Dry Rot

by S. L. Stoner

  Sage finished drinking his coffee while he mulled over the strike situation. The persistent lack of information about the Mackeys was yet another frustration in a litany of frustrations. Was this job for St. Alban jinxed? Not one single thing seemed to be going in the strikers’ favor. To turn the situation around, they needed to discover a crack in the Mackeys’ public facade and figure out how to use it. The Mackeys hid a secret of some sort—most rich men did.

  When he was a wealthy mine owner’s foster son, Sage rubbed elbows with many of the country’s robber barons. One nefarious scheme or another usually accounted for their obscene worldly wealth. Greed begat greed—since they grew more rapacious the wealthier they became. It was almost as if they believed God blessed their undertakings and, therefore, only God himself was entitled to set their limitations. By the time the year 1900 arrived, the rich were in a frenzy of capital consolidation and corporate expansion. Daily, these corporate masters gained in power as they seized control and formed trusts to govern utilities, railroads, timber, banks, meat packing, and almost every other essential of life. It seemed more than ironic that, even as the newspapers shrilled about the anarchists, they remained deathly silent about the devastation corporate greed was wrecking on the lives of most Americans.

  The only effective opposition to this limitless greed came from organized labor, citizen groups like the Consumers League, and a smattering of progressive groups agitating at the state and local levels. Despite being underfunded and outfoxed, these citizen led groups had forced progressive ideas front and center in the 1900 presidential election. Sage allowed himself a rueful grimace. Given the corporations’ power over both houses of Congress and Teddy Roosevelt’s own privileged background, it seemed unlikely that the people’s sentiments would get the upper hand. Those who worked in Washington seemed to be the obedient thralls of corporate power, despite their populist vote-getting promises to the people. Still, following McKinley’s assassination and shortly after assuming the presidency, Roosevelt took on E. H. Harriman, the nation’s most powerful railroad trust baron.

  A swath of rain slamming against the window stopped his woolgathering, reminding him that Leo’s nephew, Sam, needed to make an appearance. Sighing, Sage pulled on his canvas coveralls, wool coat and felt-lined cloth cap. He departed Mozart’s through the secret stairway that descended from the third floor into the cellar, shuffling along the concealed brick-lined tunnel until he reached the trap door that lifted into the adjoining alley. Although there was little fear of discovery on a day like this, Sage carefully studied the street at the alley’s end. The few people hurrying by had their chins tucked and their thoughts focused on finding a dry haven, so he was unnoticed when he lifted the trap door and clambered up into the alley.

  s s s

  About ten policemen stood at the head of the cul de sac. Given the consequences of their absence yesterday, Sage figured that they were under orders to present a show of force today. Surprisingly, a large number of strangers also milled about. In fact, warmly-dressed men and women crowded the bottom of the cul de sac, many of them holding placards, while they sang and chattered despite the rain. He moved closer to read the placards. The newcomers represented a panoply of unions: “Butchers,” “Bricklayers,” “Iron Workers,” “Cannery Workers,” “Boiler Makers,” “Tailors,” “Barbers,” proclaimed the placards they waved in the chill air. Apparently, The Journal’s story about Rufus had brought the city’s other unions out in a show of support for the Mackey strikers.

  Leo was easy to spot. He stood atop his trusty soapbox— his jowls jiggling with indignation as he exhorted the group, his finger jabbing the air. To one side, a small fire warmed the coffee pots nestled in its midst. Women in walking skirts and high-top boots distributed steaming tin cups among the crowd. All in all, a markedly different scene from the last few weeks. Sage sidled up to one of the strikers. “So what’s the commotion about?” he asked.

  The man said excitedly, “Sam, glad you’re here! Somehow The Journal found out about what happened yesterday and printed a real good article. All morning long, we seen folks coming down the road to join us.” He gestured toward a coffee tin standing on the corner of a small table. “They been dropping money in that coffee can and some of the unions are promising they’ll take up regular collections for us as long as we’re on strike. It’s wonderful.” The man’s grin gave his face more furrows than a cornfield.

  “Wonderful,” Sage echoed. It was an encouraging development. Yet, he knew from experience that this big turnout was likely to be short-lived. These supporters might show up for a few more days before dwindling away, returning to their own tough lives, leaving the strikers to stand a lonely vigil once again. “I tole the foreman that damn bridge wasn’t safe.” The words caught Sage’s ear as he moved past three men standing close together.

  “Don’t matter none to the Mackeys, long as they make their off-the-books money. It probably only costs them what little bit they give to the city engineer,” came the grim rejoinder.

  Sage froze in his tracks. He looked toward the three men who he knew to be level-headed stalwarts walking the strike line. “Are you saying that the Mackeys might be responsible for that bridge collapse last night?” Sage asked as he stepped toward them, keeping his voice low and calm.

  For a moment, the three men said nothing, looking uncertainly at this nephew of their leader—he was an outsider, after all. Finally, one of them said,“Guess its all right to tell you, Sam,” he said, “seeing as how you saved Jimmy’s life yesterday. Elmer here worked that Marquam bridge job. Let him tell you.”

  The man called Elmer cleared his throat and darted a glance around before speaking in a low voice. “When we worked on that bridge, I feared whether it would hold up. I suspicioned that punk riddled the timber that got left in place. And them rough slabs Mackey gave us to nail over the weak spots in the roadbed weighed too much for the sagging supports underneath. When we raised a fuss over it, Mackey moved us to another job and replaced us with day laborers. Those monkeys finished the job so quick I wondered whether they’d just slapped a coat of creosote over it. I was planning on taking a look but the strike happened and I forgot all about it. If all they used was creosote, it were only a matter of time before that bridge collapsed.”

  “Punk?” Sage asked.

  “Rot,” explained the third man who’d remained silent until that point. “It’s possible for bridge timbers to be full of rot and still look good on the outside. If you dig into them with something sharp, though, you’ll find them all acrumble inside. We call it ‘punk,’ most other folks call it ‘dry rot.’”

  “Why didn’t the Mackeys just replace the rotten timbers?” “Well, I hold my own ideas on that,” said Elmer his eyes flick-

  ing around and stepping closer. “Problem is, there’s no proof.” “What ideas are those, Elmer?”

  “Let’s put it this way, if a fella charged for timber that wasn’t used, well, a fella might sell the same timber a second time, or even a third time, mightn’t he now? And there’d be the labor costs. Suppose the city pays a construction contractor for labor costs on work that ain’t never done . . . what happens to that money, do you suppose?”

  “How did such thievery come about? Doesn’t someone inspect the work?” Sage felt outrage but no surprise. Over the years, he’d seen plenty of laziness and corruption in municipal matters.

  The three men exchanged glances and Elmer again took the lead. “Well, a fellow might say ‘there’s inspection, and then, there’s inspection’.” Sage looked around in time to see Leo dismount his soapbox and talk quietly with a few men. Sage nodded at the three and headed in Leo’s direction. When Sage appeared at his side, Leo looked up and grinned. “Hey, Sam, how about the turnout today?”

  “It’s heartening, Leo, that’s for sure. What’s the word on Rufus?”

  The other man’s face sobered. “No word yet. He’s the same.

  They don’t hold out much hope,” he said.
<
br />   “Police doing anything to catch the man who rode him down?”

  “Nope, they never asked nobody nothin’ as near as I saw.” Leo changed the subject, “Looks like The Journal got the jump on the competition, even shamed the Portland Gazette into sending that reporter down here.” His hand gestured toward the bowler hatted man questioning the strikers, pencil and notebook in his hand.

  “Don’t be too quick to celebrate.” Sage cautioned.“The day

  The Gazette prints a story favorable to labor I’ll eat my cap.”

  Leo laughed. “Well, I guess that means that cap of yours is safe.”

  Sage lowered his voice, “Leo, may I speak a moment with you in private?”

  Leo dipped his head and the two of them moved closer to the road’s edge. The roaring stream at their backs provided cover for their words. Sage quickly told Leo what the three strikers said about the Marquam Ravine’s trestle timbers.

  “Do you see? Maybe if we figure out how to lay the collapse at the Mackeys’ door, folks won’t be so sympathetic to them. One thing I’ve learned about Portland’s money men is that they make themselves scarce whenever disapproving fingers point toward one of their own. They don’t want their own doings scrutinized,” Sage said.

  Leo rubbed his chin and nodded saying, “Well, the men’s word alone won’t mean all that much against the Mackeys’ claims. Maybe let’s start by checking out Elmer’s information. One of my right-hand guys, Chester, knows everything when it comes to bridge construction. He started out building railroad trestles here in the West. Can’t get no more specialized or dangerous than that job. Lots of those fellas died. How’s about you and him go take a look under that trestle bridge?”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Sage agreed, feeling a wisp of hope rise. He looked away from Leo toward Chester, thinking, “If only we can discover something to use—some kind of edge.” Sage and Chester set off together a few minutes later, with Sage hurrying to keep up with the other man’s stride since Chester was at least three inches taller than Sage’s six-foot height. The bridge carpenter was gangly and sported a rough, beaky nose extending out beyond the shelter of his hat brim. He began Sage’s education by gesturing toward a nearby elevated roadway where it crossed an extensive marshland adjacent to the river. Pointing at the bridge he asked, “Now, from the looks of those heavy timbers, I expect you think that marsh trestle there stands all right and regular.”

  Sage nodded in agreement since he saw nothing unsound about the structure.

  Chester, however, shook his head. “Fact of the matter is, you can’t say that it’s sound and neither can I. A bridge might look just fine from a distance, especially if it’s wearing a new coat of creosote. So, that bridge you’re looking at might be unsound, but a fella won’t know for sure unless he crawls down under and pokes into its timbers.”

  “So, you are saying that particular trestle over there might be ready to fall down even though it looks fine?” Sage asked.

  “That’s right,” Chester said, “Can’t tell since I ain’t drilled into its posts with an auger yet. Point is, there’s no telling just from looking, ’specially if someone’s hid the wood under fresh creosote. For certain, rotten trestles ain’t gonna hold up under all this water we’ve been getting.”

  Chester’s prediction struck Sage like a unexpected clout on the ear. Miles of elevated roadways and trestles dotted Portland’s landscape. They spanned gullies, gulches, ravines, and large expanses of marsh. Chester said there were forty trestle bridges at least. How many of them hid dangerous rot under a fresh coat of creosote? What if the fall and winter rains caused more of them to collapse? If that started happening, other houses might burn to the ground because fire wagons couldn’t reach them. Lord, imagine the chaos. People having trouble reaching work, shops, doctors or wherever they needed to be.

  The two men reached the north end of the bridge that crossed the Marquam Ravine. Watery sunlight streamed from between sullen gray clouds. Curious onlookers, the sun having pulled them out of their houses, stood along the northern edge of the ravine pointing and jawing. Farther south, a storm’s towering edge sent a dark curtain slanting downward as the weather front came rolling inexorably north. The sun break was going to be damn short. Sage buttoned up his coat and pulled his cap snug. At least that oncoming rain wouldn’t be so cold. Nothing like when rain came from the north or roared out of the Columbia River Gorge to the east. Of course, the warmer southern rains brought their own unique difficulties. This early in the winter, they melted new snow and set the rivers rampaging. “Hope we finish this inspection before that storm hits,” he said to Chester.

  “Hmm” was all Chester said. For a man who always worked outdoors, the weather was likely too commonplace to discuss. He stopped, studied the bridge and said to Sage, “Looks to me like the decking broke under a slab patch. The falling wagon tore loose the stringers underneath on her way down.” Chester shook his head and said, mostly to himself, “Hell of a repair job ahead.”

  Sage studied the bridge and thought he understood. About fifty feet from where they stood, a jagged hole punctured the trestle’s roadbed. Before and past the hole, the roadbed’s planks jutted into the air, as if some giant had slammed his fist down onto the bridge. Also taken out was the sidewalk running along the west side. On the eastside, only a foot’s width of sidewalk atop a narrow stringer and a sagging wooden railing connected the two ends of the trestle. Fragments of road planking dangled from the stringer, tilting the whole length of broken sidewalk boards toward the hole in the trestle’s middle. Sage tried to sight down that one remaining railing and saw that the bridge tilted sharply to one side. The entire structure looked on the verge of collapse. “And it’s a hell of a long way down,” Sage said softly, paraphrasing Chester’s last words.

  Three boys, one a few years older than the other two, appeared at the bridge’s other end. They stepped out onto the bridge and began to cross. Reaching the gaping hole, the leader gripped the railing and started sliding his feet along the narrow stringer. Reaching the middle of the gap, his face took on the rictus grin of forced bravado as the tilted sidewalk and stringer swayed under his light weight. He slowed and began placing each foot carefully, moving an inch at a time. The two smaller boys, maybe eight years old, trailed close behind with fear widening their eyes and compressing their lips. All three whooped when they finally reached the solid planks at the trestle’s north end. They thudded past Chester and Sage and up the street.

  Chester stepped to the side railing to study the ravine’s depths. “Looks like they’re fixing to hoist up the dead horse and wagon,” he said over his shoulder. Sage joined him at the railing. Sure enough, far below, a hive of men were hauling on ropes and shouting directions to each other. Peering down through the leafless tree branches, Sage made out the undercarriage of the fire wagon.

  “Damn lucky that wagon weren’t at the middle of the span when that roadbed broke loose,” Chester commented, “Looks like the wagon slid through tail end first, hit the bank high up and rolled to the bottom. Gave the men time to jump clear.” He snugged his cap down tighter on his head and headed toward the middle of the bridge.“Too much activity down there. Someone’s going to notice if we go down on this side. We’ll need to go at it from the south end.”

  Sage thought he’d misheard until Chester started edging along the tilted sidewalk just traversed by the three boys. “You ain’t afraid of heights, are you, Sam?” Chester called back.

  “No, not much,” Sage said, sweat instantly beading under his cap band and his response a squeak as it caught in his suddenly dry throat. Chester twisted around to grin back at him, flashing a set of horsey-yellow chompers, his bright blue eyes teasing.

  One look at the chasm beneath the shaking bridge and Sage ordered himself not to look down again until they’d crossed the damnable thing. Either the entire structure actually swayed under their weight or else his imagination played tricks on him. Regardless, it seemed to take forever to reac
h safety at the trestle’s southern end.

  There, the house fire’s pungent stink saturated the cold air. Sage paused to look at the charred rubble, a pang of sorrow hitting him when he thought again of the young mother and child who’d died in the inferno. Were their two deaths needless? Would the fire wagon, with its long ladders, water tank and trained men have saved them? Sage heaved a sigh, knowing that question would remain forever unanswered. The muttered curses accompanying his companion’s slithering descent sounded clearly in the dead, cold air. Sage turned and also plunged over the ravine’s muddy edge.

  FIVE

  The Marquam ravine was deeper and steeper than yesterday’s gully where he and Jimmy got dunked. “Lucky there’s more bushes here or I’d be sliding straight to the bottom,” Sage thought as he clutched at one wet branch after another in an effort to control his descent down the hillside’s muddy runnels. “Take care, this bank here is slick as a crooked politician,” Chester called over his shoulder.

  Fifty feet downslope, on either side of the bridge span, small abandoned huts dotted a narrow hillside bench. They were dilapidated, sporting roofs peppered with holes, glassless windows, gaping entrances and siding boards hanging loose. Once a community of squatters had lived here, out of the sight and mind of those traversing the bridge overhead. Now their abandoned abodes were collapsing, soon to become indistinguishable from those bits and pieces of junk people tossed off the bridge and over the bank’s edge. Trash lay scattered everywhere, like ugly confetti. Even the trees sported wads of garbage wedged into their branches. Downslope, shrubs and vines anchored knee-deep piles of tin cans, broken cutlery, legless chairs, rusted bedsprings and the tattered remnants of fabric. The city campaigned to stop people from dumping garbage into the ravines and gullies. If the volume of trash scattered around him was any measure of success, it was a failed campaign.