knothole, unfinished staves began riding a leather belt into one end of the flat, rectanglar machine. When they exited the other end, they looked more like barrel staves—angled at their ends and somewhat bowed in the middle.
“Oh, damn it all to hell,” Sage mumbled into the gag. That boiler and its attached stave-making machine were so loud that, even if he freed his mouth, the men below wouldn’t hear his shouts before the yahoos in the next room burst in. He stopped struggling and dozed, pulled down into sleep by the muddling residuals of chloroform.
Consciousness returned, followed by sharp pains in his shoulders, wrists and ankles. Still his mind felt sharper, more alert. Over the metallic clangs coming from the factory floor, Whiny and Wheezy’s voices sounded in the adjoining room. Now and again, a third voice also. That person’s came through the wall muffled although something about that voice sounded familiar. Sage checked his memory for a face to attach to that particular cadence of speech. No one sprang to mind.
A door slammed in the distance and steps moved toward the door to the storeroom. Sage twisted into his original position, closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. When a heavy boot pushed at his butt, he relaxed his body, letting it flop in response. A man grunted, the footsteps departed. The storeroom door was slammed shut without a word having been spoken.
Sage lay with his cheek against the rough planks, his mind rebelling against the grim reality of his situation. The fading ribbons of light between the wall planks signaled the end of daylight. Within an hour, night would fall, making it too dark for the cooper and his assistants to see their work. The steam engine would fall silent, the clangs of barrel-making would cease and the men below would depart, heading home to their families. They’d never know of the murder taking place in their absence. He doubted they would even notice if a barrel was missing tomorrow morning.
He lay there, cheek pressed against the floor, while visions of his mother’s glowing eyes, Fong’s sly half-smile and the clatter and bustle of Mozart’s kitchen flitted through his thoughts. Funny how such simple things summed up the meaning of “home.”
Suddenly, the floor beneath him jolted and heaved upward as an explosive roar battered his ears.
TWELVE
Fine particles of drifting dirt sprinkled Sage’s face as he lay momentarily stunned and unable to comprehend what had just happened. Shouted expletives sounded from the adjoining room, followed by the thud of boots as his captors seemingly fled. Sage frantically fish-flopped over to his knothole. Chaos reigned on the shop floor. While some workers raced to turn various valves, other workers gathered around a man, apparently the boiler tender. He sat holding his head with both hands. When the man raised his dazed face, he seemed unable to hear his co-workers’ shouted questions. Shock and momentary deafness, Sage quickly concluded.
In the corner, the boiler hissed and thick steam billowed toward the rafters high above. A telltale trickle of water meandered from underneath the boiler tank, across the plank floor to disappear beneath the shop’s outer wall. The boiler had run dry when the tender failed to see the leak. A snick of movement along the wharf outside snagged Sage’s attention. He strained to see what it was. His eye stared until dryness forced him to blink. Nothing moved out on the wharf other than the sundown glint atop the river flow.
Sage rolled away from the knothole, listening closely for sounds in the adjoining room. He heard distant shouts, seeming to come from somewhere outside, then the pop-pop of revolver fire followed by silence. Seconds later, his straining ears caught the soft pad of footsteps moving toward the storeroom door.
The man who slowly pushed the door open held a wooden staff in one hand and a short bladed knife in the other. Seconds later that knife sliced the cords binding Sage’s wrists. With numb hands throbbing painfully from the rush of blood, Sage yanked the soggy rag from his mouth and spat, after which he asked with a wry smile, “What took you so darn long?”
“Wanted to make sure you appreciate our effort,” Fong answered with a wide and toothy grin. He led Sage through the cooperage’s empty second floor office to reach a door that opened onto an outside staircase. As they descended down to the dock, Sage saw nothing of his captors.
“You blew the boiler?” Sage asked as the two of them moved swiftly off the dock and into the surrounding neighborhood.
“Yes. First we twisted the screw near bottom of the boiler tank so the water dribbled out. We watch gauge from out in the dark on dock. At the right time, we made noise, like hurt dog, to lure boiler man away. He is not hurt, I think.”
“Yes, I saw that. Gave him a helluva scare though. Where are we anyway?”
“Cooperage shares the same dock with the Mackey lumber mill.”
Sage, mind racing, vigorously rubbed the stinging tingle from wrists and arms as they strode along. “I want to hear how you found me. First, though, we need to reach Chester’s house as soon as possible,” he said. “Those men plan to kill him, just like they intended to kill me. Where are they now? How’d you chase them off?”
“Myself and cousins hide on the dock, behind barrels and piles of wood. When the two men stumble down stairs we keep them going by throwing hatchets at them. They never see us. Still, they shoot bullets into the air. When they reach dock, they so scared each run away in different direction.”
Sage laughed. “Good,” he said, “That means they need to regroup. In the meantime, I better find Chester and convince him to hide out for awhile. They want to kill me, Chester and Leo—apparently that’s how they plan to end the strike,” he said.
s s s
They found Chester safe at home. He followed Sage out onto his covered front porch and the two men talked, the now heavy rain muting the sound of their voices. When told of his danger, Chester agreed to Sage’s plans and quickly filled a duffle bag. When they set out, Fong trailed the two of them. Once certain no one followed, Fong melted into the night.
Half an hour later, Sage and Chester entered a building in the North End neighborhood where rent was cheap and the neighbors asked few questions. A weathered man with a ready grin answered Sage’s knock on a second floor door. That grin widened at the sight of Sage. “Well, if you’re not a sight for these sore eyes,” Stuart Franklin declared, his clipped Bostonian accent seeming at odds with his shabby flannel shirt and denim trousers.
Sage spoke quickly. “Hey there, Stuart, this here is Chester. He’s a friend of mine that needs somewhere safe to stay for awhile and I thought, ‘Betcha my friend Stuart might help out his old pal, Sam Graham.’”
Franklin’s face gave no indication he noted Sage’s name change. He just continued to grin, opened his door wider and gestured for them to sit on the room’s two chairs, saying,“You’re right there, Sam. Anything you need, I’m delighted to help.” They removed their wet coats and boots while Franklin hobbled over to make a pot of coffee on a paraffin stove. His movements remained painfully stiff from recently broken bones and torn muscles. Just a few months prior, Franklin nearly lost his life in their joint effort to stop the shanghaiing of men onto sailing ships. These days, the former sailor was convalescing and Sage was making sure Franklin wanted for nothing. He figured it was the least he could do.
Sage briefly explained the danger Chester was in. “Heck, he’s more than welcome to bunk heah with me,” Franklin said before Sage even asked for help. Franklin turned
his smile on his other guest and said, “Chester, I’d be proud if you’d stay on heah with me. I admire what you and your union brothers are trying to accomplish. You’ll be safe heah until Sam figures out how to throw those thugs behind bars. And he will, I promise you! Whatever Sam tackles, he conquers!”
Franklin’s words, spoken with a fervent conviction, seemed to ease Chester’s worries because the bridge carpenter’s shoulders relaxed and the furrows in his forehead smoothed out. “Why, thank you most kindly, Mr. Franklin. I do appreciate the offer, “ he said.
As Sage departed for Mozart’s, he gave himself a mental pat on the back, certain that he’d guaranteed Chester’s safety for the time being. Strolling along, there was finally time to mull over everything he’d heard coming through the wall during his captivity. They had said what? That’s right—something about being responsible for Leo’s jailing and also something about old man Mackey being ‘out of the way.’
It sounded like Abner Mackey had resisted their plans to kill Lockwood, Chester and Sage. Was ol’ Abner’s resistence the reason someone got the old man out of the way? If so, who issued that order? Mackey’s son? Who else, if not his son?
One thing was certain, Leo never harmed that old man. Leo wasn’t a stupid man, far from it. He knew that such a heartless act would turn public opinion against the strikers. Nor was there a single cruel bone in his body. It was beyond Leo Lockwood’s character to gin up enough hatred to burn an old man to death. Yet, is it possible for any son to order his father killed in such a cruel way? It was possible, Sage supposed, but highly unlikely.
Try as he might, not a single satisfactory answer as to who caused the old man’s death came to mind so Sage let it go and simply walked, gazing at the storefronts and street activity and appreciating that there was no rain falling. Upon reaching Mozart’s, he found his mother and Fong waiting for him in their third floor apartment.
“What? No customers needing attention downstairs? No staff to boss around?” Sage teased his mother, hoping to erase that deep vertical furrow between her brows.
She laughed and stood up quickly. “Hush! I’m going right back down. I just needed to see with my own eyes that you are still alive and wiggling,” she said, giving him a none too gentle pat on his cheek. “And lather yourself up and shave before you come downstairs. You look like a wild boar with all them bristles and you smell ripe as one too,” she threw over her shoulder as she headed out the door.
“You think she is a little sweet on that Eich fellow?” Sage asked, stripping quickly while Fong laid out restaurateur John Adair’s starched snow-white shirt, black worsted suit with matching waistcoat and polished leather shoes.
“Maybe she is a little bit,” Fong said.
“In that case, we’ve got ourselves a big problem because I think he helped those two galoots bushwhack me.”
“I don’t think so,” said Fong.
“You weren’t there. One minute Eich’s staring me in the eyes. Next thing I know, they’ve got me trussed up in that dingy storeroom. I got to listen as they talked about barreling me like a pickling cucumber and dropping me in the river.” Even though his tone was light, a shiver traveled up his back as he said the words.
Fong nodded. “Mr. Eich there and saw what happened that for sure. He only pretend to run away, Sage. He hide so he can follow those two bad men to see where they take you. He watch them carry you up the stairs into cooperage. After that, he came straight here. Without Mr. Eich, you still be in storeroom or maybe in barrel—one big, unhappy pickle.” Fong displayed a toothy grin at his own witticism.
Before there was time to consider this unexpected bit of information, heavy boots thudded up the stairway. As both men looked toward the open door, a flushed Matthew appeared. “Mr. Adair, I found him! I found him! I pedaled to every place to find him and it turns out that, cat’s whiskers, he’s been home sick all this time and that’s why I couldn’t catch hold of him for such a long time. But, today, I peddled back to that corner near the market and there he was, the one boy I never talked to and sure enough he’s the one. I found him!”
“Whoa, hold on there, Matthew. Exactly who was it that you found?” Sage asked, smiling at the young fellow’s bristling excitement.
“Why, the boy who took that message to that Mr. Lockwood at the address you gave me.”
Sage remembered then. Matthew was supposed to find the bicycle messenger who carried the message that lured Lockwood to Mackey’s office just about the time the fire started. So, now they could prove that Lockwood was telling the truth. There’d been both message and messenger. With any luck, the boy might recollect who gave him that message to carry. “That’s wonderful Matthew. Good work, really good work.”
The boy flushed an even deeper red as he rushed back into speech. “His name is Thaddeus and he’s downstairs right now. Not out front, of course, ‘cause of the customers. I told him to wait around back.” A sudden worry creased Matthew’s forehead. “Umm, I, um hope you don’t mind. I told him you’d give him a whole dollar if he’d come with me right off. I know you never said how much you’d pay him but I kinda figured it was important for you to talk to him otherwise you’d never bring me into it,” he said, displaying an astuteness he’d frequently lacked in the past.
When the boy paused in his headlong dash of words to draw a breath, Sage spoke quickly,“Matthew, if this boy’s the one we’re looking for, his information is likely worth the dollar and more. Let’s go see him.”
The messenger, Thaddeus, stood leaning against the wall, partly sheltered by the back stoop’s overhang. His face was thin and his skin pale except where a runny nose rimmed his nostrils red. He straightened when the back door opened, freeing his gloveless hands from the warmth of his armpits.
“Matthew here,” Sage gestured to Matthew who’d followed him out the door, “said you carried a message to Mr. Lockwood a few nights back. Is that true?”
Thaddeus nodded vigorously.“Yup, I carried it I surely did. Last message I delivered that night and I think that’s when this cold caught hold of me,” he said, snuffling for emphasis.
“Do you remember the person who gave you the message?” “He weren’t nobody I know, that’s for sure,” said the boy.
“Tell me what his face looked like. Did he appear to be an
older man?”
“Well, I didn’t see much of his face. From the sound of his voice and how he walked I think maybe he was near to your age maybe, so I guess he was an older man.”
“Did this fellow seem older or younger than me?” “I’d say younger by a few years. That’d be my guess.”
“Do you think you could identify him if you saw him again?
The boy scrunched up his face in concentration before shaking his head regretfully, “Don’t think so. He had his hat pulled low and a muffler wrapped over his mouth and he stopped me when I was out of the lamplight so it was real hard to see him. At first I thought he was aiming to steal my bicycle. The boy’s eyes widened and he looked hopeful saying, “But I might recognize his voice if I heard it again.”
“Was the message he gave you in writing?”
“Nope. He just said to tell Mr. Lockwood that Mr. Mackey wanted to see him at the construction office as soon as possible. At the time, I thought that Mr. Lockwood worked for the Mackey fellow who wanted him back to work for one reason or another. Didn’t think all that much of it. You still gonna give me that dollar, mister?” His voice rose with the question, yearning widening the eyes he raised to Sage’s.
“Yes, I most certainly will. Does Matthew know where you live, Thaddeus?”
The boy nodded. “I told him. He says he knows the place.”
“If you come back tomorrow at dinner time, say at noon, totalk to Mr. Gray, he’s a lawyer, we’ll give you a good dinner and another dollar. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
Sage put a hand on Thaddeus’s shoulder, which was narrow and boney, most likely from lack of food.
“Will you also tell a policeman about how you carried that message if I ask you to?” Sage asked him.
Fear flared in the boy’s wide eyes but he said bravely, “Why, I guess I’d be willing to help out that way.”
Sage fished in his trouser pocket and pulled out a shiny dollar coin. The boy’s eyes focused on the money. He snatched it up before trotting down the stairs, the soles of his oversized boots kicking up water as he hopped onto his bicycle and pedaled furiously away.
THIRTEEN
Water drops slithered along the tin roof, seeking out unsealed seams and pinholes, spitting whenever they landed on the hot stove top. Herman Eich set aside the small porcelain bowl he’d been examining to check the bake oven. The oven temperature was nearly perfect for the first firing. Moving back to his workbench, Eich reached forward to tuck the calico curtain behind a nail, trying to capture all there was of morning’s watery light. Just as he picked up his scoring knife, the shed door’s rusted metal hinges screeched, causing him to turn from the bench. Daniel entered the shed, holding his hat just outside the door to shake it free of rain before hanging it on a nail. Once fully inside, he halted, as if transfixed by sudden thought, unaware of the water dripping off his black slicker and pooling on the floor. Then his eyes seemed to focus. “Hello, Mr. Eich. I didn’t figure you’d still be here this late in the morning,” he said in a
