As he shuffled past, Ellen captured a split second view of his profile. Though tall, the man stooped, and his greasy cap did nothing to improve the appearance of his long, stringy hair. A noble jaw was his only salvageable trait.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy, Miss. Meanwhile, enjoy the preacher.” When the man hobbled into the hallway, he left the door open. Light pooled inside her shabby enclosure.
Maybe she could work the knots of her wrists before he came back, and then she’d spring to her feet and … Ellen glanced around the room, trying to find a route of escape. The walls were bare, a chair in the corner, and a single glassless window allowed the rank night air to blow in from the bubbly river. A small table near her left side held the large tome War and Peace. But no ready weapons could be found to use against a man. Not that she wanted to use a weapon on anyone. With his oversized clothes she couldn’t rightly tell how large he was, but she knew with as tiny as she was he could overpower her if she didn’t have a means of threatening him.
A booming voice carried from somewhere below. “What is the strongest feeling in the human heart? Is it not to find some better place, some lovelier spot, than we have now? It is for this that men are seeking everywhere. Yet, they can have it. As men grow in knowledge, they vie with each other more and more to make their homes attractive, but the brightest home on earth is but an empty barn, compared with the mansions that are in the skies.”
Home. Moisture clouded Ellen’s vision. His words pierced her soul.
That’s all she wanted, a forever home.
The preacher’s voice grew louder. “I knew a lady who had a great deal of pleasure watching a bird that came to make a nest near her window. One year the bird began to make its nest too low, and the lady grew fearful that something would attack the young birds. Each day, when she saw that bird busy working on its nest, she kept saying, “O bird, build higher!” She knew that bird’s plans would lead to grief and disappointment. At last the bird laid its eggs and each morning the lady checked to make sure the baby birds lived. But one morning she only found feathers scattered all around. You see, it would have been a mercy if the lady tore that nest down when the mother bird first started building. That is what God does for us very often—just snatches things away before it is too late.”
Ellen’s mouth went dry. It was as if the preacher was speaking about her. Lately, her hope had been placed in everyone but the Lord. She’d spent her time in Chicago like that foolish bird, building a house that wouldn’t last. She’d strived toward a goal on her own power instead of seeking out what God wanted her to do. No longer.
I can’t save you if you won’t let me.
She let her head droop and closed her eyes. Forgive me.
Ellen’s nose began to run. Tears flowed in hot trails down her face.
Heels clicked against creaking boards. A busty woman entered. One Ellen recognized—Mrs. Goodwell. “You have to give it to Moody. He drones on so long and so loud. It’s a perfect cover for our meetings, don’t you think?”
Of course. D. L. Moody, the traveling preacher who braved the vice district in order to save souls. The world knew his name. His messages had brought two continents to their knees.
“Forgive my poor manners.” Mrs. Goodwell snapped her fingers. “Her gag, come now, Miss Ingram is a lady.”
The shadow-man emerged from the hallway and removed the handkerchief. Ellen noticed that he walked with a slight limp.
Even with the rag gone from her mouth, the taste of smoke and perspiration clung to Ellen’s lips. “Please. Let me go.”
“Hmmm.” The woman leaned her hip on the table and took time examining her cuticles. “I think not.” Mrs. Goodwell eyed her, a house cat toying with a marsh mouse.
Ellen’s mind spun. Begging wouldn’t work. And hoping for rescue was pointless.
James once said her life meant more, but in that moment she knew that couldn’t be true. Like the bird in Moody’s story, Ellen built her nest too low, using gossip, flirtation, and calculation to construct her future home. James, on the other hand, had stepped out in love and risked his life for her. He committed to spying to protect her. Had become a spy for love. He’d built his nest correctly whereas Ellen’s dreams were about to be only feathers scattered across the ground.
At least now, even in her failure and deception to him the diversion she caused would keep James safe on his mission. With this final act she could show unselfish love for the first time in her life. She just had to distract Mrs. Goodwell long enough.
Mrs. Goodwell motioned to the man. “So this is our Swan? The great leader of the City’s protectors?” She popped her hands on her hips. “She’s so scrawny and has been easy to catch twice now. She doesn’t seem apt enough.”
“We did try to kill her once and she lived.” He offered with a grunt as he took a seat.
“That’s immaterial.” Mrs. Goodwell flipped her hand. “That lover of hers ruined our plan. Without him, the world would have seen that this little swan can’t even swim.”
He stretched out a leg. “The goose would have been cooked.”
Mrs. Goodwell spun on the heels of her boots. “What does a goose have anything to do with a swan? That’s the problem with this revolution—none of you have wits enough to even keep up with a simple conversation.”
“It’s only an expression, Mary.”
“And an inane one at that. Who makes a crack about geese when we’re using swan terms? I’m glad we kept you from the planning meeting below. You new recruits get dumber by the day.”
Her neck sore from volleying between the two, Ellen decided to speak. Her fate rested in the balance, after all. “Forgive me, but what are you talking about?”
As if remembering Ellen in the room, Mary snapped back around. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know. Oh, the quivering bottom lip is a nice touch, though.” Eyebrows arched and finger to her lips, Mary promenaded a full circle around Ellen’s chair. “It makes complete sense now. All you do is pout that perfect rose-petal mouth of yours and wiggle those spider-silk lashes. Every man in town does your bidding.” Mrs. Goodwell stopped dead in front of her. “Too bad your wiles won’t work on me.”
Pushing with her thumb, Ellen inched down the cord tying her wrists together so that it was closer to her fingertips. “But I—”
“You don’t get to do anything with her until her brother gets here.” The man put his hands on his knees, as if he might need to jump to his feet and subdue Mary Goodwell at any moment.
Mary rounded toward him. “She almost blew my cover!”
A solemn shake of his head sent his stringy hair wagging.
Voices below joined together in a hymn.
Ellen wiggled her fingers in the restraints.
A snarl pulled Mary’s lips. “Her brother has no power over me. I could finish her off now. You know I could. He’d be too late. What would he do about that? Nothing. He’d have the power to do nothing.”
The shadow-man got to his feet, fists clenched. “Lewis would kill you.”
Working up the courage, Ellen cleared her throat. “Please, Mrs. Goodwell—”
Mary rounded on Ellen, the back of her hand snapped forward, smacking with a pop across Ellen’s cheek. The feeling of fire exploded across Ellen’s face.
“Stop.” A growl from the man in the corner filled the room. “You act out again, you deal with me.”
So the shadowy watchdog had become her personal protector? She’d take him. At the moment Ellen couldn’t afford to be picky about her allies.
“Goodwell.” Mary spit. “She called me that horrid name. Do you think I enjoy being married to a man in their sphere? They murdered my Henry—the only husband I could ever love—in cold blood. The city sicced the cops on him because he had the audacity to dream of a better day for the working man. Because he spoke to others about unionizing.”
Ellen’s jaw throbbed. She tipped her head back and blinked against tears. She wouldn’t give Mary Goodwell the satisfaction
of seeing her cry.
But oh, Lord. Help! Send Lewis.
For once, maybe her brother would choose her over everything else.
***
James tried to inch along the wall and around the auto-piano as D.L. Moody’s voice rumbled. The evangelist was ending his talk and James didn’t want to get stuck in the large crowd of people leaving.
A blasted hour wasted already and no information—save Moody’s eloquent message—to show for it. James sucked in his stomach as he sneaked past an elderly couple. Whatever Mrs. Danby’s agenda held for tomorrow, he’d forgo it after staying out all night. He’d tell her he had typhoid fever. That would get a rise out of Ellen’s aunt. She was almost as much fun to goad as Ellen. Feeling a grin, he rubbed his jaw.
And what would he tell Ellen when she asked about his adventures tonight? He’d say nothing, that’s what. His spy career grew more laughable by the day.
The Rat Palace. James shook his head.
The men at the Wild West Show must have had revival on the brain, not revolution. This entire mission was like that fairy tale with Jack chasing after beans, except Jack actually found magical beans. Failure. Utter failure the whole lot—him, James’s metaphors, and the mission.
James raked his hand through his hair and puffed out a long stream of air.
Bodies packed the tavern turned tent meeting. Women in thin dresses dabbed their eyes, and men held their hats over their hearts, nodding as the preacher spoke.
Were these people—barefoot and browbeaten—anarchists? They seemed a nice enough grouping. The people gathered were poor in necessities, but not in spirit.
Moody stepped in front of the makeshift podium and spread his arms over the crowd. “I used to preach two sermons in two days. The first night I would speak of hell and eternal damnation. At the end, I’d tell the listeners to return the next night for a talk on heaven. That was my method until the night of the Great Chicago Fire. See, I preached on hell that night and only the good Lord knows how many people died in the blazes afterwards without hearing about the hope of heaven. I promised myself after that night I would never give a talk without offering a chance to reconcile with God. If you wish to secure your eternal home—the only one that matters—step forward.”
The crush in the room shuffled forward in unison. James grabbed the back of a chair to keep from becoming a twig in a steady stream. He didn’t need an altar call. He and Lewis had made their homes with Christ at the same time years ago.
His mission remained the same. He needed to save his friend and protect Ellen, and maybe help save the city. Exhausting work, that. Teach him to complain about banking.
Think James! A tavern had more than one area. Places like this in the vice-district had upstairs rooms. James swallowed hard. Usually those rooms were kept for women and paying clients. He ran his fingers around his collar. Not that James knew first-hand about that sort of business, but one heard whispers at college and during rowing practice. Besides, the newspapers denounced Chicago for having the most depraved underground in the country.
Under normal circumstances, he’d have nothing to do with an upstairs business, but if the anarchists were here, a more effective cover couldn’t be found. If caught, he’d pretend he sought female companionship, and they’d turn him away. If he climbed the stairs and found girls up there, well, he’d run right back down the stairs and go to the altar call. That’s what.
Tip-toeing around prone prayers, James evaded Moody’s Yeomen. The eager ministers-in-training would have to save a different soul tonight. Snaking his way to the large bar, James stepped behind the counter and slipped into the kitchen.
A soapy pair of hands, which happened to be the size of meat-cleavers, clamped onto his shirt and jerked him straight off his feet. “About time fancy-pants. Boss said the new kid slunk out to that church meeting. Hope that preacher man got you good and fired up—look at all the plates that have piled to the heavens while you’ve been gone. Good luck sleeping tonight.” The man shook James back and forth as he talked.
Spittle from the cook’s bulldog-lips slimed James’s face. He would have whipped it off if he hadn’t thought the cook would cough up more spit just to provoke him. Or call him fancy-pants again. He’d worn his worst pair of pants tonight to blend in with the neighborhood. So fancy that.
“Get started, boy.” The beefy man slapped his back.
James staggered forward, bashing his knees on the washtub with a holler. A tower of gravy covered dishes wobbled back and forth. With a lurch, James wrapped his arms around them to prevent a giant crash from occurring. Angry at being disturbed, a colony of flies rose to buzz around his head. He batted them away, their fat bodies making little thump sounds when his swats found purchase.
James made a move for the backdoor. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
But the cook’s chubby fingers hooked on his shirt by his neck and yanked him backwards. “Naw, the boss said I’d know the fancy-pants new boy when I saw him, and you’re him all right.” The cook shoved a dirty rag his way. “Now take the coat off, roll your sleeves, and get to scrubbing. And don’t go sneaking back in with those religious people. I’ll wring that little chicken neck of yours if you so much as think about it.”
When James dropped a couple dishes into the already black water in the basin, like monsters from the deep, giant food particles surfaced. The plates would have been cleaner left with gravy coating them. He glanced over his shoulder and Meat-Cleaver raised a brow in warning.
As James reached for more plates he assessed the situation. One, he didn’t know how to wash plates. Two, he hadn’t found the anarchists yet. Three, if he tried to leave Meat-Cleaver might make good on the death threat. Four, how blessed long would this night last?
State of affairs? Not good.
The cook grunted behind him. James closed his eyes, thrusting his hands into the nasty water. He tried not to grimace when it felt like something slithered over his hand.
“And fancy-pants, pay no attention to what the men are talking about, you hear? Unless you plan on leaving The Rat Palace to work at one of them factories, it doesn’t much matter anyway. They pay me well to pretend I’m deaf. You’d do well to do the same.” Meat-Cleaver dumped two charred pans into the water, and it sloshed over the edge. “Unionize. What foolishness.” The cook walked away muttering.
Keeping his head down, James peeked in the direction the cook had pointed. Sure enough, a cluster of five people stood behind a rack of food. He recognized two of them from the Wild West Show. Stilling his hands and tilting his head, James listened.
One of them pulled a dog-eared handbook from beneath his coat. “You have read Revolutionary War Science, haven’t you? Because he explains what we would need to construct a bomb. Mary says—”
“Yes, yes.” Another urged with hand motions. “Tomorrow will be the first of many mass meetings at the lakefront. Spread the word, anyone with access to dynamite should bring it. Tomorrow may be the start of the revolution.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“The materials, has anyone moved them to the shipping yard?”
Someone clomped down the back stairs. “What are we going to do with the girl?”
A rowdy laugh escaped from the one with the handbook. “Leave her to me. I wouldn’t mind taking care of that little girly. Bet she’s even pretty without all her—”
Swat. “Shut your mouth, Abe.”
“He’s right. When Ingram gets here, he won’t be happy if you’ve touched his sister. Mary’s already got explaining to do for hitting her.”
“But if his sister is spying against us, then don’t she deserve the worst?”
“It’ll be a good test of Lewis’s loyalties.”
Blood running cold, James froze. A plate slipped from his hand and clattered against the metal basin.
Did they say Lewis’s sister?
***
Ellen squared her shoulders. If death knocked tonight, she wo
uldn’t answer the door whimpering. “I had nothing to do with your husband’s murder.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Mary continued her vulture-like circles around Ellen’s chair. “The tyrants of this city will pay.”
To avoid getting caught, Ellen stopped moving her fingers right before Mary crossed behind her back. “I don’t see why you can’t go to City Hall and talk to them, maybe if—”
Mary’s cackle snapped through the room like a whip in the night. “Go talk to them?”
“I met Mayor Harrison at a party. He seems very nice. I’m sure he’d be willing to speak reason with you.” Ellen scratched her ankle with her free foot.
“Nice? Are you aware that he has lately introduced the policy of police moderation at our events? Tell me. Last year did he step to our aid when his army beat the members of the cable car workers strike?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I don’t even live around here.” Ellen wiggled her thumbs. Suddenly, the rope hung slack. Freedom. Thankful for the darkness and for Mary’s distraction, Ellen grasped the string so it still looked tight behind her back. Like Moody said, heaven would be her true home, but if given the choice she wanted a chance to find one on earth first.
“Then until you’re educated, you don’t deserve to have an opinion. Let’s go for something easier. I’m sure you’ve at least heard of Albert Parsons?”
Ellen shook her head.
“Figures. He’s an anarchist … of a different sect than ours. The police searched the town for him. They dragged him to City Hall. The Board of Trade threatened to lynch him if he continued making public speeches about his beliefs. Does that sound like the type of people who would sit down for a nice chat?”
“That’s absolutely terrible.” Ellen meant it.
Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) Page 13
