The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  She smiled at him with what he took to be a hint of relief. No doubt she’d noticed Sinclair’s interest. Sage saw with satisfaction that once they’d exchanged seats, she was careful to place her handbag between herself and Sinclair. Sinclair noticed as well because he sent Sage a knowing smile, dropped his bowler low over his forehead and settled back apparently intent on napping. Within minutes his mouth was slack and he was, to every appearance, sound asleep despite the coach’s rocking. Sage looked at Fong and he too looked as if he’d left for a dream world.

  When Sage looked back at Lucinda he was startled to see those bright eyes fixed on his face before she quickly looked away. He turned to stare outside at trees dusty from weeks of no rain. There was very little traffic on the road but that didn’t help the driver avoid jolting in and out of ruts and potholes. While he wished they were making faster time, a tiny part of him wished this coach ride would last forever.

  “Lucinda,” he said softly.

  She slowly turned her head from the window and simply looked at him. Her eyes were unguarded, open and waiting. He swallowed hard.

  “Umm, how long have you had this coach?” was the best he could think to say.

  Disappointment shadowed her eyes and the corner of her mouth quirked upward before she said matter-of-factly, “Just bought it last week. The ladies and I like to go on shopping outings during the day. I thought we’d even plan some country picnics.”

  Sage nodded politely along with her words even as he choked back the questions he really wanted to ask. “You probably never planned to go as far as Astoria today,” he said. “I hope your coach and horses don’t get damaged in this escapade,” he added. His lips felt stiff as he mouthed the stilted words.

  She sighed but agreed, “Yes, I never once considered driving to Astoria. As for the coach, the salesman assured me that it is ‘top of the line’. Our little trip will be a good test of that guarantee.”

  “I expect you’ll be selling it when you move back to Chicago. If so, I might be interested in buying it,” Sage said finally turning toward the topic he dreaded.

  His comment caused her smooth forehead to crinkle, “Move to Chicago?” she parroted. “Why would I move to Chicago?”

  Before Sage could answer, there was a jolt, the coach tilted first right and skewed left before coming to an abrupt halt. The jolt sent Lucinda slamming forward into Sage who grabbed her and held on tight. Sinclair came awake as did Fong. An eye roll from Fong, suggested he’d been listening to their conversation and was unimpressed with Sage’s communication skills.

  Their trailing dust quickly caught up to roil past the carriage which rocked a bit as the driver dismounted onto the dirt road. Seconds later soft cursing sounded outside. The man’s grizzled face appeared in the door window. Sage leaned over, unlatched the door and swung it open.

  The man took off his hat and wiped his brow with a kerchief. Slapping the hat back on his head, he said, “I’m sorry Miss Collins but we ain’t a’goin nowhere. That big pothole back there done cracked our axle bad. It ain’t safe to drive on her until it’s been bound up.”

  Sage looked at Sinclair who sat upright in his corner. How could they keep the man a prisoner if they had to proceed afoot? Sinclair’s lip twisted in a wry smile and he said, with an airy wave of his hand, “Don’t worry about me. I’ve made my choice. If I can do anything to save Rebecca and the other two, I’ll do it. I won’t be running away. I’m done with hiding my head in the dirt.”

  Fong and Sage exchanged looks. Fong gave a what-the-hell shrug so Sage said, “Okay then, Sinclair. I’m going to take you at your word and not tie you up. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you.

  The four of them climbed down from the coach to stand beside it. Not a farmhouse was in sight. After the rattle and groan of the racing coach, the stillness laid heavy on the ears until the startled birds once again began to chirp and twitter.

  Sage turned toward the coach driver who stood beside the coach, studying one of the big wheels and rubbing the back of his neck. “Where are we?” Sage asked.

  The driver removed his hat, holding it in his rough hands. “’Bout three miles south of Scappoose. I’ll take one of the horses and trot up there to fetch something to tie up that break so we can limp on into town. This coach won’t be making Astoria today.” The man looked down, clearly expecting an explosion of blame.

  Lucinda merely patted his arm. The four of them looked at each other in consternation. “Maybe the four of us should ride the horses to Scappoose. We can send someone back with the repair material while we hire another vehicle to take us to Astoria,” Sage said, scrambling to find a solution to the dilemma. No one had a better idea so they went to the front of the coach where the two horses were softly blowing, no doubt welcoming the halt.

  “Stop!” commanded Fong in a loud voice. Everyone froze, watching as he turned toward the river. He pointed at the train tracks gleaming in the morning sunlight. “Maybe we catch train that is coming,” he suggested. Sage strained to hear the rumble of an approaching train but heard only the horses blowing and the birds. Still, he trusted Fong. Seconds later they were running toward the tracks, following Fong. Lucinda ran close behind the Chinese man, the hem of her fancy dress hiked high above her shoe tops.

  “There’s no sense spilling tears as long as we’ve got hope,” Mae admonished Rachel’s sister whom she’d finally met. The young woman was thin and clearly weak from her long ordeal so Mae’s tone was tenderly chiding. “You’ve done real good so far, Rebecca gal. Hadn’t been for your scratchings on that whorehouse wall, we’d never have found you and your sister,” she said and was gratified to see the girl’s back stiffen and chin raise.

  Mae took the few steps to the porthole. Outside the forest came down to the river’s edge, where leafy trees, drooping willows and tall reeds shone green in the morning sun. She contemplated the porthole with its bolted window as she rubbed her shoulder. That scoundrel had pretty near yanked it out of its socket when shoving her inside this dinky cabin. She smiled wryly. He’d probably been getting even for the stomping she’d done on his foot and the gouge she’d likely made in his shin bone. She might have been woozy, but Fong’s lessons had still worked. She hoped she’d get a chance to tell him. At least she’d been right, the sisters were captives on the Maggie Jane. She smiled again. Maybe this is what they meant when they said being proved right could be a “cold comfort”.

  She looked at the window bolts, then back out at the shore. The coastal steamer was sticking to the middle of the river. Even if they could somehow unbolt the window and slip out, they’d have to swim a great distance to shore. Too great. People were always dying in the Columbia from the cold water—even now during the hottest part of the summer. Besides, she was a darn poor swimmer at best. Growing up in Appalachia there hadn’t been many swimming holes. Rocky creeks and tumbling rivers was how the water left the hollers.

  She gave up on the window. Turning, she surveyed the cabin with a look. She didn’t need more. There was barely room to turn around. Just two bunk beds hanging on the wall, a stained felt mattress rolled up against the wall and a chipped chamber pot shoved into the corner. Everything in sight was grimy and smelled of burning coal. They probably hadn’t scrubbed it in decades. No doubt ticks, fleas and other vermin made cozy inside the mattresses.

  The two sisters sat on the edge of the bottom bunk. Rachel was softly reassuring her sister but her voice turned determined when she looked at Mae and asked, “Okay Mae. What are we going to do? Sinclair told Rebecca that they are sending us to Panama. He wouldn’t tell her why or what was going to happen once we got there. But we’ve heard stories. There’s a real shortage of women.” Though their eyes were big with worry, their proud faces were fierce.

  “We’ll die first,” Rachel calmly vowed and her sister nodded in agreement.

  Mae wasn’t surprised to hear the resolve in Rachel’s voice. The young woman had never faltered when leading the laundry women. Nor had she been anyt
hing but strong when the mangle mashed Debbie’s hand. The same when Sinclair fired her at the end of the workday. Even when her beloved sister had gone missing, Rachel hid her terror and carried on. Faltering just wasn’t Rachel’s style. That was reassuring. The last thing they needed was to fall apart, to turn too stunned by the situation to help themselves.

  Mae glanced around. “Well, I don’t suppose either of you have any matches?” The sisters shook their heads. “I guess we can’t set this tub afire then.” She looked up at the ceiling, less than two feet above her head. “How about something hard enough to break the porthole glass? If we got it open maybe we could signal someone on the riverbank? Shout for help before they could get in the door.” Again the sisters offered only shakes of their heads.

  Mae looked around again, rubbed her hands together and stepped the few feet over to the bunks. She gestured them to get up off the bunk bed and once they were standing, she flipped back the mattress covering the bottom bunk. “Good,” she proclaimed, pointing at the flat metal slats serving as bed springs.

  Grabbing hold of the upper bunk she hiked up her skirt, raised her foot and slammed it down onto one of the slats. It broke free of the frame and clattered onto the floor. Smiling with satisfaction she picked it up and showed it to the sisters. “A bit of work and we can turn these slats into decent pig pokers,” she promised. “Anyone coming through that door is going to get a surprise. We’ll overpower him and get ourselves up on deck.” She wasn’t sure what they could do once they were on deck, just trusting that a change in their situation would lead to an opportunity.

  The two other women stepped forward, grabbed the upper bunk and stomped. Real anger powered those stomps. Soon the three of them were wrapping strips of torn blanket around one end of the slats to protect their hands should they be able to stab or brain their captors.

  As they ripped, wrapped and tied, Mae talked about growing up in the Appalachian coal fields. “It was god awful hard and dangerous work for my dad and other men. It’s bad now, but it was worse then. The mine owners refused to install emergency exits, fresh air pumping systems, or to make provision for safe shoring inside the mine. In Schuylkill County where I was raised, 566 miners were killed between the year I was born and my seventh birthday. And that don’t account for the nearly 1,700 who were seriously injured.”

  “So the miners decided to form a union. Lickety-split the mine owners hired thugs who beat and killed. That made the miners mad and they decided to give the mine owners and thugs a taste of their own medicine. Of course, it only got worse. The mine owner’s thugs murdered my ma’s sister and her whole family. So, my ma and pa got involved. The men were working 12 hour days, six days a week, down in the mine.

  My ma and the other women worked in the sorting shed but they were above ground and could travel around a bit. They carried secret messages. It was dangerous time. But folks felt they had to do something. Otherwise they were nothing but slaves making other men rich. Terrible things happened to my pa and other men in that dirty old mining town. I got old enough, I tried to help.”

  She solemnly studied the two young women beside her. “You know, you two are carrying on for those miners and the coalfield women like my mother. There’s always going to be men who’ll use people up and throw them away like they’re worth less than a year-old newspaper. It’s up to us to stop them.”

  Turning from that somber topic, Mae told them a lively story involving an ornery mule and nasty rooster chasing revenue agents. Soon, both sisters were chuckling as they sat upon the floor mattress with their homemade weapons between their knees. Even as Mae talked, the judder of the steamer’s steel plates beneath them was a persistent reminder that they were traveling downriver toward the bottomless Pacific Ocean.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  As they reached the tracks, they heard the faint rumble of a westbound train from around the bend. “That train isn’t going to stop for us,” Sage said.

  “Train will stop,” Fong said and immediately began running up the tracks, away from the train.

  “What are you doing?” Sage yelled after him.

  “Need to make sure train has plenty room to stop,” Fong called over his shoulder without slowing his pace. Lucinda understood before Sage did because once again she picked up her skirts and was running after Fong, Sage and Sinclair close behind.

  Ahead, Fong stopped, turned around and raised his hands in the air, waving them wildly. Once the others reached him they too began waving. The train had just rounded the bend. Sage was alarmed to see it traveling at a very high rate of speed. Much faster than normal. “We may not have run far enough ahead,” he said to Fong out of the corner of his mouth.

  Fong looked grim as he nodded but he didn’t move or stop waving. “We may have to jump,” he said, flicking a glance toward Lucinda. Sage and Sinclair looked at each other, dropped their arms, grabbed Lucinda’s elbows and lifted her to the side of the tracks.

  She protested until Sage said, “You could trip over those skirts of yours.”

  Seconds later the metallic shriek of the braking train filled the summer air. The train engine’s brass medallion grew rapidly in size as it bore down on them.. Sage looking toward Fong. His friend had lowered his arms but remained calmly standing between the two rails, his knees slightly bent. Sage wondered if he planned to halt the train with a snake and crane move. The thought made him smile. Nah. Not even Fong could pull off a stunt like that.

  Twenty feet from where they stood the train stopped, its stack huffing steam as if angry. Certainly the engineer was angry. He stuck his red face out the side window and shouted, “Get the hell off my tracks!”

  Sage raised his voice in return, “We’ve got to get to Astoria, it’s a matter of life or death.” A beehive helmet appeared at the top of the iron rungs to the cab. Sage shouted, “Hey, Officer, are you with Sergeant Hanke?”

  “Yes, sir, that I am. That’s why you need to get off the tracks. We’ve got a rescue mission underway!”

  By now they’d reached the side of the engine. Sage grinned as relief coursed through his body. “Well, Officer, we’re with the Sergeant on that same mission.”

  The policeman was momentarily surprised but then gestured back along the train. “You all better hop aboard then. The Sergeant’s back there with the passengers explaining why we aren’t stopping until we get to the ocean.”

  The four of them ran alongside the engine toward the passenger railcars. When they reached the first door, it opened and Hanke looked out. “Glad you could make it,” he shouted. Instead of lowering the steps he grabbed Lucinda’s reaching hands and hefted her aboard. He did the same for the other three. Sage was last aboard, running alongside as the train started its slow roll up to speed.

  Hanke led the four of them to the rear of the railcar. There sat Eich and a woman who worked in the laundry. Hanke gestured to the woman. “This here is Miss Caroline Stark. She’s a friend of your mother and the Levy sisters.”

  Sage narrowed his eyes. He remembered that name and there had been some negative association with it. That’s right. His mother had told him she liked the woman but was suspicious of her. He studied her but she didn’t notice. Instead, she looked past him as her polite smile slid right off her face. “Mr. Sinclair, what are you doing here?” she demanded, standing up, her fists clenched. She turned to Hanke. “He works for the laundry owner,” she told Hanke. “He probably had a hand in the kidnappings.”

  Hanke turned toward Sage, his normally placid face showing surprise, “Is that so, Mr. ah, Miner?” Since this was the first time they’d met during this particular operation, Hanke had to guess whether Sage was using his customary alias.

  Sage gestured that Sinclair should take the bench seat next to the window so that he faced both Caroline and Hanke who also sat down. Sage sat next to Sinclair. Lucinda and Fong took seats across the aisle, facing Eich.

  “Before we start with the explanations, Sergeant, suppose you tell me what Miss Stark is d
oing here?” Sage said. He saw the woman reach out a hand and lay it on the Sergeant’s uniform sleeve. Hanke looked at her and she gave a little shake of her head.

  Turning back to look at Sage with a steady gaze, Hanke said firmly, “Miss Stark is helping us with our inquiries. I had no choice but to bring her along.”

  “But,” Sage began only to have Hanke interrupt.

  “You must trust me on this,” Hanke warned as he glanced toward Sinclair.

  Sage clamped his lips shut. Trust he would because Hanke would have good reasons. Beneath the sergeant’s calm and somewhat bovine placidity lurked a steel-trap mind and an excellent character-judging ability. Sage cleared his throat and said, “Well, then. Miss Stark is correct. Mr. Sinclair was working at the Sparta laundry and for the association of laundry owners. He’s the fellow who kidnapped the Levy sisters and Mrs. Clemens. He’s admitted as much.”

  Hanke’s face didn’t change expression but Sage saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. When he looked at Sinclair and spoke, his voice was calm. “Is that true, Mr. Sinclair? You’re responsible for those women being on that coastal steamer heading downriver?”

  Sinclair nodded and looked miserable. Hanke turned back to Sage and asked, “He’s your prisoner, then?”

  “Not exactly. We’re keeping an eye on him, of course.” Sage sent his eyes toward Fong who was clearly listening to the discussion. “To his credit Sinclair told us everything without us forcing him to talk and he volunteered to help in the rescue. It seems he’s had a change of heart.”

  Hanke studied Sinclair for a few moments before saying, “Well, a change heart, huh? Suppose you tell me the whole story Mr. Sinclair?”

  Sinclair took a deep breath and began talking. He told them everything. About working for Farley, who was working for the association’s leader, Thaddeus Cobb. He told of accidently grabbing Rebecca Levy. How he’d kept Rebecca at the whorehouse. How he’d tricked Rachel into being captured. How he’d drugged and strong armed Mae onto the ship. He even pulled up his trouser to show them the purple shin bruise she’d given him. His display was met with grins from Fong, Eich, Lucinda, Sage and even Hanke.