by S. L. Stoner
Sage said nothing as the ragpicker disappeared around the corner. With a sigh, he turned toward the kitchen door and slowly climbed the steps aware that Eich’s unease had become his own.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dispatch: May 18, 1903, President’s train remains in Reno, Nevada.
“I speak . . . to those especially personally and vitally interested in the labor struggle and yet I speak of this primarily as one aspect of the larger social struggle growing out of the attempts to readjust social conditions and make them more equitable . . . the most pressing problems that confront the present century are not concerned with the material production of wealth, but with its distribution.” —T.R.
Pain flooded his dreams, stabbing Meachum into dazed awareness, his mind lazily turning over the memory of the foul-tasting water they’d forced down his throat. Funny how the pain in his ribs lasted only a second before his thoughts began their drift back into the dream of swirling color and strange looking creatures.
As if from a distance he heard that voice again, somewhere above him, bellowing like an outraged god. “By Christ! I told you, to go easy on the drops.” An answer buzzed near his ear but Meachum couldn’t distinguish the words, though he tried. The angry voice spoke again, “I don’t care if you had to leave him alone. I can’t question him if he’s too drugged up to do more than mumble!”
Meachum fought to make sense of what he was hearing but his head felt like it was stuffed full of soggy cotton. At last he grabbed onto a single, clear thought. If he wasn’t awake, he couldn’t talk. His mind chuckled just before he relaxed and let go of consciousness once again.
* * *
Sage whipped his long tie into a complicated knot and gave his thick hair a vigorous brush. The last thing he wanted to do this night was entertain Republican bigwigs in the dining room below while everyone else was out combing the North End for the missing Meachum. How could he tell St. Alban he’d failed to prevent the leader of the Flying Squadron from being kidnapped or, worse, killed?
Trudging downstairs, Sage’s mood lightened when he saw that Horace, their most senior waiter, had risen to the occasion. He’d pushed tables together so that at least ten people could dine together in the area below the musicians’ balcony. The place settings were immaculate. Horace was directing the final positioning of wine and water glasses. Mozart’s was at its best, the dark wainscoting buffed and shining under the sparkling glass of sconces and chandelier. Overhead, a trio of string musicians softly tuned up, readying to release delicate, melodic refrains into the air above the diners’ heads.
The front door opened. McAllister and his friend, Robert, entered the restaurant, suppressed excitement wafting in with them, along with cool evening air. A searching glance at their faces told him they had news and that it was good. Sage snatched up two menus and led the men to a table. Few patrons dined this early so he could seat them at a table by the windows.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Sage said, using his best host voice before asking, in low voice, “What’s happened?”
McAllister reached for a menu, exchanged grins with his dining companion and said to Sage, “Our ladies came through, one-hundred-and-one percent.”
“Tell me, man, don’t drag it out,” Sage said, feeling hope rise for the first time that day. “What’s happened?”
Robert jumped in, pride and excitement animating his face as he took over, “By mid-afternoon there was a crowd of at least fifty. When the workmen found out the purpose of that house, they walked right off the job. Left the front door wide open and their full paint buckets behind.”
McAllister laughed and said, “I imagine some of those women are scrubbing the paint splatters from their skirts as we speak.” It took a second but then Sage got it and joined in their laughter.
Sage abandoned all pretense of a restaurant host. He pulled out the table’s empty chair and sat. “Tell me the details,” he commanded, a grin spreading across his face.
So they did. “The point is, there is no way that house can open up now. The whole neighborhood is up in arms. Even a reporter from the press showed up just like you said they would, Adair. They’ll be forced to find a different location. That will take time. We’ve bought some time.”
A sly smile settled on McAllister’s face. “You know, once we save the boys and Roosevelt, the ladies will be ready to take up another cause. I’m thinking that I’ll sic them on Lynch’s other house. Keeping busy there will give saloon keepers, like yourself, a break.”
The three of them shared a laugh. In the silence that followed, Sage felt a spurt of gratitude toward Johnston. The Journal’s publisher had acted on Sage’s message, dispatching a reporter to the address in Sage’s note.
Still, they all knew that the women’s demonstration had only put a temporary hold on Lynch’s plans to exploit the BCS boys. It was a minor success. But still, it was a success. Then Robert’s face abruptly lost its good humored glow as he asked, “Do you think they’ll keep those boys at the BCS now that they have nowhere to move them?”
Before Sage could even contemplate the answer to that question the front door opened and three men bustled into the restaurant, quickly doffing their hats to shake off raindrops. The Republican planners had arrived.
Signaling a waiter to take care of McAllister and his friend, Sage strode to the door as he struggled to conceal the dark thoughts Robert’s troubling question had just raised in his mind. Had their fight against the house of prostitution increased the danger to the boys? Would Lynch ship them out of town to a similar house in Seattle or elsewhere? Worse, would he have them murdered?
Sage took a deep breath and released it slowly. Fong’s calming technique. By the time he reached the foyer and stepped forward with his hand outstretched, his lips were stretched in a wide smile. It was a smile he was certain did not reach his eyes.
Minutes later, the table under the balcony became a center of backslapping conviviality. As he had hoped, they invited Sage to join their planning party. Horace, his lined face looking like a genial frog’s with its long mouth and meager chin, provided excellent service for the entire table of eight men who’d turned up to put the final touches on their plans for Roosevelt’s visit.
Corporate lawyer, William Fenton, had brought along his father-in-law. The genial, older man was a retired doctor. Sage quickly confirmed the man had no ties to the timber trusts. Mills, the investment banker, turned up with his teenage son in tow, no doubt eager to introduce the boy to his birthright place at the center of power. The boy, in his turn, worked at looking blasé but his avid eyes sparked with the excitement he was feeling. By a similar token, Fred Holman, hoping to impress, had brought along his potential financier for the utility expansion. The man was indubitably a Teddy supporter. His interjections of “bully” became increasingly insistent the longer Horace kept the wine goblets topped off. All food and drink are “Compliments of Mozart’s,” Sage smilingly assured Mills.
Cyrus Dolph, unfortunately, did not bring his guest from the Portland Hotel. And Dr. Harvey was also alone and seemed less lively than normal. By unsaid agreement, the talk was kept light over dinner, with Fenton the center of admiring attention.
“I say, Fenton, I think you singlehandedly stopped that railway union’s legislative bill,” said Mills. The rest of the group then eagerly explained to Sage how Fenton had defeated a bill aimed at guaranteeing a small payment to railway workers injured by faulty equipment.
“Instead of taking the obvious position of an employer, Bill went at it sideways. He made the railroads out as victims of unequal treatment–arguing that the protections should apply to every workplace. Then he got one of his legislative buddies to introduce a rival bill saying just that–every injured worker should have right to payment. That scary proposition triggered opposition from every piddling little business owner in the state and killed both bills,” Mills crowed.
“I tell you what’s brilliant,” Holman piped up. “Fenton’s railroad has announc
ed its providing low-cost ‘excursion fares’ for ‘colonists’ who want to move to the Pacific Northwest. My cousin writes that the railroad has flooded the East Coast with circulars and news articles claiming our area is a ‘veritable paradise for those seeking employment–good wages, eight-hour days.’ They’re also touting free dry farm homestead land in Central Oregon. I predict that’s going to increase the surplus labor market in these three states by 75,000 in just four months!” said Holman.
Fenton’s thin lips twisted into a satisfied smirk as he said, “That’s what my bosses think too. The beauty is that a surplus of unemployed men will drive down wages and weaken the railroad union as well as all the unions you boys have to fight. I’m afraid, though, that I can’t take credit for the recruiting idea. That one came direct from headquarters. They’ve got a whole stable of smart fellows dreaming up clever things like that.”
Sage struggled to keep his face genial as he eyed his dinner companions. Admiration for the railroad’s “clever” scheme shone in every face. He reached for his water glass, taking time to down half of it in measured sips. Just what this city needs, more hopeful men arriving only to find disappointment. And, either these men were ignorant of the real harm the railroad’s legal antics would inflict on countless people or, they simply did not care. The unemployed already flooded Portland streets, crowded its jail floor at night, many of them former trainmen who’d lost limb and livelihood due to the railroad’s lack of even basic safety measures.
Fenton must have gotten his fill of basking in praise because he turned to Sage and said, “I must say, it is so pleasant to hear classical music for a change. I am sick of hearing that jangly ragtime everywhere I go. It makes a man tired just to listen to it.”
“I could not agree with you more,” exclaimed Holman’s financier. “I just came from St. Louis. A bully place. Claims to be the birthplace of ragtime. Walk into any dance hall in that city and some fool will be pounding the piano keys so people can two-step around like chickens gone loco.”
“I’ve got it even worse than that,” said Holman. “Every time they publish another sheet of ragtime music, my wife runs out and buys it. It used to be she’d play sensible Sousa marches and classical airs. Now all she wants to play is ragtime. Says it makes her feel young.”
As one, the men turned to look at the Mills boy. He blushed and tentatively offered, “Some of it is fun to dance to.”
Once dinner was over, the group got down to business. First, they completed their plans for Roosevelt’s overnight stay at the Portland Hotel, complete with a no-speeches banquet as the president had requested. Then, they moved on to finalize the various activities taking place on the day of arrival: the greeting program at Union Station when the president arrived, the slow open-carriage procession up the main street, the plan to release the school children to fill the park blocks and, which bands would be allowed to march in the parade. Finally, the discussion reached the time capsule ceremony at City Park.
Keeping his tone casual, Sage asked, “So which local dignitaries will have the honor of sitting on the monument platform with the president?”
This question turned everyone’s attention to Mills, who cleared his throat to say, “Of course, there will be very limited seating on the platform. Its dimensions are only 50 by 75 feet. The head of the Chamber of Commerce, senators, judges and the usual newspaper editors will all be present. And, the governor will be there, of course.”
Hissing followed this pronouncement. The governor was a Democrat. Mills quelled the hiss by saying firmly, “His presence is a matter of protocol, the governor must be there as well as a few other high-level Democrats. Roosevelt’s secretary, William Loeb, won’t have it any other way.”
Mill delicately sipped his wine before setting it down carefully, using this theatrical gesture like a professional to strengthen the anticipation and anxiety of those present. “And then, I was thinking that each one of us might invite a guest or two,” he added, with a smile.
A collective exhalation of held breath indicated that this was the information the group had been waiting for. They’d been hoping and expecting to have a seat in that place of honor but until Mills rendered his decision they hadn’t been sure. “And, of course, Adair, you will be issued an official invitation to join us on the platform.”
Sage started, surprised that Mills would include him, a relative stranger. Hope leapt and his mind raced. By being on the platform, he would be in the best position to thwart the assassin. So, his pleasure was genuine as he said, “Why, thank you, Mr. Mills. I’d be honored and pleased to be there with all of you.” He raised his glass in toast, “To President Roosevelt, and to the most felicitous greeting he will receive on his entire trip across this great western land of ours.”
“Hear, hear,” the group rejoined, their glasses high. By the time dessert was over and the last wine bottle drained, the platform guest list for those present was complete. Joining Sage on the monument platform would be Mills, his wife and son, Dolph with his guest from the hotel, Fenton with his father-in-law, Dr. Harvey with an old school friend, and, Holman with his Roosevelt-loving financier. If that man’s rosy-faced delight was any gauge of success, Holman would soon acquire the financial backing he needed to begin constructing his eastside power plant.
By the time the party broke up, Mozart’s was empty of all other patrons. Sage locked the door behind the last of them and trudged up the stairs. He hadn’t seen Fong all evening. And, no message had arrived to say that Meachum had been found. As he shed suit coat, vest and tie, Sage mulled over the fact that there remained only a single unidentified visitor in town as a guest of the trust men. That was Dolph’s friend who, more than likely, had ties to the railroad trust that just happened to be the very trust most angry at Roosevelt.
There was some relief in knowing that the investigation as to the trust’s assassination leader had eliminated everyone but Dolph’s visitor. If they were right, it was that man. He was the only one they had to watch. All they lacked was Solomon’s identification of him. Sage felt like he could put that concern aside. He considered whether to tumble into bed or to change into his John Miner outfit and join the search for Meachum. A loud knock rattled his bedroom door, cutting off the debate.
Ida’s husband Knute stood in the hallway. His presence was a surprise in itself since Knute usually left before dawn to start his shingle mill job. That meant he always went to bed with the chickens. His explanation was that he needed to be sharper than the two saws that he ran simultaneously. And, indeed, Sage discerned the cotton stripes of the man’s night shirt beneath a hastily thrown-on coat.
“What is it?” Sage asked, his voice sharpening with alarm, fear for his mother flooding his head.
Knute went straight to the point, the melodic singsong pitch of his Swedish accent thickened by anxiety. “It’s Mr. Fong. Someone has shot him. He is in the hospital.”
The news hit Sage’s solar plexus and his knees momentarily sagged.
“Is he dying?” Sage voice sounded calm to his ears. “I don’t know.” The worry in the man’s voice drew the last word out. “I heard a pounding on the front door. I go down and a China man is standing outside. He jabbers and all I can make out is that Fong is at St. Vincent’s, shot and you should come.”
Sage whirled, grabbed the coat he’d just removed and followed Knute down the stairs.
“Do you need me to come with you, Mr. Adair?” Knute asked.
Sage paused in his rush long enough to pat Knute’s shoulder. “No, Knute. You need your rest. I suspect there’s not much we can do. Take care of Ida. I’ll send word.”
“Tell Mr. Fong our prayers are with him,” Knute said called softly.
* * *
Fong lay in a darkened ward, other people of color around him. Even in the hospital there was no mixing of the European types with other races. Fong’s face had lost its golden hue and instead shone sickly yellow beneath a white bandage. His wife, Kum Ho, sat at his side. When Sa
ge appeared she rose, her eyes large with worry.
Without thinking, Sage stooped and wrapped his arms around the tiny woman and felt her relax into his hug. Stepping back he asked her, “Mrs. Fong, how is he? Where was he shot?”
She looked at the terribly still figure on the bed. “He shot in head, right here.” She touched the upper right side of her head. “They say bullet not stay inside. Waiting to see if it break skull, bleed more into head.” She didn’t have to say what would happen if there was bleeding inside Fong’s head. The bleakness washing across her normally serene face answered that question.
“Where did it happen?” She shook her head. “You wait here. Man from tong coming to help. He tell you everything.” She sat back down in the chair, scooting it closer to the bed so she could lay her hand atop the unconscious man’s.
As if summoned by Mrs. Fong’s instruction, a distinguished, elderly Chinese man walked through the door. Trailing two steps behind him were two younger men, their faces stern and watchful. The Chinese man didn’t hesitate but walked right up to Sage and said, “I am Li Wu Yuan. Mr. Fong is my friend. I am also the president of the Hop Sing tong. Mr. Fong asked me to help you in the event it happened that he could no longer do so.” The man’s English diction was perfect, only slightly accented.
Glancing around the crowded ward as he shook hands, Sage asked Mr. Li, “Can we speak somewhere more private?” At the other man’s nod, Sage turned to Kum Ho. “Mrs. Fong, I will speak with Mr. Li outside and then return. Will you be all right?” She gave a single nod and the four men stepped into the hallway.