by S. L. Stoner
When he reached the south side, his ears picked up another sound. It came from a nearby alley. He stopped, listened, but heard nothing. He shrugged. Must be a leftover buzz in his ear from all those saloons. He started walking. There! It came again. This time, an unmistakable cry from deep inside the alley. It was a familiar sound. Just like his own cry that night when three men had jumped him and Fong’s surprising intervention saved his life. He whirled toward the alley, shouting, “Hey! Somebody in there? What’s going on?”
A weak voice responded, “Help! Please, help me!”
Sage squinted, staring down the black narrow space until his eyes adjusted. He saw that two dark figures were viciously swinging their boots into a third form on the ground.
“Hey, you there! Stop that!” Sage shouted as he leapt toward the men, skidding in the slimy garbage people had dumped from the windows above. The kicking men paused before bolting away toward the building’s rear. They disappeared around the corner just as Sage reached the man on the ground.
Sage squatted. “Are you all right?” he asked.
A moan was the response.
Sage moved his hands over the canvas coat until he found the man’s armpits. He rose from his squat, pulling the man upright. Wrapping an arm around the man’s waist, Sage staggered back toward the sidewalk. The man tried to walk. Good, he was still conscious.
When they reached the street, Sage lowered his burden onto a shop step. The man leaned back against the door frame only to yip in pain.
“What hurts?” Sage asked.
“My ribs. I suspect at least two of them are broke.” The man shifted, grimacing with the movement. In the faint light of a nearby street lamp, Sage could see that he’d rescued a middle-aged man. Alley muck smeared his sun-browned skin and head of light hair. A trickle of blood dripped down one side of the man’s face.
“Were they after your money?” Sage asked as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against a gaping cut on the man’s forehead.
“Not hardly. No, the goal was to discourage my work. Money’s involved, but not my money.” Sage thought he placed the faint accent. Boston area or near about. More than one Bostonian had attended Princeton, so the odd pronunciation was familiar.
But what did this man mean by not his money, but money nonetheless? Sage gave a surreptitious sniff. No booze. So, why was this sober Bostonian in this area of town, at this time of the morning, dressed like a man living rough? Noting the man’s increasing pallor, Sage said, “I think we’d better take you somewhere for a look at those ribs, just in case one’s poking into something it shouldn’t.”
The man merely nodded, pressing his lips tightly together. Sage helped him to his feet, and they headed back into the North End. When the man realized their direction, his feet locked onto the sidewalk, “It is unsafe for me to be anywhere around here so soon after they jumped me. They might come back and they intend to murder me. They said so.” For a second, Sage hadn’t understood the man’s words until his ear inserted a second “r” back into “murder.” The man’s accent made it sound like “murdah.”
Sage tightened his grip around the man’s waist. “I guarantee that those men won’t think to look where we’re heading. Come on now, it’s just a few doors farther on.”
When they staggered through the door of the New Elijah Hotel, the injured man summoned enough strength to weakly chuckle and say, “Oh, you are certain correct in your prediction, sir. They won’t look heah for me, that’s for sure.”
The New Elijah was a traveling man’s hotel. Rising three stories high and constructed of wood, it still projected the elegance that once made it Portland’s preeminent hotel. Now, of course, it was obsolete, its prominence usurped long ago by the tall brick-and-mortar structures downtown. Regardless, Sage always felt a momentary appreciation for the front desk’s looping swirls. Its wood face was carved years ago by Italian craftsmen. Imported to carve the woodwork and construct lead glass windows decorating many of the City’s hilltop mansions, the artisans stayed in Portland to raise families, their skills in great demand by the humbler of pocket.
Sage raised his eyes to look into those of the man standing behind the desk. It was this man, Angus Solomon, along with the other sons of Africa filling the lobby, who had elicited his companion’s wry chuckle. As one, their wary faces had turned to watch as the two white men staggered into their midst.
Solomon, for his part, didn’t hesitate. He swiftly strode from behind the desk to pull Sage and his companion to one side, out of the sight of anyone passing by outside on the sidewalk. Taking his cue from Sage’s attire, Solomon asked, “Mr. Miner, what has happened here?”
“Mr. Solomon, we’d appreciate your help. This man was attacked and needs treatment as soon as possible.”
In answer, the tall black man snapped his fingers, summoning two younger men to his side. “Show these men to my quarters,” he told one. “Fetch Miss Esther, clean cloths, and hot water,” he instructed the other.
In ten steps, Sage and the injured man left the hotel’s early morning checkout bustle behind them and entered a peaceful sanctum. The opulence of Solomon’s private quarters was no surprise to Sage. He’d been there before. Not so his companion. Stretched out on a brocade divan, the man gazed about the room, taking in the elaborate walnut buffet, graceful silver candelabra, thick Persian carpet upon the floor and the long wall of leather-bound books. “I say, I didn’t imagine a room like this existed among the colored folk heah in Portland,” he said.
Sage bristled. “Why not? They’re no different from you and me when it comes to appreciating beauty and fine objects.”
The man raised his chin, looking offended. “Why, certainly I know that. Still, it takes a powerful lot of money to buy these kinds of furnishings and from what I’ve seen, black folks find it a bit hard going in this fair city. Too many restrictions on them. So, your friend must be quite successful with this hotel for him to afford the quality I’m seeing.”
Sage didn’t know this man or his business. If anything, he worried whether it was a mistake to bring this man to his friend. If the stranger worked for the other side, he’d endangered Solomon as well as their joint missions. So, Sage just nodded and said nothing about Solomon once being chief butler in a Carolina governor’s mansion. Or, that he’d left that position for the chance to be in charge of the exclusive dining room of Portland’s newest, whites-only hotel. Quietly dignified, he commanded respect from that hotel’s most bigoted patrons. In sum, Solomon prospered because he was competent, prudent, hardworking and smart.
The door opened and their host entered, followed by a mahogany brown, gray-haired woman. Round scissor tops glittered in the pocket of her white bib apron. Her large hands carried a full water basin, strips of white cloth draped over her forearm. Her brown eyes softened when she saw the injured man. She briskly crossed the room to his side.
Solomon spoke to Sage. “May I introduce the formidable Miss Esther.” Sage inclined his head in greeting as Solomon continued, “She has healing hands and will tend to your companion’s injuries. While she is doing so, you and I shall retire to the dining room for some coffee. When she has completed her work, we will return.” This last sentence was directed at the injured man. Miss Esther began gently removing his shirt, clicking her tongue sympathetically at what she saw.
In the hotel dining room, Sage and Solomon took a corner table and drank steaming coffee. All around them, men shoveled in hearty breakfasts and laughed easily with each other. Soon, they’d be setting out on their train runs where they’d have few opportunities to dine comfortably among their own kind. Sage noticed a few surreptitious glances but they were too polite to stare openly.
“I’m sorry we burst in on you like this, Angus. I didn’t intend to. It’s just that something the guy said made me curious about him. Also, he doesn’t seem to be your run-of-the-mill itinerant laborer.” Sage told Solomon that the stranger believed his attackers were intent on murdering him bec
ause of his “work.” Sage shared the thought he’d had. “Probably, he’s a temperance man who stepped crosswise of a saloon keeper. Still, I’m not so sure. His hands are rough from manual labor and he seems anchored to the earth, not the type to be carried away with some harebrained notion. That means he might be on our side, and if so, I want to help him.”
Solomon’s dark eyes held Sage in warm regard. “I’m proud you thought of coming to me, John. You know that I stand willing to assist your endeavors.” Here his trademark smile split his face, triggering Sage’s answering grin. Both of them paused to savor the success of their last joint effort. In addition to saving Matthew, Sage’s train escapade also exposed a land fraud scheme that left a number of wealthy men, including a U.S. senator and the local U.S. district attorney, under prosecution by San Francisco’s federal district attorney.
“I can’t rightly claim that this man is one of us.” Sage cautioned. He’s a stranger and I think we need to be careful what we say around him. As for me, I was out tonight in an effort to find two union organizers. They just up and disappeared without a trace. The last of them left behind a wife and new baby.”
As they ate breakfast and waited for Miss Esther to finish her ministrations, Sage told what he knew of Kincaid’s disappearance. Solomon studied the young man’s picture, his face taking on a sad cast as if he, too, felt the nameless dread that had been dogging Sage. Still, Solomon only said he would keep a lookout for the missing man.
Miss Esther appeared in the doorway and nodded in their direction. Grabbing a cup of coffee, Solomon led the way to his apartment. There they found the man leaning back against the divan, his bandaged face clean although scraped raw in places. A white cloth bandage was snugged around his naked chest. The skin around his eyes was dull red and turning black. He opened those eyes upon their entrance.
“Lady Estha’ has the hands of an angel,” he told them. Now that he wasn’t gasping in pain, there was no mistaking that missing ‘r’ in the man’s speech.
Solomon leaned his long frame against the buffet, folded his arms across his chest and sent an inquiring look toward Sage. He clearly thought it was not his place to ask the questions.
Sage moved a chair close to the divan and sat. “I don’t want to mislead you,” Sage began. “The fact is, you’re here because of your comment about your work. You made me curious. What is your work that makes men try to kill you? You’re not one of those temperance proselytizers, are you?”
The man laughed before grimacing and pushing a hand onto the bandage encircling his ribs. “Good Lord. Not me. I like a drink now and then, just like any other man. Sometimes more than any other man, given what I’ve seen happen.”
Solomon’s service experience sprang into action. Within seconds, the stranger held a glass. He gulped the whiskey and stretched out his other hand so they saw its trembling. “I thought for sure I was a dead man. And likely that’s where I was headed except for yah fortuitous intervention–Mr. Minah, is it?”
Sage nodded, saying nothing, acutely aware that his original question remained unanswered. And it was odd that, despite his great pain, this man heard and remembered Sage’s alias from Solomon’s initial greeting. “And your name, sir?” Sage asked.
“Name’s Stuart Franklin.” Franklin swallowed the last of his drink, shaking his head at Solomon’s wordless offer of more. “I’ve been helping out the Seaman’s Friend Society. Last few weeks, I’ve been down to Astoria at the Columbia River’s mouth. Been rowing out to interview ship captains anchored in the river as they wait for the tide to cross the river bar into deepwater ocean.”
“Interviewing?” Sage repeated. Franklin’s talking to ship captains made someone want to commit murder? If Franklin was weaving a lie, it was certainly an odd one.
“Yup. Interviewing them about the shanghaiing that goes on here in Portland.” Franklin leaned forward, only to groan and sink back against the cushions. He made an obvious effort to battle the pain and when he spoke again, his voice was fainter, “You might not realize it, but this fair city here has a bad reputation for shanghaiing men aboard deepwater ships. Someone heah is making boatloads of dirty money out of it,” he added.
“Shanghaiing?” Sage echoed. His eyes snapped to Solomon’s, and the two exchanged a long look. Now, there was a possible explanation for Kincaid’s disappearance–one not considered by either of them.
SIX
“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME that you’ve nevah heard of shanghaiing?” Incredulity sent Franklin’s pitch up a notch, grabbed the “er” off of “never” and for the first time, suspicion replaced friendliness in the man’s eyes. Now, this man was as much on his guard as Sage was. Interesting.
To set Franklin at his ease, Sage gave him a dash of truth, saying, “No, of course I’ve heard of it. I worked around Frisco Bay a few years back and here in the North End there’s always stories about men getting hijacked off the streets. Thankfully, I’ve no personal experience with the practice. It’s just that your mention of it might connect with something I’m working on.” Despite Franklin’s face showing interest, Sage was done with his confiding. He wasn’t going to talk about Kincaid with a stranger when he still didn’t know exactly what the man was up to. “What I don’t understand is why someone jumped you because you’re interviewing ship captains,” he prodded.
Franklin sighed, winced and pressed a hand against his ribs again. “It’s because of how we plan to use those interviews,” he told them. “A group of us, the Seaman’s Friend Society and a few of the foreign consuls in town, have been raising a fuss and calling for a state law to protect seamen from the crimps. Some of them are nothing more than circling sharks.” Although the word came out “shacks,” the man’s bitter contempt still evoked the vivid image of huge jaws and razor teeth.
“Protect seamen how?” Sage asked, not recollecting reading about any such “fuss’ in the newspapers. And, wasn’t the boarding house crimp game pretty much on the up-and-up? Didn’t the crimps give seamen a landside berth in exchange for signing them onto ships when their money ran out? Exploitive, sure. But what wasn’t these days? Maybe Franklin means those back alley cutthroats. The ones who pour knock out drops into a fellow’s beer or thump him senseless before dumping him aboard a departing ship. Men in the saloons muttered about so-and-so disappearing and sometimes wondered aloud whether the missing man was on his way to China. There was no way of knowing. Hard living and the transient life meant men routinely disappeared without warning. Shanghaiing was yet another danger in an already hard, perilous, world.
Still, the practice might explain what happened to Kincaid. The young man had a job, family and success in his efforts at organizing the plywood mill. That kind of stability considerably reduced the field of likely possibilities. Shanghaiing, therefore, was an avenue requiring investigation. Still, was a shanghaiing likely to happen in Milwaukie? The Millmen’s saloon was relatively far away, at least eight miles upriver from the North End. Sage found the possibility unlikely.
Franklin picked up the whiskey glass only to set it down when he realized that it was empty. Solomon stepped forward and poured a few more ounces of the amber liquid. Franklin acknowledged the courtesy with a rueful smile and a careful nod before continuing, “We want to stop men from being sold to ship captains like indentured slaves.” His eyes flicked sideways toward Solomon. “No disrespect meant to your own people’s horrifying history, suh,” he said. He struggled to sit upright, his face grimacing at the movement, before explaining, “Not all crimps are bad. Tobias Pratt, he’s okay. But there’s other crimps, bad ones like Kaspar Mordaunt. He’s nothing but a bloodthirsty land shark preying on defenseless men. Crimps like him must be stopped. Mordaunt’s one of the last of the really bad crimps. He’s scared off most of the others. He controls the port’s dirty land shark business and he’s undercutting the more decent crimps so that they’re giving up the business. Tobias Pratt’s one of the few of those remaining.”
Seeing he still held their i
nterest, Franklin launched into an explanation of the crimping business. “Not all crimping is illegal but most of it is immoral. Your ship usually docks with a full crew. The boardinghouse crimps pull a bunch of shenanigans to entice its sailors to desert ship. That way the captain has to pay blood money to the crimps for a new crew because the ship can’t sail without a full crew. The blood money works like a finder’s fee. That is not all. The captain is also forced to advance the crimp the sailor’s first two months of wages. Supposedly, he’s paying off the sailor’s board and room.
So, here the sailor is leaving the port, already having to work for at least three months without any pay. Usually, it’s longer. Crimps dump the men on board without clothes or tobacco or any necessities. So, the sailor also owes for what’s issued to him out of the ship’s stores. That’s your legal, so-called ‘willing’ sailor. Paying off a crimp debt is how a willing man ships out, no matter how bad the bargain. Some crimps are at least somewhat legitimate, even if they gouge the sailor past all that’s godly. The sailor accepts the deal with his eyes open.
“Not every man delivered on board arrives willingly. Land sharks like Mordaunt shanghai some of them.”
Sage crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a drink from a water pitcher. There was no way Joseph Kincaid volunteered to ship out. He’d never willingly leave his wife and new baby. Besides, he disappeared so suddenly and completely. Franklin’s description of crimping didn’t fit the facts of either Kincaid’s or Amacker’s disappearances. Yet, both men were gone.
So, what about the land shark crimps? Would land shark crimps travel as far afield as Milwaukie when there were such easy pickings here in the North End? It didn’t seem likely. And then, there was the opportunity for escape in that hundred-mile trip downriver to the ocean. Turning to the man on the couch, Sage asked, “Why don’t the sailors avoid the crimps or jump overboard while the ship’s still in the river?”