by S. L. Stoner
An anticipatory glint brightened Johnston’s eyes when Sage pulled a sheet of paper from inside his coat. Sage handed it to Johnston who pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to read, concentration wrinkling his forehead.
Johnston laid the paper aside.“Not bad writing for an amateur reporter. Is it true?” he asked.
“Absolutely, every word. I was there. Will you print it, Ben?” “I’ve no problem doing that, as long as you vouch for it.
I’m sorry that the poor young man is in the hospital, though. Doesn’t sound like there’s much hope for him. Too damn bad. Anyway, Adair, I’ll print this story. The Gazette certainly won’t touch it. Those Gazetters hate unions and they’re too caught up in being la-di-da to care whether working people get hurt. Fact is, more than likely we’ll see their article blaming Rufus for what happened to him.”
Johnston leaned back in his chair, interlacing his ink-stained fingers over his lean stomach. “The Mackeys know The Gazette is behind them whatever shenanigans they pull. I’d take bets that The Gazette will never publish one word of criticism against either the Mackeys or their thugs. That class of people guards each other’s secrets like a prairie killdeer warming her eggs.”
Johnston snapped erect in his chair as if coming to a sudden decision. His pen tapped Sage’s article. “I’ll print it all right. I hope some good comes of publishing it.”
s s s
Sergeant Hanke sat in Mozart’s kitchen, waiting for Sage’s return. Usually, Hanke took some time rolling his words out. Not this time. “Your nearly-drowned friend back there at the mill made the right call,” he said, his wide face glum. “I just happened to stumble across the policemen assigned duty at the strike. Found them hiding out in the back of Roxy’s Saloon. From the looks of things, somebody bought them beers so they’d stay there. It made me think something might be about to happen. So, I grabbed a few men and headed on down to the strike line at a fast trot. Just sorry we didn’t show up before the horse stomped that one striker.”
Hanke was a dedicated police officer who took it hard whenever his fellow officers failed to display a similar dedication. He still wanted to believe that his fellow officers were as honest as he was. The downcast German soon took his leave after surprisingly declining a piece of Ida’s dried-apple pie. The big policeman had never refused that offer before.
s s s
Late in the night, sleep eluded Sage, driven away by worrisome questions tumbling one after the other through his mind. How long until the strikers and their families gave up? How long before they abandoned the strike for other jobs, or even worse, crossed the picket line, hat in hand, to beg the Mackeys for a second chance? If something good didn’t happen soon, he would not blame the striking men for giving up the fight, walking away—leaving it for replacements to fill their jobs, working endless hours for a pittance.
When worry stopped bedeviling Sage’s thoughts, he relived the horror of that huge beast rearing above Rufus’s unprotected back. More than once, that vision snapped him alert when he began to drift off. So, Sage lay there, staring at the ceiling until finally fixating on a single question: What was the meaning of his own work if, in the end, it meant that Rufus sacrificed his life for a failed strike?” Sage tossed, turned, and punched his pillow repeatedly to no avail. Sleep stayed elusive until after midnight.
THREE
Sheet rain slamming into the windows woke Sage. His pocket watch, lying open on the bedside table, indicated he’d slept for less than an hour. He listened as the rain, driven by a fitful wind, pelted soft, loud, then soft again. His work as a timber beast in the Pacific Northwest woods gave Sage the opportunity to experience rain’s every manifestation—fat globs, fine droplets, sleet, snow, even feather light mist. Whatever shape it took, every wet molecule proved pernicious in its ability to penetrate layered woolens down to warm skin. For endless days, he’d watched as the rain relentlessly pelted leaves, trickled down limbs and trunks—seeping into the earth—making the ground soggy, sodden, and finally muck. He’d sheltered with other loggers beneath dense fir boughs during the worst of it, as they spit tobacco and told each other bear, cougar and Sasquatch stories. The stinking dank of crowded lumber camp bunkhouses was worse. There, his joints soon ached from the dampness permeating the walls and he felt helpless, then angry, when a winter contagion swept through, leaving loggers lying dead atop their hard plank bunks. He shut off those grim memory pictures. Tonight, he was warm and dry although the watery drum of raindrops, dripping gutters and the squish of wheels in the street below filled the night beyond his windows. It was turning out to be an incredibly wet fall and, even though winter hadn’t yet hit, many lowland stretches lay beneath roiling water. The vibrant red and intense yellow of maple leaves had quickly given way to the duller redbrown leaves of the oak. Now, even those were falling beneath the onslaught of constant rain. Sage burrowed deeper under his quilt, retreating from the fierce sounds assaulting the window glass and fixing his thoughts on spring sunshine and the scent of roses .
s s s
Half a mile south, Herman Eich, the ragpicker, lay in his narrow iron cot, his back propped up by pillows. Woolen gloves, finger tips removed, kept the damp away from his arthritic fingers as he held a small book tilted so as to best capture the oil lamp’s spluttering light. Tattered blankets, rescued from dust bins, snugged tight across his body up to his breastbone. Two flannel shirts and a woman’s discarded shawl kept his shoulders warm while a faded night cap covered his ears. In the corner, dying embers sparked within a small potbellied stove as salvaged wood collapsed onto itself. Soon, what little warmth the shed held would leak out through the gaps in its walls or be sucked away by the tin roof. Eich lay down his book. It was time to douse the light and pull the covers to his chin, leaving to beard and cap the task of keeping his head warm until morning.
Still, he mused, there was much to celebrate in rain. There was comfort in its murmurs, companionship in its many voices. Nature’s blood, that’s how he thought of it. After trudging through miles of parched desert and brown prairie grass he’d found the lush green of the Willamette Valley inexpressibly beautiful. He particularly liked the fall season when spinning maple seeds, tossed into the promise of future life by the gusting winds, found their way to shelter and nourishment beneath the colorful mounds of fallen leaves.
He smiled at his romantic fancies. Reality was closer to hand in the form of drips pinging into the tin cans he’d positioned across the rough plank floor. His widowed landlady was not to blame for the sieve-like roof. She barely charged him for this space and was pitifully grateful when he’d taken it. His few dollars in monthly rent bought food for her two children. Her tiny two-room house, his shed a leaky adjunct, perched on the edge of the Marquam Ravine. One block to the east was the north end of the only bridge spanning the 150-foot deep ravine. Tonight, the roaring stream at the ravine’s bottom was so loud that it drowned out any street traffic. As was his practice when readying to sleep, Eich began mentally tracing the stream’s transformation from a trickle seeping from beneath rocks just below the western ridge, into a roaring torrent that fattened with every foot it traveled.
What a contrast was this winter crescendo to the summertime stream, when poor children played beside its quiet trickle in the mess of broken glass and jagged metal that people tossed off bank and bridge. Summertime was when the ravine rang with children’s chatter and the shouted cautions of their mothers.
Eich reached out his gloved hand to twist down the wick. The last splutter of light caught on the decorated porcelain handbasin he was repairing for a young woman who worked as a maid in the prestigious Portland Hotel. A slight crack in the rim made it unacceptable for use by the hotel’s upscale clientele. Once mended, however, the basin would be the poor woman’s treasure and he’d be a few cents richer. Other damaged porcelain objects crowded his workbench top. Nothing to make him rich but, along with the proceeds of his ragpicking, enough work to keep him fed and housed.
&nb
sp; s s s
On the other side of the Marquam Ravine, just a few hundred yards as the crow flies, Clarisa Brown blinked sleepily in the light of the flaring match. She lit the candle before bending over to lift the wailing infant from his crib. “Shush, little Daniel, Daddy’s sleeping.” She kept her voice soft and loving even though a part of her was irritated and impatient. She was so bone weary, wanting silence and to creep back into the warmth of her bed. She thought of her husband down below them on the first floor.
Poor Daniel. Driven from her side by his namesake’s crying, he’d stumbled down the narrow stairs to try sleeping on their short parlor sofa. He was such a good man her Daniel.
She moved over to the rocker, taking the candle with her and placing it on the small table beneath the window. Lifting her breast from the warmth of her flannel nightgown, she gave it to her son. For a few moments, she gazed at her reflection in the black mirror of the rain-spattered window—the edges of the filmy curtains framed the tableau. Baby Daniel in her arms, like that picture in the church—another cradling mother, just like mothers through all time. Ah mercy, she was tired, so headhanging tired. Clarisa buried her nose in the sweet fragrance of baby hair. In seconds, the gentle suckling carried her into deep sleep. Not even the candle’s bright flaring penetrated her heavy eyelids.
s s s
At first, Eich didn’t know what woke him. Only that an unusual noise had set his heart to pounding. He sat up, ears straining, turning his head this way and that. Had the sound come from his dream or the waking world? Seconds later, the answer came in the form of a shrill scream of animal agony. Eich threw his covers back. He began yanking canvas trousers over baggy long johns even as his stockinged feet felt for his boots. The screams came from somewhere outside. He heard his landlady stirring, crying out in alarm on the other side of their shared wall. When the animal screamed again, his more alert mind honed in on its location. It came from near the bridge, yet somehow muffled.
Eich banged open the shed’s door and stepped out to look along the side of the house toward the bridge. Its dense structure stood disfigured against the lighter black of sky—the familiar geometry of its supporting beams broken into jagged ends, dangling all catawampis. “Dear God, in heaven,” he breathed, “the bridge has collapsed with someone on it.” He began running toward the disaster as the horse screamed again, its agonized cry followed by the faint shouts of panicked men.
He cleared the stand of fir trees at the ravine’s edge to obtain a clear view across it to the other side. Near the end of the bridge, across the ravine, a house was on fire. Flames were shooting out its upstairs windows. The competing horrors momentarily froze Eich’s steps until the sight of a black figure, leaping like a frenzied marionette before the flaming house, spurred Eich back into action.
A horse’s scream soared up from deep within the ravine, followed by fainter human cries. A wagon, carrying men, had fallen through the bridge. The wreckage was down there, the men maybe lying in freezing water. And a house was ablaze. Unsure which disaster to address, Eich snatched up a tin pail and a length of rope from beneath the overhang of his landlady’s house and started running.
Eich reached the bridge and saw that the choice was out of his hands. The structure canted perilously downstream. Just before mid-span, a black hole gaped, planks tilted waist high. On the other side of that chaos the man at the fire raced to the bridge only to whirl back toward the burning house, his arms raised to the dark sky in supplication. There was no way to reach the frantic man. The bridge looked impassable. A sudden roaring swoosh rolled across the ravine. The house tumbled inward, sending flaming embers spurting into the night sky.
As if witnessing that explosive conflagration, the horse below screamed again, its terror rising up from the blackness like a scream out of hell. Eich took one last agonized look at the burning house and sent a pessimistic prayer skyward that fire had trapped no souls inside that inferno. He dropped the pail and plunged over the steep bank, rope in hand, toward the streambed below. As he slid and staggered downward, with tendrils of vines grabbing at his ankles, he heard a pistol pop once above the stream’s roar and the animal screams ceased. Dread at what he was going to find overtook him even as he fought his way toward the creek bank.
Midpoint down the slope the outlines of a hulking mass started to emerge. It hung half in and half out of the stream. Twisting as it fell, the wagon lay in bits and pieces nearly parallel to the water’s course. Eich squinted, trying to see the wagon’s contours. He saw a collage of wooden wheels, a large copper tank and a long sinuous hose trailing upslope. In the stream’s edge, a high-crowned, stiff leather helmet lay upside down until the water swirled it away. He was looking at a fire wagon, scattered in pieces across the hillside. The men who’d fallen with the wagon also lay strewn about. Some groaning softly, sprawled against the muddy slope, others lay crumpled, still as death. Eich dropped down beside a man to lever a splintered bridge timber from off his chest. Even as he frantically tossed the wood aside, Eich became aware of three things. More rescuers were sliding down the bank toward him. The fiery glow lighting the sky above the ravine was dimming to a faint rosy hue. And, the rain had stopped.
FOUR
It was the silence outside that woke Sage. Rain no longer splatted against the window and it was still too early for the drays to rattle down the wood-block street below. A soft rustle drew his eyes to where Fong was laying out the soiled but dry “Sam” clothes. Incipient dawn light caught the flash of the Chinese man’s smile when he looked in Sage’s direction.
“Time you rise up Mr. Sage.” Only Fong, St. Alban and his mother called him “Sage,” the diminutive of his middle name. “Sagacity” was an old family name on his mother’s side. Family legend held that the first Sagacity served as tactical advisor to a vanquished Irish chieftain. Given the outcome of his advice, Sage wondered why the family held the name in such high esteem.
Fong looked in Sage’s direction, mild impatience taking over his expression when Sage didn’t move.“It is early. Still, best to rise now. Because of newspaper story,” he said. He bent to light a lamp and, for a minute, Sage contemplated the Chinese man’s aesthetic profile with its broad forehead and sharp cheekbones. A northern Chinese face, according to Fong, although he’d been born near Shanghai where faces tended toward being round and soft featured.
Newspaper story? Sage’s sleepy mind caught up with Fong’s words. Right, his visit to The Journal the day before.“Ben Johnston came through for us?” He flung the covers aside and reached for his clothes. No need to explain further. Fong knew exactly what he meant because, over the last two years, Fong had evolved into being a partner, a teacher and, more recently, his closest friend. The three of them, Fong Kam Tong, Sage and Sage’s mother, Mae Clemens, were a team fighting for economic justice.
“Yes, Mr. Sage. Mr. Johnston came through for us, I think. So does your mother. Eat now,” Fong gestured to a tray of bread, cheese, meat and coffee on the table beside the morning’s newspaper.
Sage ate as he read the story positioned just below the fold on The Journal’s front page. “Labor Dispute Turns Deadly” announced the headline while a subtitle continued, “Unarmed strikers attacked by thugs.” Sage’s submission of the previous day, with minor changes, was below the fold.
“The front page positioning is good,” he said. He flipped the paper over to see what lead story pre-empted the strike news. A blurry picture, obviously taken using flash powder at night, showed a hodgepodge of timbers, a wagon wheel jutting high in the air and maybe the haunch of a downed horse. The headline just above the picture stated, “Bridge Collapse Destroys Fire Wagon.” Sage scanned the story. The trestle bridge over the Marquam Ravine collapsed during the night, just as a fire wagon was crossing it on the way to a fire. One horse died. Six firemen injured, two seriously. The story’s final paragraph noted that the house burned to the ground, killing a mother and baby. The father had survived.
He shuddered, imagining that
poor woman’s last, terrified moments. “Wonder why that bridge failed?” he asked aloud.
“Maybe all the rainwater washed out bridge,” Fong replied as he began loading the dishes back onto the tray, preparatory to returning downstairs.
“Mr. Fong,” Sage called out to halt Fong’s exit. “Your cousins find out anything about Abner Mackey or his son, Earl?”
“No information yet. Mackeys never hire China men. Not to work in kitchens or wash laundry—so no information comes from that way. I will keep asking,” he promised as he closed the door softly behind him.
That was discouraging news. Often, Fong’s “cousins,” members of his fraternal society, his “tong,” ferreted out information that was inaccessible to the city’s Occidentals. This was because, like most servants, the Chinese laboring in the white man’s world performed their tasks virtually unnoticed by those they served once familiarity set in. Sage smiled ruefully to himself. He was guilty of that arrogance as well. He’d been oblivious of Fong’s keen interest in their goings-on until the night Fong rescued him from a savage beating. That was the night that Fong shed his own false persona and became their partner in all things.