by Amanda Boone
Mike came into his office just as she finished her article and asked her what she was doing.
“Dr. Frey asked me to write the article about Rollie Palmer and his accident. I promised I would.”
“But I was going to do that,” Mike protested.
“He doesn’t want you to. He’s afraid you’ll go over and above to get a better story. He just wants what he told me published, and I promised that’s what I would do. I’m putting in nothing more than what he told me I could publish.”
Mike dropped onto the chair before his desk. “Did he tell you something else?”
“He did, but I’m not at liberty to tell you what it was. He made me promise, and you know how I am about that. I always keep my promises.”
“Did he give you more information than he did me?”
“How would I know, Mike? I only know what you told me. That doesn’t mean you told me everything.”
“Sometimes you’re the most stubborn person I know. And right now I know that you’re not telling me anything, so I’ll drop the subject—for now. You can be sure we’ll revisit it, though.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Bridget said as she wandered out of the room. “I’m going to typeset this article now, so it will be ready to go when we’re ready for the next edition.”
***
On November 5, 1872, the saloon closed for business, and the American men of Forestville lined up to vote for either Republican presidential candidate, Ulysses S. Grant and his vice presidential nominee, Henry Wilson, or Horace Greeley and his running mate, Benjamin G. Brown. As Mike wrote in an article about the elections the following day, Greeley had been nominated by two parties, the Liberal Republican and the Democratic Parties.
No more accidents or injuries had been reported for two weeks, so the election was Mike’s focus for the newspaper. On the fourth Thursday of November, the day President Abraham Lincoln declared a national day of thanksgiving, all businesses closed and families and friends gathered together for dinners. It wasn’t an official holiday like the Independence Day, Mike reported, but the town had gotten together during the elections and had decided to observe it as a holiday.
Bridget and Karin Bengtson worked on pies and vegetables at Bridget’s house, while Elise and Stina Bengtson prepared a large ham and potatoes at Elise’s house. Everyone in those households met at Bridget and Jared’s house, which had the long table Elise had used when Bridget and Mike first arrived from New York. Bridget had learned that it had always been Jared’s table, but that he had loaned it to Elise for that particular occasion.
With the Bengtson sisters, Elise and Moya, Mike, Emily, and Bridget and Jared all seated around the table, Jared gave thanks for the food and their freedom. He also thanked God for Moya’s continued recovery from his accident and requested that he get his memory of the event back.
Hearing a movement across from her, Bridget opened her eyes to see Elise squirm on her chair. That was it! Elise knew that Moya already remembered the incident. Bridget was sure of it. Now all she had to do was get Elise alone and talk to her about it. This was the story Bridget wanted to write, this story about what was happening in Forestville. Mike couldn’t write it for fear of losing the newspaper, but nothing would stop her from writing it.
After dinner, Mike asked Stina to take a walk with him, so Bridget suggested that Karin, Moya and Jared take Emily outside to play while she and Elise cleaned up after their meal. Bridget started the conversation while she pumped some water into a pail in the sink so they could wash the dishes.
“How is Moya feeling lately?” Bridget asked.
“He’s doing much better, thank you,” Elise replied. “Have you noticed that he’s losing his limp?”
“I have. How is his hand working?”
“Better, but I would like to see it improve some more. So would Dr. Frey.”
“I suppose it’s only going to get as well as the Lord has in mind. At least, he ended up with a better job than he had before his accident, and not as dangerous.”
“He does have a better job, thanks to Mr. Harris. I don’t know what Moya would have done if he hadn’t been able to support me. He felt quite guilty about it.”
“That’s what a man thinks he’s supposed to do,” Bridget said with a grin. “But you and I both know that we can take care of ourselves just fine.”
Elise laughed. “We certainly can. How is the newspaper business doing?”
“Very well. I just wish we could find a good story to print.”
“The election results should be coming in before too long, don’t you think?”
“By the end of the year, Mike told me. That’s not that great of a story, anyway. We all know Grant will win.” Bridget paused to add some hot water from her cast-iron stove to the dish water. “How is Moya’s memory coming along?”
Turning away from Bridget, Elise picked up some dishes from the table and put them into the water. “There’s been no change since the last time you asked.”
Bridget believed her, but that didn’t mean that Elise had been telling her the truth the last time. On this subject, Bridget didn’t trust her friend. Taking Elise by the shoulders, she pushed her friend backwards until Elise sat on a chair.
“Tell me what you’re hiding, Elise,” Bridget ordered gently. “And don’t say it’s nothing, because I know that’s not true.”
Elise’s sorrowful gaze met Bridget’s. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be true, but I can’t tell you. I made a promise.”
“At least, tell me if Moya remembers what happened to him.”
“I can’t tell you anything, Bridge. Please don’t push me on this. Just let it go.”
“Why? Is it dangerous for me to know the truth?”
“Heavens no!” Elise exclaimed.
“Then why not tell me?”
“Moya says it’s too early.”
Bridget studied Elise suspiciously. Then a thought came to her. “If it’s not dangerous for me to know the truth, and Moya says it’s too early, Elise, are you pregnant?”
Elise beamed. “I didn’t tell you that.”
Pulling her out of the chair, Bridget hugged Elise. “That’s wonderful. Maybe our kids will grow up being friends.”
“Are you pregnant, too?”
“No,” Bridget admitted, “but I hope to be soon. Now that I’m not a virgin anymore.”
Chapter 13
Although happy for Elise and Moya, who would both be good parents, Bridget knew something was amiss about Moya’s accident that they weren’t talking about. If only she could get Elise to confide in her as she did in New York.
Undoubtedly, their sisterhood had changed in their time apart. Of course, that was only natural, but Bridget missed the Elise she used to know. She missed her sister.
But she had work to do. Other things could prove that Harris was a crook, and she needed to pursue that, since Mike couldn’t write a story about it. In the meantime, however, she had a paying job to do, and that included preparing the news Moya received on the telegraph today.
Horace Greeley, the presidential candidate, died the day after Thanksgiving, before the electoral college could meet. By the time it did meet, it proved that there had been no real contest between Greeley and Grant. Grant had won the election by a landslide.
Bridget set the print for both stories, which had come from both San Francisco and Sacramento. By that time it was the end of December, and Christmas had passed. The new year began, and Bridget had barely begun her investigation.
She had spoken with the manager at the mercantile store, William Wessel, and had learned a great deal. The store owner, as Mike had told her, was indeed Frank Harris, and he took all but ten percent of the proceeds of sales. There was no line of credit at the store, as many places accepted at that time so people could pay when they got paid. Everybody was required to pay in cash at the time of the purchase. At least, the manager got his home rent-free like the rest of the company town, and he was given his choice of whatever food
was sold at the store in order to feed his family. He did, however, have to pay for clothing supplies and any incidentals that he or his family needed, as well as for food items that the store didn’t carry.
When Bridget asked Wessel what Harris expected of him in return, he insisted that only the ninety percent of the proceeds went to Harris.
“That seems like an awful lot,” Bridget told him. “One would think you would want more of a percentage. Ten percent isn’t very much to raise a family on.”
“It’s fine. Mr. Harris gives me free food and a house. That’s really all we need, because those are the highest expenses I have.”
“I suppose that’s true, but you admit that’s not all of your food,” Bridget said. “What happens if somebody comes in and doesn’t have enough money to pay for what they need? Say a mother comes in and needs some food for her children and can’t pay?”
“They can’t have any food. Mr. Harris said that’s what the church is for.”
“But the church is closed most of the time. Children get hungry on days other than when the traveling preacher comes to town. As far as I know, he’s the only person with a key to the church.”
“He is. The people who come in and can’t pay find another way to get what they need.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that you can’t open credit accounts for the citizens, Mr. Wessel? You know that Mr. Harris will pay them eventually. Surely, you could make arrangements for those people to get what they need and pay later.”
“If Mr. Harris would allow it, I would do it. But I work for Mr. Harris, and I don’t want to lose my job. I have five children of my own and my sister’s three. I can’t afford to lose this job.”
“It’s wonderful of you to take your sister’s children,” Bridget said to show him some sympathy. Since she didn’t want him to know why she was asking the questions, she decided to end the conversation on a positive note. “How old is everybody?”
“I have four teenagers and three between six and ten.”
“Do you need help caring for them?”
“My wife and I have been struggling ever since my sister died. Her husband died before her, and I couldn’t let my parents take on the burden. Three of my sister’s children went to live with my other sister. They’re all in San Francisco, so they all get to see each other once in a while.”
“It’s admirable that you try to keep them connected,” Bridget said. “I really wish you could get more of a salary from Mr. Harris. Does he know your circumstances? If he did, maybe …”
“He knows, but he just told me that I need to sell more merchandise. I try, but it’s hard when it’s mostly men living in town. There aren’t many families here, and the men can go off to Redding for a few days and get what they need.”
“That’s too bad. Well, I should be leaving. I need to get back to work. Thank you for the supplies.”
“Thank you for your business, Mrs. Coleman.”
Now there was a story, Bridget decided as she headed home with her few purchases. She’d bought some ribbon for Emily’s hair, a sack of flour, and a few homemade biscuits that Wessel’s wife had made that morning.
If she could word it correctly, maybe she could print a story about the merchant and his family in a way that would both humiliate Harris into giving them a higher percentage of the profits without painting Harris as an ogre. She needed to be very careful not to antagonize the owner of Forestville.
When she got back to the office, she drafted up an article about the merchant and showed it to Mike. He read through it before he spoke.
“He only gets ten percent of the proceeds and has all those children to feed?” Mike asked in amazement. “I had no idea.”
“Most of the town probably has no idea. I thought if we could publish a human interest story that showed it without making Harris look bad, maybe he would open his wallet a little wider and give him a bigger percentage.”
“Unfortunately, he does look a bit mercenary in your wording. Let me rewrite it and see what we can do.”
After the next edition came out with the article in it, three prostitutes from the saloon came to the office with some clothes they’d collected on a trip to San Francisco. They wanted to donate them to the merchant’s family, they declared. Unsure what to do but grateful for their thoughtfulness, Bridget accepted the gifts and took them to the storage room to hold until she could get them to Wessel.
Before she knew what was happening, donations started pouring in. Elise and Moya brought over some toys for the younger children and books for the older ones. Elise offered to teach them all if they needed or wanted more education. Stina Bengtson offered free laundry services, and her sister Karin said she would be happy to watch the younger children if need be. Men from the town offered help with household repairs or adding an addition to their house.
Bridget couldn’t believe the outpouring of assistance from these people, so she wrote an article about it. With Mike’s approval, they published the article in the next edition.
Chapter 14
Within a week, a short, balding man entered the newspaper office and asked to speak with Michael O’Riley. When Mike came out of the office, he stopped short, exclaiming, “Mr. Harris! What brings you to Forestville?”
Bridget turned toward him in shock. All she could do was hope that he wasn’t there to close down the newspaper after the articles they’d posted.
“Mr. Harris,” Mike said, pointing to Bridget, “this is my sister Bridget Coleman. She married Jared Coleman. Bridge, this is Mr. Frank Harris.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Harris,” Bridget said, extending her hand.
He shook it briefly then turned back toward Mike and said, “I’m glad you printed those articles about William Wessel. I had no idea how many people he was trying to feed and clothe with the small amount I was giving him. I came to offer him a new contract, giving him more money. I assume you’ve given them the donations already.”
“I tried to, sir,” Bridget admitted, “but he and his wife didn’t want to take them. They didn’t want charity. I explained that nobody asked these people to donate, that they did so because they wanted to, but it didn’t matter. Everything is back in our storage room here.”
“I’ll see that they agree to take the donations,” Harris offered.
“Not all of the donations were something you could put your hands on. Teaching, handyman work, and building work were all offered free of charge.”
“That’s very kind of people. I’ll make sure that the Wessels accept those offers, as well.” He smiled at Bridget and added, “I just wanted to meet the woman behind the printing press before I went over to the store. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Coleman. Now, Michael, would you mind helping me with the donations?”
With Mike’s and Moya’s help, Harris hauled the donations out of the building and headed down the street.
Bridget watched for a couple of minutes then returned to the printing press, where she’d been working. This man, Harris, who she’d always thought of as a large brute, had actually been quite kind. Nobody had asked him to change Wessel’s contract; nobody had even asked him to come to town. But here he was, willing to give Wessel a raise without question. Maybe everything she’d heard about him, everything she’d assumed about him was wrong.
“Where’s Mr. O’Riley?” a teenage boy asked as he ran into the office.
“He’s on his way to the mercantile store,” Bridget replied. “May I help you instead?”
“No, ma’am. I need him to come to the lumber road. There’s been an accident.”
“Another one?” she exclaimed.
“Yep.”
“Let me get his supplies, and I’ll go with you instead.”
“Mr. Coleman doesn’t want women out there.”
“I’ll handle my husband. Let’s go.”
While the teen climbed into the buckboard on one side, Bridget climbed up on the opposite side. Once they were seated, the teen slapped the re
ins across the horse’s back and off they went.
***
Dr. Frey was already at the site on the road where he frantically worked on a man lying before him. As soon as the wagon stopped, Bridget scrambled from it. When she got closer to the scene where a large wagon with ten draft horses hitched to it stood, she saw a severed arm lying near the man.
“Oh, my God,” she wailed, her stomach churning.
She raced off into the trees and vomited. The man had somehow lost his arm, and he was bleeding profusely. She couldn’t look at it, but how could she possibly take notes on the scene if she didn’t? Determined to do the job, she wiped her mouth on her underskirt and went back to the scene.
As badly as she wanted to throw up again, she stifled the urge. Instead, she wrote about what she saw. Dr. Frey worked to stem the flow of blood, tying a tourniquet around the man’s upper arm and using the multitude of towels at his disposal. Apparently, he’d brought them with him from his office. Blood soaked the dirt under the wagon of tree trunks. He must have fallen under it. This man would no longer be able to work as a logger. He had lost more than just his arm; he’d lost his livelihood—and given how pale he was from the loss of blood, maybe even his life.
Bridget scribbled notes as fast as she thought of them. Who was this man? What, if any, family did he have nearby? Where had it happened? Right where he lay, of course. When had it happened? It had to have been recently, since Dr. Frey was still working on him. How did this happen? Why did it happen to him? Was it just an accident? Or was there evidence of yet another attack on a man working in Forestville?
Had she asked herself all of the questions that Mike had told her made for a good story? She checked over her list of questions—who, what, when, where, why, and how. That was all of them. Next she needed to find answers to those questions.
She went to the nearest lumberjack and asked, “Do you know who that pour soul is?”
“Gunther Jansen,” the logger said. “It’s such a tragedy that he fell like that. We don’t even how it happened. He must have slipped in the mud.”