by S. L. Stoner
* * *
Sage waited only a short time in the fragrantly-scented Chinatown noodle house before Mr. Li and Meachum’s lead man turned up. Both men looked like they hadn’t slept in days.
Meachum’s man, Buddy Kendall, was much younger than Sage, but tonight he looked ten years older and he hadn’t changed his clothes in days. The Chinese man, on the other hand, was impeccably dressed, Western style. Dark smudges beneath his eyes were the only sign he showed of strain. The hunched shoulders of both men relaxed upon learning Fong would recover.
“That is excellent good news. He is a very important man in our Chinese community,” Mr. Li said, smiling for the firsttime since Sage had met him. Mr. Li raised a hand, barking out instructions in Chinese while gesturing at the three of them.
Within a minute, each of them had a bowl of seasoned noodles before him. Not until Sage took the first bite did he realize that he had not eaten since very early that day. The noodles were delicious. From the way he shoveled in the food, it was evident that Buddy Kendall had also forgotten to eat.
Mr. Li waited until his companions were nearly finished before saying, “My men have narrowed the search down to two empty warehouses in the North End, by the river. I have put guards on both. They will tell us if they see anyone going in or out.”
“I don’t think we can wait,” Sage started to say before Meachum’s man jumped in.
“They will kill Meach before tomorrow. I say we raid the two places tonight and see if he’s there,” Kendall said leaning forward, his hands clenched and white-knuckled atop the table.
Sage remained silent, waiting for Mr. Li’s response, because he happened to agree with Kendall. If Meachum wasn’t already dead, he soon would be. The Chinese man nodded thoughtfully. “I think you are right, Mr. Kendall. It is better we act tonight, right away. Tomorrow we will be too busy stopping the assassination. And, I also think the danger to Mr. Meachum is now most serious.” He glanced over at a wall clock. “It is ten o’clock. I will round up all the men I can and meet you at in one hour in the rail yard across from the Slap Jack saloon. You do the same. Maybe, in the meantime, the guards will learn more and we will not have to search both warehouses.
* * *
It was Meachum’s own groaning that once again sent him back into consciousness. He lay there, cataloging each pain beginning at his feet and working upwards. His ankles, from the rope. Legs and buttocks and back from the kicks that had landed on them as he tried to protect his front from the sharp-toed boots. His ribs, the ones that hadn’t escaped, felt broken. Each time he shifted or took a breath it felt like a knife point stabbed between them. And his privates. Despite all his efforts, a few well-placed kicks had left him aching. He tried to imagine what his beat up face looked like. He’d never thought of himself as any beauty but Mary had always called him striking, saying she loved the “ageless strength” of his face and his vivid blue eyes. He cautiously opened those eyes now, one at a time. Testing. Yes, he could still see out of each one, despite the fact they were swollen nearly shut. That was a relief.
There was the rattle of a padlock being loosed and the metallic sound of a tin door slapping shut. His captors were back. He closed his eyes and quieted his breathing. From behind slitted eyelids, he watched the light brighten as one of them approached, paused and then kicked him hard in the back. Meachum bit the inside of his lip so he would not react, trapping the cry of pain in his throat.
With a “humph,” his attacker strode away, saying in a voice that Meachum knew he’d never forget, “Still out. We’re supposed to send word when he wakes up. The boss wants one more go at him. Then we take him for that little boat ride.”
Meachum shivered at the thought of that cold, swollen river bisecting the city. If they took him into the middle of the Willamette and dropped him in, with his hands tied, that would be the end. The spring rains had raised both the river level and the current’s speed. His body would probably end up somewhere down the Columbia River. Hell, he might even make it to the ocean. He’d never wanted to go out on the ocean. He was a mountain man by preference, preferring to leave the seagoing to those who liked water.
Carefully wriggling around, Meachum was able to watch his captors from beneath his lowered eyelids. The men sat on wooden crates around a kerosene lantern. Luckily, the lantern’s pool of light was not large enough to reach Meachum. He could study the enemy from relative safety.
There were three of them. One of them was a new addition. Meachum had not seen nor heard him before. He squinted as he strained to hear what they were saying. He’d always had sharp hearing and, as of yet, their blows had not damaged his ears.
“It’s a real brave thing that you are doing, my friend,” said the man who’d done the kicking.
The new man’s voice quavered, “I have to make a statement. It’s important to make a statement. Roosevelt has to realize he can’t ride roughshod over union men and get away with it. A union shop is a union shop.”
“That’s right!” agreed the kicker. “Now, you might get shoved a bit but, when all is said and done, it will be worth it. Teddy will know he can’t take a man’s job and not pay some price, even if all the smoke bomb does is make his face turn redder than it already is.”
“You sure, now, that this smoke bomb isn’t going to do any more than just make smoke?” the new man asked, reaching for the lantern and moving it closer to a brown, twine-wrapped package sitting on the floor at his feet. For a brief moment, Meachum saw him clearly. The man was so thin that, if he turned sideways, Meachum wasn’t sure he’d be visible in the gloom. He had short black bangs cut square across a bulging forehead, a narrow nose and a receding chin that lent him a fearful, timid look. Not a man who would stand out anywhere–not even in his own mirror.
“Yup, I’m positively sure. It’ll just smoke and raise a God-awful stink. That’s the worst that’s going happen.” The response sounded suspiciously hearty to Meachum but, then, it would, since Meachum knew the package contained a real bomb, not a smoke bomb. Meachum wanted to warn the dupe, and would have, but the gag in his mouth made that impossible.
“Tell me again what I have to do,” the new man said.
“Well, first of all, you want to carry this package under your coat, tucked tight into your armpit. And, you have to be real careful. You drop it and you’ll spoil everything we’ve put together. Second, you get up to City Park long before Roosevelt arrives and find a place right near the front platform edge. Once Roosevelt gets there, we’ll have a man on the platform. He’ll give the signal when you should toss the package at Roosevelt’s feet. That will break the glass ampoules, the chemicals will mingle and phew! Folks will be leaping off that platform to get away. In the confusion, it will be easy for you to escape.”
“How will I know the man on the platform? What signal is he going to give?”
“First, he’s going to start coughing. That means you should push forward to the edge of the platform. Next, his coughing fit’s going to be so bad that he’ll have to leave the platform. As soon as he stands up to leave, people will be looking at him. That’s when you throw. The smoke bomb will start up as soon as it hits the ground. Since Roosevelt is traveling with a passel of reporters, the whole world will know what happened here in Portland, Oregon.”
“And afterwards? How’s Roosevelt and the reporters going to know why I threw the smoke bomb at him?”
“‘Cause as soon as you’ve gotten away, we’re going to send every reporter a note telling him exactly why you did it. Roosevelt shouldn’t have let that union-busting fellow keep his job at your expense.”
Seemingly reassured, the duped assassin took up the package, shook each man’s hand and accepted their claps on the back before heading out the door.
The other two men sat in silence for a few minutes, apparently waiting to make sure the other man was truly gone. Meachum felt himself slipping from consciousness, fighting to stay alert, he heard only one more exchange between his captors before th
e blackness closed in once again.
“He sure is one stupid dodo bird,” said the other man, who’d remained silent up until that point.
“Yup, ‘stupid’ is definitely the word. If the bomb don’t get him and the police don’t shoot him immediately, we’ll have to do it ourselves. Just think, they’ll call us heroes.”
“What if the bomb doesn’t explode or Roosevelt gets shoved out of the way?”
“That happens, the boss said he’ll take care of Roosevelt personally. That’s why he’s there in the first place. He’s back-up. Just in case the dodo screws everything up.”
THIRTY-THREE
Dispatch: May 21, 1903, President’s train pauses in Salem, Oregon.
“There is no proper place in our society . . . for the rich man who uses the power conferred by his riches to oppress and wrong his neighbors.” —T.R.
After binding his wrists behind his back and marching him up three flights of stairs, Eich’s captor had opened a door, shoved him across its threshold and slammed it shut. As Eich fought to maintain his balance, his mind registered the snick of the door lock being turned. The room was windowless. The dirty transom glass above the door provided the only light.
“I’d be a tad more cheerful about our rescue if you weren’t trussed up like a wild turkey heading for the oven,” came the wry, distinctive Appalachian drawl from somewhere further inside the room.
“Mae Clemens, your voice might be the most glorious sound I have ever heard in all my long and varied days,” he said, shuffling forward, widening his eyes to adjust for the lack of light. There she was, sitting on the floor, her legs stretched out, her arms behind her back. Stretched out beside her, lying along the wall was the still figure of another person. Matthew, no doubt.
“I’ve heard tell that the hearing goes afore anything else,” she said but he could see her grinning in the gloom.
“Mae, are you okay? Did they hurt you? And Matthew?” By now he could clearly see the pale oval of her face.
“He’s got himself a snoot full of that opium drug but he’s still breathing,” she answered.
“Opium?” Eich wondered why they’d drugged only the boy. She must have read his mind because she explained, “Matthew took a bit of exception to them treating me rough, silly boy.” Despite her words, her tone was tender. “They held his nose and made him swallow it.”
“Ha! Little did they know you were the one they needed to worry about,” he said and received another grin.
Eich stepped to the wall, turned his back to it and slid down until he sat next to her. Her body was warm and lightly scented with the clean leathery smell of carbolic soap. “How long has he been like this?” he asked.
“A pretty long time, but he’s been twitching and moaning so I expect he’s about to come out of it.”
Wriggling his fingers, Eich tried to gauge the thickness of the ropes around his wrists.
“Don’t be bothering,” she said, her voice now gloomy. “That varmint who tied us up knew what he’s doing.”
“Humph,” Eich responded and twisted away from the wall, angling so that his coat pocket gaped open. “He isn’t nearly as smart when it comes to searching a fellow,” he told her. “If you can wriggle around a bit, I got a folding knife in my coat pocket here. It’ll take some work but I expect we can use it to break free.”
Mae immediately sprang into action, scooting forward to face away from him, the fingers of her hands groping until they found the knife handle. She carefully pulled it out and began inching the knife loose from its leather sheath.
“You want to do the sawing?” she asked him. “I’d better. I’m used to the knife and your hands must be numb by now.”
They scooted until they sat back to back, and she passed him the knife. He gripped it firmly. “Now comes the tricky part,” he said, as his fingers began fumbling over the rope binding her wrists, feeling for an opening big enough to accept the knife blade without slicing her skin. Once he found it, he inserted the knife point slowly.
“Ouch!” Mae said forcefully. “How about you try a bit more to your left? That knife point feels a bit sharpish on my palm.”
He moved the knife blade to his left and began slowly sawing up and down against the rope, praying his sweaty hands wouldn’t drop the knife.
He worked steadily, pausing only when she said softly, “They’re fixing o kill us. Keep us locked inside here and then set the place afire to get rid of the evidence–meaning you, me, Matthew and those poor boys. Sometime before sunrise, I heard the devils say.”
* * *
Carefully stepping through the dry grass, Sage’s feet felt for unseen potholes. He was familiar with this stretch of ground alongside the railroad tracks. He’d stumbled his way across it only the summer before. Back then, some very bad men had been chasing after him and another fellow.
The dark forms of Buddy Kendell and his five men from the Flying Squadron stood about ten yards into the weedy lot. Just as he reached them, Mr. Li and a group of black-clad Chinese men seemed to materialize at the field’s edge. Only Mr. Li wore Western attire. Catching Sage’s appraising look, Li explained, “I am here to coordinate my men and perform the job of respectable lookout.”
Sage quickly counted the strength of their invasion force. Ten men strong plus the respectable lookout. He doubted that the opposition had those numbers guarding Meachum. The worry was the bad guys’ weapons. But, maybe that wouldn’t be a problem. As his eyes adjusted to being away from the gaslights outside the saloons and bawdy houses, he began to discern the telltale curve of pistol butts peeking out of waistbands and coat pockets.
Mr. Li seemed to notice the focus of Sage’s gaze because he said. “Yes, my men carry firearms but I told them no shooting unless there is no other choice. They also have knives. Knives are better because they are silent.” The Chinese leader smiled. “I have two pieces of good news. Mr. Fong sat up and took a drink of water this night. Second piece of good news is that we believe we know exactly which warehouse is Mr. Meachum’s prison. It is down near the river.”
The group divided, setting off in two’s and three’s. A large, combined force of Chinese and European men would attract unwanted attention. Only Sage and Mr. Li stayed together. They received curious looks from those they passed but no one made a derisive comment. Sage wondered whether it was their intensity that kept passersby silent.
No moon brightened the sky and the scuttling clouds hid the stars. Every once and awhile a wind gust would deliver a shower of fine droplets sufficient to sodden a man’s coat. The organizers of tomorrow’s welcoming celebrations were likely bustling around trying to make sure the president would stay dry. The on-again, off-again weather was always a problem for those who came from climes where the weather was predictable. Pacific Northwesterners, however, knew to layer their clothing and took the changeable weather in stride. Sage smiled, remembering how he used to approach the city’s weather with resistence. Now, he was learning to appreciate the sweet freshness of the air and the fact that every day brought variety. He must be turning native. Next thing he knew, there would be webs growing between his toes.
A scuffle f boot on sidewalk pulled his thoughts out of fantasy. He glanced at the man walking beside him. Mr. Li’s face was impassive except for intent eyes scanning the sidewalks ahead. For a moment, the absurdity of the situation hit Sage. Here he was, an Appalachian hill kid who used to squirm on his belly beneath a coal face to gouge out dynamiting holes. Now, he was strolling down a boardwalk in the far West, with a distinguished Chinese man at his side. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined the twists and turns that had delivered him into tonight’s exact situation. An involuntary chortle rose in his throat, to be smothered by a discreet cough. Whimsical thinking was not appropriate given their current situation all around. Probably his nerves were going for a gallop, as his mother would say.
A quick sideways glance told him that Mr. Li was smiling. For an instant, Sage thought the man had read
his mind. But the Chinese man merely observed, “It is good the night is dark and that it has begun raining. If they are watching, it will be hard to see us approach. And, the rain on the tin roof should drown out any noise we make. We are nearly there.”
The brick sidewalk became a wooden boardwalk as the street changed to cobblestone, bordered by packed dirt. They were approaching the river and the buildings around them were mostly warehouses or small manufacturing. The river’s tang mingled with the smell of wet horse manure. Down here, the manure scoopers had trouble keeping up. Mornings, this street overflowed with drays and wagons of all shapes and sizes, each pulled by a manure-producing horse or two. The frequent rain showers further hindered the clean-up efforts, because the mix of water and hooves quickly mashed the horse plops into the mud. Still, the barnyard odor signaled that it was a place of lively commerce and, for that reason, a place of hope for countless unemployed men.
Glancing around, Sage saw that men lay everywhere. Their sleeping forms curled up in doorways or snugged against warehouse fronts, taking advantage of the sidewalk awnings erected to keep the boardwalks dry for deliveries. Each man along this street hoped to be first in line to obtain the next day’s work loading and unloading goods. They’d awaken, clothes grubby, bodies chilled, empty stomachs cramping at the first stirring of commerce. And, they’d count themselves lucky if they were hired to earn a single dollar for a day of backbreaking work.
“There it is, that building straight ahead.” Mr. Li spoke softly, nodding his head toward a tin-roofed warehouse at the block’s end. It was small, old and stood apart from its neighbors. Age had grayed its fir-planked sides. A sturdy padlock secured the two doors tightly shut across an opening large enough to admit wagon and horse. Another man-sized door was in the front wall. It was likely secured from the inside since the door hasp hung open and its padlock was missing.
