Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

Fong paused. “Lucky” he said in a flat voice as he slipped behind the tapestry to head down the secret stairwell. Once on the other side, he’d descend three flights of stairs into the cellar and along the tunnel to the outside. Sage would soon follow.

  First, though, he had to go down to the restaurant and ask Horace to take over its operation.

  When he reached the entry way and looked through into the dining room he could see that McAllister and his two guests were nearly finished with their meal though their conversation remained lively. McAllister caught sight of Sage and stared as if willing Sage to communicate by mental telepathy. Sage tightened his lips and shook his head slightly. McAllister got the message that nothing good had occurred.

  Sage pointedly looked at the two White Ribbon Society ladies and raised his left eyebrow. McAllister’s face relaxed and he raised a thumb to signify success. Sage allowed himself a rueful chuckle as he thought of the slogans the redoubtable Mrs. Williams and the shy Miss Trumbull would create in their effort to kill Lynch’s business expansion plans.

  * * *

  Solomon stood behind the front desk of the New Elijah hotel, looking alert and in command. He showed no reaction when Sage ambled through the door, fully outfitted in his “John Miner” role. Not for the first time, Sage wondered how the Carolinian managed to hold down a full-time job, oversee the New Elijah’s operation and still remain impeccably groomed and genial as a country gentleman. With a slight head gesture, Solomon directed Sage toward the interior door that opened into his apartment. Once inside, Sage quickly told Solomon what had transpired.

  “The young man died with honor protecting Mr. Meachum. That is some comfort to Mr. Fong I am sure,” were Solomon’s first words.

  For a moment Sage got lost in the realization that his friend from China and this friend from the other side of America were more alike than he’d suspected. Life was tough for everybody except the rich in this country. Most Americans fought for survival every single day of their lives. But for the yellow man and the black man, it was immeasurably harder. At any moment they might experience random insults and violence simply because of their skin color. Worse, they had to hide their true feelings every minute they spent outside their circle of friends and family. Not for the first time, Sage was aware that he too hid who he was but with one big difference. He did so by choice, not necessity.

  He realized Solomon was looking at him inquiringly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon. My mind was off gathering wool like a springtime shepherd.” When the other man raised his eyebrows, Sage explained, “It’s an old saying of my mother’s. She’s got a lot of them and they tend to pop out of my mouth without warning.”

  Solomon’s smile widened as his shoulders lifted in a subtle shrug. “Ah, mothers. Their voices remain forever with us. But I suspect, Mr. Adair, that you are here to ask my help?” Solomon prodded.

  “We believe that Meachum is still alive. They’ll want information from him. But, knowing Meachum, he’ll make them work for it. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to hold out. We don’t think they took him out of the North End here. Also, we can’t see him going along willingly. That means they either knocked him out and carried him down the street like he was drunk or stuck a gun or a knife in his ribs and forced him to walk with them. If they did that, they would have walked really close together. Either scenario could be memorable to bystanders. Do you have anyone who could go question some of your folks in this area? See if they noticed anything like that? We’ve got to find him fast,” Sage said, urgency tightening his voice.

  Even before Sage had finished speaking, Solomon was moving toward his writing desk. It was an elaborate affair, constructed of neatly filed cubbies and a polished writing surface. When he reached the desk, Solomon pulled out a piece of paper and used his quill pen to scratch out a message. He lifted the paper and gently waved it through the air to dry.

  “Consider it done. I have a very sharp man I often rely on. Once he gets this note, he’ll round up some of his runners and come here. He owes me.”

  “Runners?” Sage echoed. “He runs a gambling establishment here in the North End.

  Takes bets on various and sundry matters. His runners collect bets and deliver payoffs so they’re out and about at all times, day and night,” Solomon explained.

  Sage pulled a tin watch from his pocket, the cheapest model to be found in local stores. He had only eight minutes to make the meeting at Slap Jack’s. The Squadron’s men tended toward hotheaded and were fiercely loyal to their leader. If Sage wasn’t on time, who knew what they’d end up doing.

  * * *

  Slap Jack’s was popular with the hobos and other itinerant workers. They served decent beer and didn’t skimp on the meat, bread, cheese and pickles that went along with the beer. Still, the floor tended to pull at the soles of your boots and the musicians belting out a raucous ditty weren’t going to be performing at the Portland Hotel anytime during their lifetimes.

  The grim faces of the six men sitting around the corner table starkly contrasted with the shouts of rowdy laughter that accompanied the women’s theatrical shrieks and curses at each sly pinch. As if by agreement, though, the saloon’s patrons kept their frolicking far away from the gloomy group sitting at the corner table. Sage took a deep breath and strode briskly toward Meachum’s men.

  They’d spotted him and, as one, the six faces took on a hopeful look that lasted only until Sage shook his head. By the time he reached their table, the faces were again grim or, in the case of a couple, angry.

  “Hello, men. I don’t have any good news as of yet. We don’t know where they took him but a lot of people are already out looking for him.”

  One man’s face flushed red as he slammed his glass beer mug down on the scarred table top. “It’s you that got him in danger. If something happens to Meach, I’m going kick your tail all over this town!”

  He half rose from his seat only to be yanked down by the man sitting next to him who growled, “Shut up Chauncy. You know damn well it was Meach who decided he’d let the China men guard him. He wouldn’t listen to us.” These words came from a man Meachum called “Buddy,” his second in command when it came to running the Flying Squadron.

  “Before you blame the China men,” said Sage, “I want you to remember that one of them died tonight trying to protect Meachum. That man had a wife and child.” The men looked shamefaced and all the anger dissipated as one of them said, “That could of been one of us with a knife in the ribs. Likely it would have been. Matter of fact, the way I see it, that China man was one of us.”

  Sensing that they’d passed beyond the need to place blame, Sage leaned forward and spoke softly. “Fong has raised a search party of over thirty men. Even as we sit here, they are searching the entire underground beneath the North End. They are visiting every Chinese worker in the area, looking for anyone who saw someone hauling an unconscious man, or an unwilling man, down the street. The same question is being put to every black man in the area. We have help from that quarter as well.” Sage thought he saw a glimmer of relief in their expressions. Good. Although they were not going to like his next words.

  “Men, we have just a little more than three days before they try to kill President Roosevelt. If they succeed, it can mean the end of the labor movement. At the very least it will make all of our lives and missions harder. You don’t live in this town. You don’t know the North End as well as the people already searching for Meachum. But one thing you all do, very well, is blend in. Only you can find that assassin It’s up to you. You need to keep looking for that assassin and let the others find Meachum.”

  Once again, Chauncy was quick to roar his disapproval, his voice rising above the others who also opened their mouths to protest. “We don’t care about Teddy Roosevelt. He’s just like the rest of ‘em. Still cuddling up to the corporations and letting us working people live like slaves!”

  The others shushed Chauncy. His voice had carried over the hubbub to such a degree that the entir
e saloon quieted, leaving the band tootling weakly on, the musicians oblivious to the drama taking place in the corner.

  This time, Buddy merely put a calming hand on Chauncy’s forearm and said kindly, “Chaunce, be still now. You know as well as I do that if Meach was sitting here, he’d tell us to do exactly what Mr. Miner is asking us to do–finish our mission for the Saint.” He looked around the table into each man’s eyes, his weathered face tightening with determination. “And, that’s exactly what we are darn well going to do. We’re going to do Meach proud or die trying!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dispatch: May 17, 1903, President’s train leaves Yosemite for Raymond, California.

  “Our basic problem . . . is to see that the marvelously augmented process of production . . . be made to administer to the needs of the many rather than be exploited for the profit f the few . . . .The labor struggle . . . is one aspect of the larger social struggle growing out of the attempts to readjust social conditions and make them more equitable.” —T.R.

  Sage opened his eyes. It hadn’t been the customary dream ejecting him from sleep. Nor was it any distant alarming noise down in the street. He was certain of that because his heart wasn’t thudding. He lay there, letting his sleepy mind roam. The building and the street outside were still.

  Fong too would be sleeping. He’d stayed in his room down the hall last night instead of going home to his provision shop. Thought of Fong’s loss landed like a heavy weight on his chest. Gold Mountain had proved an evil place for Fong’s relatives. First his uncle and cousins, now his nephew. All dead by white man’s violence.

  Overhead, the ceiling began to softly creak. Then came a gentle thump, like a graceful cat jumping to the floor. Fong wasn’t asleep. He was up there in the attic, his body flowing through the ageless movements of the snake and crane.

  Sliding from beneath the blankets to pull socks over his bare feet, Sage knew only that he belonged upstairs. He wrapped himself in a blanket from off the end of the bed, slipped from his room and climbed to the attic. He had no idea what, if anything, he was going to say to his friend, but somehow he couldn’t bear the thought of Fong being alone.

  Soundlessly, he climbed the steep stairs to push open the door. The light of two candles flickered atop the wooden chest beneath the wall scroll. Fong was there, his obsidian hair in a shining braid down the middle of his straight back. Dressed in a high-collared black tunic over black cotton pants and slippers he called to mind the wheeling ravens of the high Yukon skies. Displaying seamless transitions between strength and suppleness, advance and retreat, the Chinese man’s body seemed to ride an invisible current just like those birds.

  Stepping silently across the floor, Sage found a pillow and lowered himself to sit against the wall. His western back pained him whenever he sat very long without support. Once settled, Sage concentrated on his breathing, something Fong had taught him to do so that he could release his thoughts and become fully present in the moment. Overhead, raindrops began splatting randomly on the tar paper roof, heralding the fitful weather to come.

  Fong did not pause in his movements though his gaze momentarily sharpened, focusing on Sage’s face before turning blank once again. That glance seemed both a greeting and a tacit acceptance of Sage’s presence.

  If asked, Sage could not have said why he was here. His friend Leo had been right–sudden death made words clog the throat like dust. Yet, he hoped that, somehow, his mere presence would comfort.

  Sorrow seemed to lay over the man even as he moved, gentle as an underwater frond set swaying by a random ripple. Yet power imbued every graceful gesture. It was as if Fong was immersed in an ancient, timeless pool of strength. As though his skin no longer separated him from the air through which he moved. Sage knew, somehow, that Fong’s sorrow had slid into a deeper, wordless place, merging with something larger and more profound than words could describe. As he watched his friend’s body manifest and move through grief, Sage’s body began responding. His own bones, muscles and tendons began recalling the sensations of each movement. Time passed, its only accompaniment the swish of Fong’s clothes and the patter of fitful raindrops.

  It wasn’t until a draft slipped up the stairway and flowed across the floor that Sage felt the tears upon his face.

  * * *

  Low groans intruded from somewhere beyond the dream. Meachum groggily pondered why someone would be groaning when everything was so peaceful. Fighting the cobwebs of sleep, he made it to a level of consciousness where he knew that he was awake–just barely. Once there, the vibrating sensation in his throat told him that he was the one groaning. He struggled to lift his head, to look around, but gave up–letting go. It wasn’t worth the effort. Beneath him, a wood floor firmly resisted his hipbone. Funny how it didn’t hurt like it usually would. Where was this place? It was dark. Close by, seagulls seemed to be keening. Seagulls didn’t cry at night. Wait a minute, he’d heard them at night. Near that North End sewer outlet, right where it emptied into the river.

  Nearer, from overhead, came the spatter of rain starting up. He liked the sound it made on the tin roof. Comforting. An advancing wave of blackness swept over him, edging the world’s commonplace sounds away, carrying with it the dream world’s vivid colors and fantastic images.

  Meachum didn’t react when the boot hit his ribs hard enough to bruise. Nor did he hear the voice of the man standing over him when it said, “I told you to go easy on the drops. He’s no damn good to me like this!”

  * * *

  The hinges on the gate screeched like a cat getting its tail stomped. Sage froze, holding his breath and swallowing a curse as water streamed off the roof onto his head. Once he was certain that only the sound of rainfall filed the night, Sage stepped through the gate and eased it shut. Carefully he squished his way along the side of the house, conscious of every sucking step. Near the back corner, a gray cat crouched atop a barrel, sheltering beneath the roof’s overhang.

  Unblinking cat eyes stared at him. Sage willed it not to leap off the barrel in fright. So, of course, it did. Its powerful hind legs set the barrel clattering against the house wall. Again, he froze. Again, he endured the downpour while his ears strained to hear beyond its noise. Had the racket roused anyone? Only silence seemed to emanate from the house. No matches flaring, no curtains twitching aside, no cries of alarm.

  A few short steps and he had rounded the corner to stand near the back of the house. He studied her window that was, luckily, on the first floor. Reaching into his pocket he found and removed the small pebbles he’d gathered on his way here. He tossed one against the window and waited. Nothing. He tossed a second, a little harder, waited, and saw the curtain move. A white hand reached up, twisted the lock and the window eased open. He stepped closer. Blackness framed her head, a shawl draped her shoulders and wispy hair floated loose from her nighttime braid. Still her whisper sounded anything but sleepy when she hissed, “Sage, what in the world are you doing here this early in the morning?”

  He moved even closer so that she could hear his whisper, “I wanted to make sure you were all right. That you are okay with Matthew’s rescue scheme.”

  Her voice came as a dry drawl, “I should be. It’s my plan. There is some risk but I think we can do it and not get caught. Besides I think the Capt’n and his sidekick will be sleeping in real late this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His mother smirked, an unusual expression for her. “I added a little extra seasoning to the soup that Matthew took up to the two of them,” she said.

  “Extra seasoning?” Maybe he was too tired, he didn’t catch her meaning.

  “A triple douse of my wild strawberry elixir.” Now her smirk became a wolfish grin that was not all that attractive in the dim light. “I expect they had to be up and down all night visiting the necessary,” she told him. Finally it dawned on his tired brain what she had done.

  She’d overdosed them with the herbal laxative she’d periodically given him as a
small child.

  She twisted, glancing behind into her room and turned back to hiss, “If you don’t close that mouth of yours, you just might drown. Good night, my boy. I hear steps in the hallway and besides, some of us have to get up early and go to work.” With that the window slid slowly but firmly down and the curtain was pulled shut. She was gone, leaving him staring at the place where her face had been.

  * * *

  Cap’n Branch slammed the kitchen door open so hard that it bounced off the counter that housed the dry goods and root bins. Mae looked up from where she was paring brown spots off of last fall’s apples. Mrs. Wiggit calmly lifted her stirring spoon from the pot and Gussie scuttled into the alcove. The scullery girl shrank so far into the corner she disappeared. At Mae’s side, Andy slipped his little butt off the bench and slithered under the table, the oilskin tablecloth hiding his presence unless someone got down on his knees to look. Cap’n Branch wasn’t about to do that. Still, Mae tugged the cloth down, making sure Andy would be hard to spot. She noticed, with satisfaction, that the man looked both tired and peaked before quickly returning her attention to the apple in her hand. It wouldn’t do to have him see the smile twitch her lips.

  Pointing an accusing finger at Mae, the Cap’n spoke to Mrs. Wiggit, “Has what’s-her-name been in the kitchen all morning since she got here?” he demanded.

  Ms. Wiggit turned from the stove and looked at Mae. Mae held her breath and hoped her face showed only confused inquiry. This was it. In just one word she might find herself in mortal danger. Mrs. Wiggit’s eyes narrowed momentarily before she turned to the Cap’n.

  “I’ve been keeping her too busy to be traipsing about. We had all that mess from last night’s dinner to clean up and wasn’t nobody else gonna cook breakfast and dinner except me and her. If she left, I would have known it.”