Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  “It is essential that here should be organizations of labor. This is an era of organization. Capital organizes and therefore labor must organize. My appeal for organized labor is two-fold; to the outsider and the capitalist I make my appeal to treat the laborer fairly, to recognize the fact that he must organize that, there must be such organization, that the laboring man must organize for his own protection, and that it is the duty of the rest of us to help him and not hinder him in organizing.” —T.R.

  Suddenly Sergeant Hanke appeared before Sage. “Mr. Adair, please come with me, quick like,” he said, his voice urgent as he pulled at Sage’s sleeve.

  “Why?” Sage asked. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to make sure Roosevelt was really safe.

  “The man that got shot. He’s on his way to the hospital but he says he wants to talk to you. One of the doctors in the crowd said the shot’s fatal. There’s not much time.”

  Sage exchanged a glance with Mae Clemens. Her face mirrored his own mystification at the request. Why would the stranger want to talk to him? Curiosity propelled him forward and he meekly followed in Hanke’s wake as the policeman’s large form cleared them a path off the platform. A two-seater phaeton awaited them, the horse sidestepping in its traces, no doubt made nervous by the press of the crowd and the heightened excitement.

  Hanke untied the horse and over the objections of the buggy owner, they climbed between the large wooden wheels to sit on its tufted seat. Hanke snatched up the reins and clucked the horse into action. The crowd stepped aside to allow them passage. The buggy rolled up the through the park to intersect with a back road that descended into the Burnside canyon. The wind snatched the ceaseless rain and flung it sideways so that the buggy’s leather top provided no shelter.

  “Did you shoot that man?” Sage asked once they were clear of the crowd.

  “Nope, it was the secret service man that had a hold of you for a while. You made such a scene that he turned in time to see that man shoot Doc Harvey.”

  “You and Meachum saved the president. You grabbed the bomb-thrower just in time,” Sage said, casting a glance at the policeman.

  Hanke said nothing and his profile looked stern. Finally, he said, “If it hadn’t been for Meachum and what you all were doing, they would have succeeded. Even if we’d spotted the bomb thrower, we would have missed the man on the platform. I can’t take much credit. We had all that extra help and every one of those galoots slipped right past us.” Hanke’s voice was glum.

  Sage said nothing. The sergeant was right. Despite the secret service, the Dickenson agents, extra detectives from all over the West and intense effort by the city’s police, two assassins and their cohorts had managed to sneak into Portland and get within killing range of the president. Still. “You will never know how many assassins you discouraged with your efforts. And, besides, you had the good sense to believe me. You had the good sense to make sure Meachum stayed on the platform. You got there before he threw the bomb. You singlehandedly overpowered the assassin. Give yourself some credit,” Sage said.

  The big policeman sighed, “I guess,” he said but his mood didn’t lift.

  * * *

  Milling police, reporters and others crowded the hospital lobby, all appeared caught up in the excitement of the attempted assassination. Hanke plowed through them all, Sage in his wake, until they stepped through swinging doors into the hallway. A white-jacketed doctor stood alone beside an open door. “This the man?” he asked Hanke. At Hanke’s nod, the doctor gestured toward the door, “Make it quick, he doesn’t have much longer.”

  They stepped into the room. A uniformed policeman sat in a chair by the bed. Charles Hunt, the police chief, stood with his back leaning against the wall. Both men’s eyes were on the man in the bed.

  Sage looked at him too. His face was almost as white as the bandage that encircled his mid-section. The man’s eyes were closed and for a second, Sage thought they’d arrived too late. But then, the injured man’s eyelids raised and he looked directly at Sage. “Get them out of here and I’ll tell you what you want to know,” he said, the effort of speaking making his voice a near whisper.

  “Now you listen here,” The chief started to protest but the man’s voice, now stronger, cut into the protest, “You leave or I die and you don’t know anything. Your choice.”

  The chief hesitated then jerked his head toward the policeman and Hanke, gesturing them to exit the room.

  Sage grabbed Hanke’s arm stopping his departure. “The sergeant stays to take notes or I leave,” he told the man in the bed.

  His statement elicited a weak chuckle. “I guess the sergeant has earned that honor. You’re the one who grabbed the bomb, aren’t you?” At Hanke’s nod, the man said, “Okay, he can stay. But nobody else. And shut the door.”

  They waited while both the chief and patrolman left the room, closing the door softly behind themselves as they exited. Hanke pulled a pad of paper from his breast pocket along with a stubby pencil. He licked the pencil and waited in silence.

  The man looked at Sage. “You’re the one who engineered my failure,” he said as a statement rather than a question. When Sage nodded, he said. “I didn’t expect it. Once we found out that St. Alban knew, we figured on having some trouble with Meachum. But Chinks, a ragpicker, a boy, a cook’s helper and you–some fancy gentleman with access to the platform? Who could have anticipated that?”

  “You shot the Chinese boy and Mr. Fong?” Sage asked. The man grimaced, “I did. I had to. My men told me about the Chinese so I watched. Killed the boy just to see what would happen. Looked to me like your Mr. Fong was the leader. Had to take him off the board, so to speak.”

  “You killed a boy just to identify Fong?” Sage didn’t suppress the disgust from his voice.

  The other man smirked and Sage wanted to drive a fist into that face but he held back. There was more at stake than the opportunity to vent his own emotions.

  “We all die at one point or another. The boy, Fong, me and you too, eventually.”

  It wasn’t possible to resist taking a stab at the man’s overbearing ego, “You failed, you’re the one who lost, despite taking Fong ‘off the board.’ But only temporarily, I might add.”

  Sage’s retort elicited only a mild smile. The man shifted in the bed and a gasp escaped his pale lips. “Oh yes, I guess you could say I lost in at least one way.”

  “What do you mean? Roosevelt wasn’t touched. The unions won’t be blamed. Black Hawk failed, pure and simple.”

  The man’s face slackened, as if Sage’s knowledge had taken him unawares. Good, Sage thought. At least that smug look is gone. He didn’t expect us to know their code name for the assassination.

  But Sage was wrong, because the man’s voice was only questioning, “Black Hawk?” he repeated.

  “Yes, the code name for your plot,” Sage answered. Once again, the man chuckled until pain cut it off and the man raised a feeble hand to press against the white bandage wrapped around his midsection. By now, his face had drained of all color and his eyes had sunk into his face alongside a nose turned bonier. The blue-veined eyelids descended over those pale, staring eyes. Was this assassinating mastermind going to die before they learned who was behind the plot?

  Sage leaned forward, “Tell me who were you working for,” he insisted, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder and giving it a shake.

  The eyelids flew up and the man stared at him. “Not Black ‘Hawk,’ you fool. Black ‘Drop.’”

  Stepping back, Sage’s mind flailed, “What the hell was a black ‘drop?’” Then it hit him. “Opium,” he breathed out, almost to himself. “The pharmaceutical companies. But, in God’s name, why?”

  “Hmpf, you think only about the labor movement. But Roosevelt plans to outlaw the opium trade in the Philippines, all of Asia and here at home too. He’s planning to appoint a commission. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Why are you telling me this? I’d think you’d protect your masters.”<
br />
  “They aren’t my ‘masters.’ I am my own man. I am a specialist for hire. Besides, I can’t stand that pompous little Austrian bastard.”

  Sage glanced toward Hanke, who nodded. He was recording every word. “Give me the name of the Austrian,” he ordered the dying man.

  For the first time, Sage encountered resistance. The man weakly shook his head from side to side on the pillow as he said, “Well now, that’s for me to know and for you to still find out. Wouldn’t be professional to tell you that.” He clamped his lips shut and turned his face away. He was clearly finished talking.

  Sage again looked at Hanke, who shrugged and began stowing his writing pad and pencil in a coat pocket. Sage turned toward the door. Then a thought stopped him. He turned and

  stepped closer to the bed. “What did you mean when you said I ‘lost in at least one way?’ Do you think you won somehow?”

  The head turned on the pillow and the man was looking at him, his pale eyes shining with a manic gleam. “My name is Rudolph F. Flammang. Unlike your name, mine will live forever in the history books. The assassination attempt may have failed but my name will go on for as long as men read history. Your name, on the other hand, will be lost to memory. Probably within a few years of your death. No memory of you will remain behind except for your moldering bones and a few words carved into granite. And both of those will also disappear over time.” Contempt laced those last few words. Once again, the killer shut his mouth and turned his face away but not before Sage glimpsed the smirk curving those dead white lips.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Dispatch: May 22, 1903, President’s train leaves Portland, heading for Seattle and from there, turning home toward Washington, D.C.

  “A man must, in the last analysis, be the architect of his own fate. We need high ideals, and we need the power to fashion them practically.” —T.R.

  Herman Eich insisted that their mission end where it had begun. So, Sage stood outside the ragpicker’s lean-to, thinking how crowded it was going to be inside its small confines He’d taken his time getting there, his steps dragging, matching his mood. He should be happy. After all, they’d been successful. Seven days after the ruckus on the dedication platform, Roosevelt was alive. Today, his train was chugging across the expanse of the Midwest, heading toward Washington D.C. and the end of its 14,000-mile journey. And, the BCS boys were safe. Yet, it seemed like he remained trapped in that hospital room, his mind’s eye ensnared by that sardonic smile on the assassin’s lips.

  Sage sucked in a breath and let it whoosh out. Darn it, he should be feeling joy: at their success, at the soft spring day with its celebratory blossoms, at the gentle blue sky, at the heavenly light, sweet air.

  He stepped to the edge of the ravine to look down at the creek through the bright green growth that now blurred winter’s naked branches. Another month or so and the neighborhood children would be down there, splashing in the trickling creek, its raging winter flow only a distant memory.

  A sound made him turn. Mae Clemens stood in the open door of the lean-to, a slight crease between her bold brows. Their identical dark blue eyes met and he saw a question in hers. “I’m coming,” he told her and moved away from the ravine’s edge. As he walked to the door, he noticed a small evergreen someone had planted in a tin bucket. He leaned closer, curious to see what kind of tree Eich had decided to display beside his entrance-a redwood maybe. Next, he spotted a large mason jar holding white chrysanthemums. They had to be specially-grown hothouse flowers because it was too early in the season for them to bloom.

  Crossing the threshold he saw that they were all there. In deference to his size, Hanke sat on the tall workbench stool. Eich, Mae and McAllister perched like a row of alert birds on the edge of the cot. Fong and Matthew straddled chunks of unsplit firewood. Meachum, his head still bandaged, occupied a scarred, ladder-back chair, one softened by one of Eich’s bed blankets. Sage took the only unclaimed wood chunk. As he did so, Eich stood and walked to the potbellied stove where the small flames flickering behind its mica window took the damp chill out of the room. With solemnity, the ragpicker carefully poured tea from a tin pot into a variety of cups, no doubt some of his dustbin “treasures,” and passed them around.

  Sage looked at Fong. The Chinese man’s face was still pale, a dark scab marked the wound in the shaven patch above his ear. He wore a pale blue ribbon wound around one arm. A sign of mourning, Sage thought and his sadness deepened. He raised his gaze and exchanged a wordless look with his friend. Fong’s eyes seemed subdued by grief and acceptance. They’d not been entirely successful. A young man, barely started in life, had crossed the ocean full of optimistic dreams only to die. Poor Fong, he’d lost his only blood relative living in America. And, his sister had lost her son. What a hard letter that must have been for Fong to write.

  That thought seemed invasive so Sage, instead, surveyed the shed. When first he’d seen it, cracks in the walls were channels for the cold wind and its roof provided no more protection than a sieve when it rained. Not anymore. Another young man, Daniel, had turned his skilled hands to making it tight and dry. He’d done so to repay Eich’s kindness. He’d done it secretly, as his final ct. Daniel had died too.

  Hanke’s voice broke through Sage’s maudlin thoughts and he was glad to let loose of them. “Flammang died of his wounds. He never told anyone the names of the men responsible for hatching the plot. But his talking about the pharmaceutical companies and an Austrian, left enough of a trail for the secret service to follow. The fellow they tracked escaped just ahead of them on a liner back to Europe. They’re working with European police to intercept him. He won’t be coming back.”

  “Hmpf, I bet we could of caught the rascal,” Mae said. Hanke’s chuckle was wry, “I don’t doubt that, Mrs. Clemens.

  I think all of you can do anything you set your mind to.”

  “All of ‘us’, Sergeant Hanke, includes you,” Sage said, a genuine smile on his face for the first time that day. “I did what you asked, Mr. Adair. Once again, I kept my

  trap shut about everything you and the others did to save the president. But, I have to tell you, I don’t like it one little bit,” Hanke said, the sincerity of his unhappiness evident from the shame in his face.

  Speaking for the first time Fong spoke softly, “Sergeant, you understand. If you tell, then everyone will know and we can no longer do our work. And we need you. Without you, we have no way to make sure that problems we discover come to light. You take risk every time you help us.”

  The big policeman blinked rapidly and quickly raised his cup to his lips, its tilting rim concealing his eyes.

  Eich cleared his throat and changed the subject, “Personally I feel a tremendous gratitude to E.J. here and his friends. Without them, the three of us and those five boys would not be alive today.” Mae and Matthew murmured in agreement.

  Eich turned to Meachum and Sage. “Those miscreants poured gasoline over the upstairs floor and if McAllister and his friends hadn’t burst through the stairway door when they did, they would have burnt all of us, those poor boys too, to a crisp.”

  McAllister spoke eagerly, “It’s Robert who was the brave one. He stayed inside the BCS all that night, creeping around, trying to locate where they had the three of you imprisoned. Two times, they nearly caught him.” His pride in his friend was evident.

  “Where is that wonderful man, anyways?” Mae asked, “I want to thank him again.”

  McAllister said, without any sorrow. “Gone back to Boston.” Before Sage could wonder at the man’s lack of concern over his friend’s departure, the lawyer grinned and continued, “He’s actually decided to close up his business back there. He says I’ll need some help if I am going to be the best damn crusading lawyer in the West.” As if anticipating an unspoken question, he was quick to add, “Angelique has found him a place to live close to our house. Says I’ve made her and her children happy and that she likes him and she is glad to see that I now have a chance at happiness
. She’s a wonderful person. But then, I’ve always known that.”

  Sage smiled, but even as he did so, a sobering thought hit him accompanied by the memory of an old man sitting on a park bench, his voice bitter as he chided Sage, “Terrible situation all right. So let’s see whether you just walk off from it. Wonder how long it will take you to forget how bad you feel right now.” The sight of those pale boys ranged up the steps to that damnable red door. That had really been the beginning.

  “What about that house on the other side of the ravine. The one where those poor boys work?” Sage asked.

  McAllister laughed. “The victory at the house in the Northwest emboldened the ladies of the White Ribbon persuasion. Somehow, word of that house in Lair Hill reached their ears” he paused to wink at them before continuing, “Even greater numbers of them turned out to parade and picket. As you know, that is an activity in which they surpass all others. Lynch moved himself out, turned the boys back into the BCS. No doubt he’s expecting it to be a temporary hiatus.” McAllister smiled, “Unfortunately for Lynch, that will be hard since his house burnt down the night before Robert left for Boston.” McAllister looked anything but sad. “And, as an extra incentive, a certain lawyer,” here he brushed his fingernails across his lapel, “filed a lawsuit on behalf of the boys for false imprisonment. A certain banker friend of mine,” here he cocked an eyebrow to let them know what kind of friend, “made sure that Lynch’s funds became unavailable. Last I heard he was on a train heading south.” He seemed to sense their next question, “Don’t worry, I made sure that the particulars of our Mr. Lynch traveled ahead of him. Telegraphs are a fine thin, don’t you think?”

  Matthew asked a question, his shaking voice letting them know that his was a burning question. “What will happen to those boys? The ones in the house, you know. And the ones they kept for so long on the top floor of the BCS?”