by S. L. Stoner
Lucinda had spent what felt like hours in blackness. At least she thought it must have been hours. With no light and little noise, it was hard to measure time. For a long while she explored, keeping her hand stretched out and her steps tentative. She daren’t injure herself—not when she might have to run. But she was achingly tired. The digging had been hard work and it seemed like forever since she’d slept.
Having explored every corner of the cellar, she’d returned to sitting on the crate. The next while was spent imagining Glad shuffling his way through the pitch dark, blindly holding the pipe before him as he hunted for the tunnels under the streets. She could imagine his eyes wide and staring, hoping for light glimmering from behind the cellar walls. Thinking about Glad took her through a gamut of feelings—hope, fear, and guilt.
Hope that he’d avoid capture by shanghaiers and no-good thugs and find some kindly Chinese. That Fong would be told and come to her rescue. But first, Glad had to get away and that’s where her fear-filled thoughts lay. Even if he was beyond the reach of Vera Clark and her Willard thug, there were so many dangers in the underground for a ten-year-old boy—no matter how street-savvy he was.
As always, her circling thoughts eventually landed on guilt. She’d sent a child into the underground, without a light. What chance did he have?
She sighed heavily and tried to reassure herself she’d done the right thing. From what Vera said, Glad would have had no chance if he’d stayed in this cellar. Cabin boys on shanghai ships experienced a short, brutal life of starvation and abuse. Few ever made it back home.
She forced herself to stop thinking of the boy, stumbling through the dark. Instead, she thought of Sage. Knowing him, he’d be frantically searching for her. He’d pull out all the stops, haunt the streets above while wracking his brains to figure out where she was being held. Would he find her in time? Or was that carriage ride the last time they’d ever see one another?
She let herself escape into the remembered warmth of his thigh pressing against hers and the smell of him, a mix of musty John Miner clothes and the underlying clean scent of John Adair. Tears trickled down her cheeks, turning chill as they dropped onto her folded hands.
A sound she’d been listening for all along snapped her thoughts back into the cellar. Now it had come. Someone was descending from upstairs. The crack at the door’s bottom began glowing brighter as the lantern advanced. Quickly she pawed at the pile of clothes to reassure herself that maybe it would fool that vile woman and her hulking sidekick. Glad needed all the time she could get him.
Twenty Three
Sage’s heart jumped in his throat as every step brought a prayerfully whispered, “Lucinda.” Panic was taking hold. If Vera Clark was packing up and the others had already left town it meant those behind this scheme wouldn’t want to leave any loose ends behind. Lucinda and Glad were loose ends.
Ahead, dark figures huddled outside the Speedy Messenger door. That made no sense. It was a cold night. Why weren’t they inside? A few strides closer and he recognized the messenger boys. Speedy’s windows were dark with none of the feeble gaslights burning.
“What’s the matter? Why’s everyone outside?” Sage asked Christopher, the group’s unofficial spokesman.
“They done locked us out. Kimble sent every one of us out on errands and when we got back he’d locked the door and done a runner. Turns out there weren’t no real messages or errands. He just wanted us gone so he could lock up without our knowing. The bastards owe all of us money,” he said, to angry, agreeing murmurs from five others.
Sage looked at their pinched, cold faces. “Where’s Terry Tobias?” he asked.
“Kimble sent him out, too, but he ain’t come back. It’s kinda strange.”
Sage swallowed hard. He didn’t think his nerves could tolerate one more missing person. “What do you mean? Where was he sent? What’s ‘strange’?”
“Kimble sent him over to that Vera Clark’s whorehouse. But I don’t think he made it because she called up complaining. When I was heading out to fetch a bogus message, I heard Kimble on the telephone, trying to calm her down,” Christopher said.
Sage thought back. Had he seen Terry outside Vera Clark’s? Admittedly, he hadn’t spent much time studying the children in the street. Terry could have been one of those flitting in and out of the pools of light. Somehow, he didn’t think so.
“When did Kimble send you all out on the phony errands?”
“‘Bout an hour ago.” Christopher turned to the smallest boy who was sniveling and snapped, “Stop your gol darn blubbering. Kimble cheated every darn one of us out of our money!” The tense lines around Christopher’s mouth said that, despite the stern words, he too was despairing.
“But Chris, we don’t got no food ta home. We was counting on that money to eat tonight.”
Sage looked into the small boy’s thin face. Quickly he calculated the amount of money he had in his pockets. Wordlessly, he stepped forward and began handing out coins to their surprised gratitude. Once all his money was gone he said, “Boys, go on home. There’s no point in staying out in this cold. Kimble won’t be back.”
They disappeared into the night, leaving him alone outside the office. Stepping forward he peered through the window and saw that no coin box sat on the table. Nothing of value remained—only the scarred and broken down furniture.
Fear bubbled up like acid in his throat. An alert had gone out. The rats were fleeing. Did that mean Lucinda and Glad were dead? Indecision froze him on the spot. What should he do next?
Cursing he began running toward Clark’s. His pocket watch said 11:30. By this time, Fong should have joined up with Mae. They needed to talk. Make a plan. Figure things out.
This time, three weary people stood outside Hanke’s apartment door. After his initial surprise, he gestured them inside. A thin layer of dust indicated that the sparsely furnished room seldom received attention from the busy sergeant. A sofa and a worn leather armchair sat next to a table holding an oil lamp. It appeared that the Sergeant read in his spare time because a shelf overflowed with books. An open newspaper on the floor and Hanke being fully clothed suggested he’d been reading when they’d knocked.
After directing them to seats, Hanke bustled about making coffee. Once they all held cups he said, “We’ve found the two who attacked your photographer. The Redding police caught them during the train sweep we’d requested.” He raised a hand to still their sudden excitement, saying, “Unfortunately, street assault is not an uncommon crime as you well know. We want to go fetch them but Chief Hunt has to convince the board of police commissioners it is worth the expense of the train fare and the wages of two police escorts. Approval could take a few days and it’s not guaranteed.”
“But, they’re involved in the kidnapping of Glad and Lucinda. Maybe in the death of that Spencer boy,” Sage protested and leapt to his feet to pace.
“I know, I know,” Hanke said. “I’ve told Chief Hunt our suspicions about their involvement in all that. He rightfully pointed out that we don’t have an iota of proof. So, while he thinks we’re on to something, he doubts the police commissioners will. They’re tight-fisted with the money. Remember, we’re policing a population that’s doubled but with only half the men we had before. Thank the taxpayers for that—or rather the rich bastards who spend money every election cycle to prevent a tax increase. All to their own greedy benefit, I might add.”
Sage whirled and said, “Hell, I’ll pay for the damn cost. Tell Hunt that!” Frustration and fear put a sharp edge on his words.
Hanke raised an eyebrow but said, “Okay. I’ll tell him that a mysterious benefactor wants to cover the cost. But, he’ll think it strange and want to know more. What should I tell him?”
Silence filled the room until Mae said, “How about if I talk to Millie? See if she’ll say the National Child
Labor Commission is paying the cost. That would make sense. After all, it was their photographer who got clobbered.”
“Great idea,” Sage said with relief. “Can you ask her first thing tomorrow and let the Sergeant know?”
Glad’s head was a swirling ache and his stomach was nauseous. He opened his eyes and panicked. It was pitch dark—was he blind? Where was he and why did his head hurt? Wherever he was, it smelled funny. He lay on his back. The sickness passed and the pain turned dull and centered in his forehead. He reached up to touch a painful lump.
Memory came roaring back. He wasn’t blind, he was in the underground. He remembered the cellar, the awful woman, the big man, and the kind woman. “Lucinda,” that was her name.
She’d helped him to escape from the cellar into the underground. He was supposed to do something. Something important. He lay in the dust, struggling to recall what it was.
Eyes brimming with tears, he rolled over onto his side, pulled his knees up and began rocking gently back and forth. Rocking always soothed him and cleared his mind ever since he was a baby. Gradually, his fear and despair lessened—enough that memory returned. He’d been walking in the dark like she told him, holding the pipe out to make sure he didn’t run into something. But he had anyway. It must have been a board or a beam, the height of his forehead. When he started walking again he’d hold the pipe higher, maybe wave it up and down.
Pipe. Oh, no! Where was the pipe? Glad stopped rocking and sat up carefully after feeling overhead, making sure he wouldn’t crack his noggin on something. Nothing was above him. He started patting the dust and, sure enough, his hand found the round metal length of pipe. He sighed with relief.
Now, what else? What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? A nonsense sing-song phrase slipped into his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get past the pain in his forehead to capture that phrase. And there it was, “Fong. Kam. Tong.” After saying it aloud a few times, he was sure that was it. It sounded Chinese.
What did that mean? Why would he . . . then he remembered everything, as if someone had flipped a switch in his head. She’d told him, “Avoid any white men you might see in the underground. Find some Chinese men, say those three words.”
Oh, Lord! He was supposed to be rescuing her. How long had he been knocked out? It could have been a day or two; leastways that’s what he heard about being knocked out. Was she already dead? That Vera Clark would be real mad when she found out he’d escaped.
Glad clambered to his feet and stood undecided. What direction should he go? Carefully he raised the pipe before him, this time as high as his head. Nothing. He took another step and raised it again. “Thunk” it went and bounced in his hand. There was a beam, low down. This was what he’d hit with great force. Walked smack dab into it.
He thought back. He’d come to, lying on his back, his feet closest to the beam. That meant he had been moving toward the beam. So, that was the direction he’d walk. But how far?
She’d told him to get some blocks away before he looked for help. How many tunnels under the street had he already gone through since leaving Clark’s block? Four. He remembered that. He’d counted each one aloud to help his memory. So, he was four blocks away from Clark’s. The last tunnel had been way longer. That meant a wide street. Burnside was a wide street. He was supposed to travel across another block and through one more tunnel after Burnside. Then he’d be in the second block south of Burnside, right where she said he should find some Chinese people.
Okay then. He’d go forward through one more tunnel. That would land him five blocks from Clark’s. Surely that was far enough.
Suddenly a faint light wavered in distance, getting brighter. Oh dear, that could be the big man looking for him or some other bad men—shanghaiers maybe. Where could he hide so they wouldn’t see him?
Calm down, Glad. When the light gets closer, you’ll be able to see what’s around you. These basements got lots of junk in ‘em. Once you can see, you can lay down behind some of it. Glad froze and watched as the light strengthened.
The rattling of the stairway padlock set her heart racing. “How long has he been gone?” she asked herself. “Long enough that he should have found help, yet, here I sit,” she answered glumly.
She spread her skirts wide. She could only hope that when their light hit the pile of clothes, the hidden roll she’d fashioned would look like a small boy’s body.
The door opened to reveal only Vera Clark and her henchman. Relief washed over her like a cool spring shower. They held no recaptured ten-year-old boy in their clutches. And, Clark’s henchman was here, not off searching for Glad.
Clark must have seen Lucinda’s relief because she snapped. “Don’t know why you’re so happy. It’s not like I bring you good news. Like I told you yesterday, this is the day you get to smell the sea—at least until they make you drink it. Willard here will be returning in a few minutes to haul you both to the ship.”
She said, “Yesterday,” Lucinda thought with quiet satisfaction. That meant Glad had been gone for at least twelve hours. He’d gotten clean away from these two. A second thought dashed that momentary hope. Surely, by now, he would have found some Chinese men? Said Fong’s name? So, why hadn’t they rescued her?
Clark’s forehead wrinkled and she snatched the lantern from Willard’s hand and raised it high. “Where’s the boy?” she demanded,
“Shh, he’s asleep,” Lucinda gestured to the pile of clothes. “At least give him that moment of peace.”
“Huh. Well, in two more hours he better be wakey, wakey, and ready to go. I’ve got a lot to do and the sooner the both of you are out of my hair, the better,” Clark handed the lantern back to Willard and with a flip of her long skirt, she turned toward the door.
A slow sigh of relief escaped Lucinda. She’d thought it silent but something alerted Clark. She turned slowly to face Lucinda. “Wait a minute. Why hasn’t that pile of clothes moved if the boy is under there?”
“He’s dead tired, that’s why,” Lucinda said firmly.
Clark stared at her and keeping her hard eyes on Lucinda’s, she said, “Willard, go give that pile a good poke. Make sure the kid’s under there.”
Lucinda didn’t break their gaze even though her heart began thudding in her ears. This was it. God knows how this evil woman will react.
Willard shuffled across the floor and launched a kick into the pile. His foot hit nothing solid, nearly throwing him off balance. With a quick look at Clark, he put down the lantern and began throwing the clothes aside. “There ain’t nobody here,” he growled. He grabbed the lantern and raised it high, sending its light around the cellar. “That kid ain’t nowhere in here.”
“What?” Clark shrieked. “Where the hell is he?”
Willard’s eyes narrowed and he moved toward Lucinda who clutched the crate as if it were a life raft in a roiling ocean. “Maybe she’s done hid him under this crate,” he said and gave Lucinda a one-handed shove that tumbled her into the dirt. He kicked the crate and it overturned, revealing emptiness and no child.
“Vera, come take a look at this,” he said to Clark.
Lucinda looked at the hole she’d done her best to refill but, in the lantern light, there was no mistaking that the dirt had been seriously disturbed.
Clark looked at the dirt, at the secure padlock and then whirled to face Lucinda. “You stupid bitch!” she screamed, and slapped Lucinda across the face so hard that it sent her back onto her elbows. Clark didn’t stop attacking. She sent a sharp-toed boot into Lucinda’s hip and would have done it again except Willard pulled her away. “Ma’am, don’t damage the goods. I’ll find the boy. He can’t have gotten far. It’s pitch dark in there and he didn’t have no light.”
Clark took a few deep breaths as she struggled for composure. With a shaking hand, she smoothed b
ack a strand of hair and shook the dust from her skirt. She turned to Willard and snarled, “Maybe we won’t sell our Lucy. Maybe I’ll just have you send her direct to hell.”
Twenty Four
Terry crouched behind an empty newsstand counter across from the hotel. Maybe the fellow he followed was a nobody—just one of Vera Clark’s sleazy customers. But something told him he wasn’t. Having nothing to do but wait, Terry pondered that question and finally decided that it was the man’s business-like walk that made it seem like he wasn’t a customer. Most North End brothel customers sauntered or staggered. This fellow had gone in and then come out of the middle house and down the steps like he was running from a fire and couldn’t get away fast enough. And, he was posh. Too posh for a place like Vera Clark’s. Posh like a lawyer. He knew that Mr. Miner and Mrs. Clemens missed seeing the fellow because Terry had watched them meet up and leave. So, Terry followed the stranger.
Now he was waiting outside the Imperial hotel. Terry smiled, mentally applauding his earlier boldness. Frustrated because he couldn’t see the man’s face well enough to describe it, he’d followed the man right through the hotel’s front door. He’d got a good look at the fellow’s face when the man stepped into the elevator and turned to face the door. Now, Terry would recognize him anywhere.
“Hey, you!” the desk clerk had called. “What do you think you are doing? If you have a message, you deliver it to the desk. You don’t go up in the guest elevator!”
“Oh, sorry,” Terry said turning away from the closing elevator door toward the desk. “I thought he was the fellow I was supposed to give this message to.” Terry raised the envelope he’d been sent to deliver to Vera Clark.