The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  “You really have enough to cover this added expense?” Virginia sounded unconvinced. “How is that possible?”

  “Well . . . .”

  “I’m only taking half pay,” Joshua blurted.

  “And why is that?” Virginia seemed more skeptical than ever.

  The detective raked his hair and grinned sheepishly. “To be honest, this is my first case. And since I’m learning on the job, I felt it only fair to discount my fee.”

  He looked boyishly handsome and so utterly believable that even Kate was fooled. But only for an instant. It hardly seemed credible that Alan Pinkerton would send an inexperienced operative on behalf of such an important client as Franklin B. Gowen.

  “So, this is your first case. I thought as much.” Charlotte frowned. “You did seem to lack . . . well, sir, forgive me for saying it, but you did . . . you do seem to lack the bearing and manner of a great detective.” Charlotte fingered the string of pearls nestled against her throat; Benjamin’s gift, which, she had confided to Kate, she was careful never to wear in the morning ever since Mrs. Gaylord told her that a proper lady didn’t wear pearls before noon. “Your inexperience is most unfortunate, but I suppose we have no choice but to accept the services of a novice. Still . . . how can we be sure you are capable of . . . ?”

  “Have you made arrangements to see this man?” Kate interrupted, surprised that Joshua Adams appeared unruffled by Charlotte’s censure.

  “I sent a note suggesting we meet tomorrow after the mine closes, and this morning received an answer. The meeting is on.”

  “Well that is good news. Of course I’ll be going with you.” Kate sat on the edge of her chair. She would have gone to Higgins Patch that instant if she could.

  “And I’ll be going, too,” Virginia added.

  “Don’t look at me!” Charlotte said, looking horrified. “I wouldn’t think of going to that foul, grimy place. I’d hardly feel safe in daylight, but at night? In the dark? Oh, my. I don’t even want to think of the danger. You know what they say about Higgins Patch. That it’s a stronghold of the Molly Maguires. Oh, no! You go if you must, but I’m content to be left out of it altogether.”

  “No one is going, except me,” Joshua said.

  Kate clenched her jaw as she squinted at him. Higgins Patch. Molly Maguires. The words swirled in her mind like the powdered chalk they used to clean their pewter. Was this another lie? Was Joshua Adams really going to Higgins Patch to seek information about her father’s case? Or was he going on his own errand? And making Kate pay for the privilege? A day’s wages? All right, she’d pay. But not unless she was there to hear this man for herself. “I am going,” Kate said, springing to her feet. “And no amount of arguing will change my mind.”

  “And I’m going, too.” Virginia also stood now. And by the look on her face, Kate knew no amount of arguing would change Virginia’s mind either.

  “Ladies, this is foolishness. I can’t allow it. I can’t be responsible for your safety. Listen to Miss Charlotte. She’s right. It could be dangerous. It could . . . .”

  “We’re going!” Kate said. “And we’ll take responsibility for our own safety.”

  Her words seemed to end the matter, for Joshua Adams nodded as though realizing he couldn’t fight them both. But in the weeks ahead, Kate would remember these words and wish she had not been so headstrong.

  Kate was on her knees rubbing one of the freshly scrubbed brass andirons with mutton suet when Joshua Adams burst through the door of their back parlor.

  “Forgive the intrusion, but your Mother said I would find you here, and that it would not breach proper etiquette if I came since it was she who insisted I do so.”

  Kate placed the andiron on the drop cloth protecting the floor and rose. Absently, she brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. She had spent the past hour cleaning the hearth and andirons, and was covered with the telltale evidence of her efforts. Her hands and arms, and most of her apron were blacked. She stood staring at him wondering what her mother could have been thinking by sending him to her while she was in this state.

  “I wanted to try, one last time, to dissuade you from going to Higgins Patch tonight. There could be danger. I know Virginia will follow your lead and do whatever you do.”

  “Charlotte said you were presumptuous, and she was right. We are barely acquaintances and yet you claim to know us well enough to predict what we will do in a given situation. If you knew anything at all, you’d know that Virginia has her own mind.”

  “Yes, but she looks up to you. You have great sway over both your sisters, as you well know.”

  “You’re wasting your time, sir, and mine.” Kate returned to the andiron on the floor.

  “You don’t trust me.” Joshua walked across the room, stopping only when he stood on the drop cloth. “You don’t believe I’m going on behalf of your father. Tell me, Miss Kate, why do I feel we are back in my room with the razor case?”

  “Have we ever left it?”

  “I’ve tried, but you refuse to let us. We need to put our differences aside or we’ll never be able to work together. We need to trust one another.”

  Kate picked up one of the nearby rags and rose to her feet. “That’s difficult, sir,” she said, wiping suet from her fingers. “Your ability to fabricate lies on a moment’s notice is extraordinary. It seems as if you can pluck them from your head as easily as a farmer plucks apples from his orchard.”

  “I’m a detective. It comes with the territory. And Allan Pinkerton himself will tell you that lying and deception are necessary in our trade. He believes the end always justifies the means if the goal is to secure law and order. But if you’re referring to the comment about my wages, I was only trying to help. Trying to keep you from having to deceive your sisters any more than necessary.”

  “I see. And was it true? All that business about this being your first assignment?”

  Joshua Adams frowned. “Did you know that by November the fog in London is yellow? And by January it has spread several miles across the nearby countryside? They say it’s the coal stoves in the city that cause it. A ghastly place, London. Full of crime. In my work it’s difficult not to judge a place by its crime. But I dislike New York even more, though it has some of the best markets in the world. You can buy almost anything there. Even so, that hardly makes up for their infamous Five Points district.”

  “So you have traveled. Congratulations. But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

  To Kate’s horror the detective pulled up his waistcoat and shirt a few inches, exposing a patch of skin just below the ribs on his right side.

  “Mr. Adams, please this is . . . .” She stopped when she noticed a scar, the length of one of his ivory-handle razors.

  “But Cincinnati was the real surprise. I didn’t expect trouble there. The crime rate is moderate compared to the other two cities, and I was only sent to pursue a certain John P. McCartney, ‘Prince of Counterfeiters’, and not a man of violence. But instead of the prince I ended up tangling with a petty thug and his derringer. Did you know that even a small pinefire cartridge can handily destroy a liver, or part of it anyway? Luckily, a skilled surgeon was able to save most of it.”

  Kate dropped her rag and stepped closer. “That’s . . . a large scar.” She resisted the urge to touch it, and was embarrassed by her boldness in even thinking of doing such a thing. “I’m . . . sorry for doubting you.”

  “But I wasn’t always a detective.” Joshua adjusted his clothes. “I was once a teacher. For a year, anyway. But instead of teaching history, I though I’d like to be part of it. Maybe make some myself. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Well, perhaps you’ll make history tonight, at our meeting, by uncovering evidence that will clear my father.”

  “So you are going.”

  “I am.”

  “Then before you go yo
u should wipe that sooty grease from your forehead.” Then he turned and exited the room, leaving Kate feeling foolish but a little pleased, too. Maybe this brash, outspoken detective could be trusted after all.

  Charlotte stood staring at the large gray-stone mansion. She couldn’t believe her nerve or the fact that she had come here again. Still, she wasn’t sure she had the courage to enter. But why this obsession, this need to see the Women’s Home? Was it because of her acute disappointment in that slovenly amateur, Joshua Adams? After his confession that this was his first case, she realized all could be lost. How had her entire future happiness come to depend on such a deficient character? How was he to clear Father’s name and repair her standing with the Gaylord’s? Oh, how could Kate trust such a lout? Kate, who was normally so wise and level headed?

  When someone raised the canvas shade on one of the windows, she stepped backward. No, she wouldn’t go in. This was foolishness. Still . . . maybe she should . . . just once to see. . . . She had to make up her mind. Time was running out. She had finished her chores earlier than expected, leaving her an hour before she was needed to help prepare dinner, and she had spent half of it walking to the Women’s Home just outside Sweet Air.

  Yes or no. She ran her damp palms down the skirt of her day dress. What was she so afraid of? Inside, there were only women. Poor, sick, indigent women. But that was the point, wasn’t it? This was what she feared most, to see what she might become. If she lost Benjamin it could happen. Yes, if conditions were right, she too could become like these women inside: fallen, destitute and unloved, with no means of support. No family, no friends. Hadn’t Hester told them about the family just outside Pottsville that had been decimated by illness, leaving behind the youngest daughter, as sole survivor, to fend for herself? Yes, it could happen.

  She found herself moving toward the large wooden porch, as if in a dream. She just had to go in. She had to see for herself the kind of women who were inwardly scorned and detested by the likes of Mrs. Gaylord and Hester Roach, while outwardly provided with so-called Christian charity.

  When had they started seeing her this way? Charlotte mounted the wide, sturdy steps. Was it when Father had been accused of murder? Or during the trial? Or was it when he stood on that scaffolding with the rope around his neck, a white hood covering his face?

  If Mrs. Gaylord and others considered her one of the “fallen” then Charlotte must see what she really looked like in their eyes. She took a deep breath as she walked to the large wooden door in need of painting, then placed a trembling hand on the round brass knob and twisted. When it didn’t turn, she realized her perspiring palm had failed to grasp it firmly enough. She ran it down her skirt and tried again. This time the door opened.

  It wasn’t what she expected. From the entrance she could see into a large parlor, clean and neat though a bit musty smelling and sparsely furnished with few adornments. And sitting around in well-worn chairs were ten women, of various ages, all neatly clothed in modest apparel, quietly reading or knitting or dozing; each one looking quite normal.

  When the woman in the chair nearest the entrance saw her, she smiled and began running her hands over her poorly arranged hair as if embarrassed by her appearance. Then suddenly a matron or nurse, Charlotte didn’t know which, appeared.

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion. I’m . . . sorry,” was all Charlotte managed to say before bolting down the stairs, but as she did she glanced one last time at the woman still trying to arrange her hair with her fingers.

  Kate was happy to have Joshua Adams by her side as she and Virginia walked along the dirt road that cut through the center of Higgins Patch. She didn’t know why she felt so uneasy. There was no cause for concern. She knew many of the people, having come here with Mother numerous times. Though never at night. And that was the point. Things tended to look different at night.

  In the fading light she could still make out the poorly constructed houses. Huddled together in tired clusters, they looked like patchworks with their odd pieces of wood fastened over gaps in the wall boards. Even some of the roofs sagged as though weary of bearing up under years of coal dust. How did these people survive the harsh Pennsylvania winters in such lodgings? Why didn’t the colliery take better care of their property? All these houses were company owned, for which they collected rent; rent, that many said bordered on robbery.

  She tried to ignore the odd smells that floated through windows and swirled overhead, and how they changed as the ethnic nature of the streets changed. But two smells remained constant: the first of coal fires; the other of outhouses—the ones that stretched along the backyards like a string of miniature sheds, many without doors, and each one shared by two families.

  “It’s not much further,” Kate said, directing them deeper into the patch toward the Irish quarter, and one of the poorest, where houses were little more than shanties that sometimes sheltered up to thirty people who slept in shifts. But the Germans, Welsh, and Italians had their sections, too. So did the mine bosses and supervisor who lived in the best houses. In reality, the entire patch was divided by both class and culture.

  They were heading for Mary O’Brien’s house, a fact that Joshua Adams had only shared while on the way here. It still peeved Kate that he had kept the meeting place a secret as if he were afraid she’d go without him. As they veered off the main road and onto a small rutted path, she tried vanquishing her suspicions. She wanted to trust him, to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it was hard.

  “Over there,” Kate said, pointing to a shack with small windows that appeared like sad eyes on each side of a poorly-hung rough-hewn door.

  “I didn’t expect it to look . . . like this,” Virginia whispered. “So . . . sinister.”

  “It’s just the darkness playing tricks.” Kate mounted the rickety boards that served as a front step. She tried looking more confident than she felt in hopes of comforting Virginia who seldom came to the patch, and never once to the O’Brien’s.

  Before she could knock, the door partially opened and there stood Mary O’Brien. “Well, it be herself now,” Mary said with a thick brogue and a surprised expression on her face. She ran her hands over her tightly bound hair, then down her soiled dress. “Oh, mercy me!” she cried when she looked over Kate’s shoulder and spotted Virginia standing beside Joshua Adams. “‘Tis another one!” She rubbed her hands together. “I had no idea you’d both be comin’ with him or I would have made some tea cakes for the visit.”

  “Be at ease, Mary.” Kate took the woman’s hand and squeezed it in friendship. “The fault is ours. Forgive my rudeness in not letting you know. And don’t trouble yourself. All we’ve come for is information.”

  That seemed to placate Mary, for she smiled and opened the door wider. “Well then, come in. You are welcome.”

  The three filed into one room that served as both kitchen and sleeping quarters for the adults. And though Kate had never been upstairs, she knew that overhead was a small attic where all the children slept. The downstairs, itself, was cluttered and dimly lit. Aside from the coal stove, there were assorted cooking utensils, food barrels of varying sizes, a table, two wooden benches, and a collection of rolled bedding.

  “Please sit,” Mary said, taking the only oil lamp in the room and placing it in the center of the table. “And I could manage some tea, if it pleases you.”

  Kate nodded. “That would be lovely.”

  Once the stove was stoked and the kettle positioned, Mary went to where a few crude shelves had been braced and nailed to the wall. Reaching to the top, she pulled down what looked like a bundle of rags. Then bringing it to the table, she carefully unfolded the cloth, exposing four lovely china cups and saucers, all delicately painted with pink and red and yellow dahlias.

  “Part of me dowry,” she said beaming. “Carried ‘em all the way from Donegal, I did.” As she placed each cup and saucer in front of her guests, a sudden rustling n
oise made her turn.

  A little boy had scrambled down the attic ladder, and even in the dim light Kate recognized him as the one whose fingers she had bandaged at the Mattson Colliery. He stood in bare feet and shabby nightshirt, grinning and holding up his hands. Kate supposed it was to show her that his fingers had healed, but in the poor light it was impossible to see if they actually had.

  “And just what do you think you’re doin’, Sean Muldoon?” Mary moved toward the boy. “You should be in bed now! That breaker whistle will be blowin’ before you know it.”

  To Kate’s surprise, the little boy swore under his breath; then barely dodging the back of Mary’s hand, retreated up the ladder.

  “That’s right! You best be gettin’ up there now before I wash your mouth out with soap! And don’t think I won’t neither!”

  When he disappeared, Mary sighed and began fussing with her cups. “‘Tis Catherine Muldoon’s boy, God rest her soul. I make him wash and say his prayers every night, and even try to teach him his ‘please’ and ‘thank-yous’ but ‘tis a losing battle with him at the breaker now. All that them breaker boys learn is how to cuss and smoke and chew tobacco. Catherine is surely turnin’ over in her grave, but I’m doin’ my best with a house full of my own brood and the extra men I’ve taken in for the room and board money.”

  Kate nodded. “It’s a good thing you are doing.” She had not known Catherine Muldoon or her family but she had heard how the woman died in childbirth, along with the baby, and left five young children behind. And since it was impossible for a widowed mine worker to care for his children alone, it was common practice in most patches for other families to take them in.

  As Kate sat with her back to the wall feeling the wind blow through the bare, poorly fitting boards, her heart ached. She and her family had so much, even in their reduced circumstances. Why couldn’t she be grateful to God? Why couldn’t she be satisfied with her life as it was? Like Mary O’Brien. Like . . . Mother.