Then a woman shrieked, and a man groaned a spine-chilling groan, and others began screaming and swearing, and the terrified police began to fire, round after round after round.
I lit out of there quicker than a rabbit.
Oh, I know, I know, a proper lady would have stood there weeping prettily until rescued by a noble officer of the law. But hang it, I didn’t much like loud blasts, and I didn’t like wild shooting by frightened men, and frankly I hadn’t found Chicago policemen to be all that noble. Besides, Peebles was hightailing it away, so I followed.
The riot bell from the police station began to clang. As I chased Peebles past Zepf’s saloon I heard August call to someone, ‘‘It was a cannon, wasn’t it?’’
Well, I’m just a poor girl from Missouri, but my brother fought for the Union and he described a bomb to me, a bright flash and a thunderclap, and I wondered if these anarchists of noble sentiment knew what their audiences might do.
The firing stopped. It had lasted only three or four minutes. Around a corner I finally reached Peebles and put my hand on his arm. ‘‘Mr. Peebles, do you remember me?’’
‘‘What?’’ His sunken eyes rolled with terror.
‘‘Last week you carried my trunk in your barrow.’’
‘‘What?’’
The fellow was so stunned and terrified he could hardly think. I finally caught his attention by tapping his nose with a coin. ‘‘Peebles! We’re safe, the police have stopped shooting! Get hold of yourself and think. You carried my trunk from Madison and Clark up Wells Street.’’ I waved the coin. ‘‘If you can answer my questions there may be something for you.’’
‘‘Yes’m.’’ There was still a little hitch in his voice but he seemed to be listening now.
‘‘On that night, someone took my bracelet. Was it you?’’
‘‘No’m, of course not!’’
‘‘The truth, Peebles! What did you do with it?’’
‘‘I never took it, don’t lay it on me! You gave it away!’’
‘‘I gave it away?’’
‘‘Yes’m, when that detective stopped you. Ladies allus give that detective something before he lets ’em go. Most times it’s money, but you already told me you didn’t have much, and I saw him looking at the bracelet and putting it in his pocket afterwards. So it warn’t me took it!’’
I remembered the locked box Mabel had shown us, the lace gloves and brooches—all extorted? Was my bracelet there now? Was the bomb? I asked Peebles, ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me?’’
‘‘I thought you gave it to ’im! All the ladies do!’’
I sighed. ‘‘Well, here’s something for telling me at last,’’ and gave him the coin.
I went back to Desplaines. No one was in the street now, but a block away I could see policemen helping wounded officers up the steps of the police station. I didn’t see Johanna or Peter, so I decided to go to the Flanagans’ home. As I turned back, the glimmer of the streetlight showed me a telegraph pole peppered with bullet holes. All of them were on the side that faced the police. I shivered, for I had passed that pole just moments before the frantic shooting.
On my way back, there were several drugstores filled with wounded people buying medicines. In the third I saw Johanna and hurried in to greet her. She was shaky and weeping and had a gash on her back, not very deep. I helped her get a sticking plaster onto it, and arrange her torn dress, then led her home.
‘‘You’re bleeding! What happened?’’ demanded her mother, and when we explained she asked, ‘‘Where’s Peter?’’ But we didn’t know. I left the two of them to wait up for him and went to sit on my bed and have a good think.
I wanted to get out of Chicago. In the week I’d been here I’d seen too much shooting, too much bleeding, and much too much bombing. But first I had to get my bracelet back from Detective Loewenstein. How? After what I’d just seen I didn’t want to cross a policeman anytime soon. I decided to lie low until things calmed down again, then check with Mabel to see if she could help me.
Things didn’t calm down. They got worse. Lordy, I’ve never seen anything like it!
Policemen had never before died and been wounded in such numbers. Maybe they’d never before been ordered to shoot when in such close formation. But of course they wouldn’t admit they’d shot each other. They blamed it all on the foreign anarchists, and worked Chicago into a frenzy of fear. I was glad my hosts were named Flanagan, because everyone turned on the Germans. Marshall Field’s favorite paper, the Tribune, suggested restricting immigration to keep out ‘‘foreign savages,’’ and even Archie’s paper, the Chicago Times, said the bombers were not Americans; they were ‘‘cutthroats of Beelzebub from the Rhine, the Danube, the Vistula and the Elbe.’’ The Knights of Labor ran for cover, saying they hoped the anarchists ‘‘would be blotted from the surface of the earth.’’ The whole nation agreed. A New York reporter said the mob ‘‘poured volley after volley into the midst of the officers.’’ I reckon he hadn’t seen the telegraph pole that proved the volleys came from the police, maybe because he lived in New York, maybe because the telegraph pole disappeared the next day. Jakey’s superior, Captain Schaack, explained that the telegraph company had removed it in the common course of business. Yes indeed.
The courts backed up the police, of course. The state attorney told the police, ‘‘Make the raids first and look up the law afterward.’’ They did. Hundreds of people were arrested. Fielden, the speaker who had obeyed the captain’s order and agreed to leave, was one.
Handsome August was another.
The mayor consulted with Marshall Field and other notable citizens and made a proclamation to forbid crowds from gathering in public places, but of course they could gather to spend money in big stores like Mr. Field’s, and luckily in theatres too, because we had other problems. Poor Johanna’s sore shoulder prevented her from performing, and when we learned that Officer Degan had been killed by the bomb she sank into a fever and could barely move. I learned a few juggling tricks from Peter so that I could pretend to be a Flaming Flanagan, though I balked at the blazing torches. I was glad for the extra few dollars, for I would soon have enough for a ticket to New York.
But hang it, I needed my bracelet.
As the week drew to a close, I risked calling on Mabel. I embraced her and she winced, but said, ‘‘Bridget! How good to see you!’’
‘‘Dearest Mabel, I have a favor to ask.’’
‘‘Of course! It’s so lonely these days—Jakey is very busy and out of sorts, trying to find that anarchist Lingg, and he has all these secret projects.’’
‘‘Yes, I don’t want to bother your husband, that’s why I came to you. It’s about the box you showed us, under the bed.’’
‘‘No! Please!’’ Mabel fell into a chair and burst into tears. ‘‘Don’t even mention that horrid box!’’
‘‘Oh, my—what happened?’’ I pulled a slipper chair to face her and dabbed at her wet cheeks with my handkerchief. When I brushed her arm she flinched.
‘‘I don’t know what happened!’’ she sobbed. ‘‘Jakey looked in the box, and the bomb was gone. I don’t know where! But he shouted I was only to sell what he gave me, and became furious!’’
Gently, I turned back the lace of her sleeve, where a yellowing bruise marred her pale skin. No wonder she’d been wincing. I said, ‘‘He struck you!’’
‘‘No, no, he loves me, I know he does!’’ She gave me a brave smile.
I touched the scar on my cheek. ‘‘Slick loved me too, yes indeed.’’
Her eyes locked onto mine. ‘‘And you left him?’’
‘‘Yes. A little afterwards he was shot. I don’t like to think about it. But tell me, did you look in the box to see why Jake was angry?’’
‘‘No, I mustn’t. It’s his.’’ She sniffled and added, ‘‘Besides, he’s started hiding the key somewhere else, I don’t know where.’’
Well, hang it, my chance to regain my bracelet had slipped away for now.
When payday came, I took the train to New York, and had better luck, eventually joining a national tour with dear Mr. Booth.
Of course I read the news from Chicago wherever my tour took me. Jakey became a hero when he helped capture Lingg, who was put on trial with seven other anarchists, including dear August. The charge was the murder of Officer Degan, the only one killed by the bomb instead of bullets. The police hadn’t caught the bomb-thrower but said the eight had conspired to cause someone else to throw a bomb. They even got one witness to claim he’d seen August light the fuse, though he’d been half a block away on the speaker’s wagon. Clearly the police wanted to be the heroes of this melodrama and they’d cast poor August as a villain. Everyone knows villains must be punished, whether the plot makes any sense or not. I wasn’t surprised when the jury decided to hang them.
There were appeals, and three of the eight ended up with prison terms instead of a death sentence, but in November of 1887 dear August was hanged. I have to admit I shed a tear.
The next time I saw Mabel was the autumn of 1888. I’d just returned from a horrid stay in London, and was on my way to St. Louis to see my dear little niece, but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed, so again, I stopped in Chicago. I found a temporary role at the Columbia Theatre because one of the young ladies in The Bells of Haslemere had turned her ankle.
I knew there was little hope of recovering my bracelet but for Juliet’s sake I was obliged to try. It was evening, after the show, when I called on Mabel Loewenstein.
The boy who’d brought us cakes before took up my card, and in an instant Mabel herself, in mourning, appeared on the steps to welcome me upstairs. ‘‘Mabel, what is it?’’ I asked, concerned by her distraught appearance.
‘‘Oh, Bridget, you are just the one to tell me what to do! Please come in!’’
I followed her into the parlor. It was as richly appointed as before, with a few additions in the form of new lamps and paintings.
As she prepared tea she explained, ‘‘Ever since he helped capture that anarchist Lingg, Jakey has been praised by all. Captain Schaack continues to favor him—seems almost afraid of him! I think both of them are—well, not entirely honest.’’
‘‘What makes you think—oh! Did you find the key to the box?’’
‘‘Keys,’’ she corrected me. Tears glistened on her lashes as she handed me a cup. ‘‘Now there are three boxes. And one of them holds your bracelet.’’
‘‘Oh, thank you, Mabel! It’s just a trifle but I’m fond of it. How can I ever—’’
‘‘No, wait! I can’t return your bracelet! He’d know that I’d been nosing about, and he’d—’’ The sobs broke out. ‘‘I’m so afraid he no longer loves me!’’
I asked, ‘‘He still strikes you, then?’’
‘‘He comes home so late, and so drunk—and he says it is my fault our dear baby did not survive! But how could I protect the little one when I can’t—’’ She dabbed at her eyes.
I said, ‘‘Mabel, I’m so sorry. How can I help?’’
She reached tentatively toward the little scar on my cheek. ‘‘You said you left him. Please, tell me how!’’
Well, hang it, there was a poser! It’s easier to up and leave a fellow when you’re a traveling artiste, and have friends around the nation. But Mabel seemed so settled here. I asked, ‘‘Do you have family in other cities?’’
‘‘No, my sister and brother are here. Oh, I don’t want to leave town!’’
I waited for a fresh spasm of sobs to subside, and finally said, ‘‘I see a way you can leave Jake yet stay in Chicago, but first I must ask if you can bear a bit of scandal.’’
‘‘Oh, must I? That Captain Schaack already says I’m disreputable. Liar!’’
‘‘I promise you, in the end it will fall on Jake and not on you.’’
‘‘He would hate that!’’ she said with a damp smile.
‘‘The first thing to do is count up our strengths. We must look in the boxes.’’ I raised a palm to quiet her fearful protest. ‘‘Will Jakey be back soon?’’
‘‘No, he’ll be late and drunk, but he’ll know!’’
‘‘We can replace everything just as before.’’ She still hesitated and I added, ‘‘Do you want to be safe?’’
‘‘Yes. No, I want him to love me!’’
‘‘But does he?’’ When her face fell, I added, ‘‘The keys. Hurry!’’
With fearful steps, she went to the boot stand in the entry and, picking up a man’s polished boot, pulled three keys from the toe. We pulled the boxes from under the tall carved bed, opened them, and there, clumped with other jewelry in a corner of the second box, was my bracelet! My heart danced a happy jig.
The rest was even better than I’d hoped. There were watches. There was a fine silk scarf. There were handsome dresses—‘‘Oh, that’s the one stolen from Mrs. Hill!’’ Mabel said, warming to our task. ‘‘The thief was arrested, but Mrs. Hill never got her dress back.’’ There were rings and brooches. ‘‘Look, remember the anarchist Lingg left a brooch to his sweetheart, and after he died they couldn’t find it? There it is!’’ Best of all, there were official papers. ‘‘Yes, that’s the man who testified he saw August Spies light the bomb!’’
I frowned at the page. ‘‘That’s not what he says here.’’
‘‘This is the man’s original testimony. Captain Schaack and Jakey pay people to say what they want them to, so in court this man swore August Spies lit the fuse.’’
‘‘And then Jake hid the original statements.’’ I flipped through the rest of the papers. No wonder that low-down Schaack was afraid of Jake. And it looked as though Black Jack Bonfield had reason to fear exposure as well. I beamed at Mabel. ‘‘Mabel, your future is bright! Bring a little valise or carpetbag.’’
Looking hopeful, she complied, and protested only a little as I slid the papers, the silk scarf, and Lingg’s brooch into the little black valise she brought. My bracelet, of course, was already safe in my bustle pocket. I was closing the valise when the downstairs door slammed and we heard a heavy tread on the stairs.
Mabel gave a terrified squeal. I grabbed her arm. ‘‘Hush! You must act as you always do! Don’t mention me!’’ I finished relocking the three boxes and kicked them under the bed.
From a floor below came a muffled, sleepy Scandinavian voice. ‘‘Yakey, be quiet, yah?’’
Mabel whimpered, ‘‘Don’t leave me!’’
‘‘Don’t worry. Just help him to bed, all the usual things.’’ I gave her arm a little shake. ‘‘Are you listening?’’
‘‘I help him to bed?’’
‘‘Yes, good!’’ I ran into the parlor. Jake’s heavy steps sounded very near now, so I dove behind a settee that was angled across a dusky corner of the room. I held my skirts close about me and trusted to the shadows and to Jake’s inebriation to protect me.
‘‘Jakey, dear!’’ Mabel said as the door opened. She was trying, but I could hear the quiver in her voice. ‘‘Do you want a beer?’’
He tossed his coat onto a peg, his gun peeking from its pocket. ‘‘Nah, I’m tired. Move!’’ And he added an oath that no lady should be forced to hear, although Mabel did not seem surprised. He tugged off his boots and staggered to the bedroom to fall onto his pillow.
When he began snoring Mabel tiptoed to the entry to hang up his jacket and looked around, but didn’t see me as she turned down the lamps.
It was not a night for rest. Jake snored, Mabel sobbed, and in my head Aunt Mollie was whispering to me that Mabel was not strong enough; I should take my bracelet and skedaddle and never see Mabel or Jake again. But hang it, I could also hear the piteous groans of the men Bonfield had shot at McCormick’s and at Haymarket, and the cries of panic afterward that Bonfield and Schaack and Jake had created and thrived on, and especially the idealistic voice of August of the welkin eye, hanged because the police didn’t want to admit they’d shot each other. So I told Aunt Mollie to hush up, crept out to empty Jake’s Smith and
Wesson, then returned to hide behind the settee and doze off with my Colt in my hand.
I woke to morning light and the sound of an oath from their room. I hurried silently to stand by the hinge side of their closed door. ‘‘Where’s my watch? Stupid woman!’’
‘‘Jakey, it’s in your jacket.’’ Mabel, in her wrapper, emerged to fetch his coat from the entry hall. She didn’t see me because I was behind the door she’d just opened. Through the gap between the hinges I could see Jakey stumbling to his feet, fumbling in the pocket of the jacket she brought back.
‘‘Pour the water!’’
‘‘Yes, Jakey.’’ She poured water into the basin for him and handed him a towel. Apparently seeing him at his ablutions inspired tender feelings, for she added, ‘‘Dear Jakey, it’s not too late, if you would only love me as you once did.’’
‘‘Stupid woman!’’ He elbowed her away to wash his neck.
Just then the boy knocked and called, ‘‘Do you want pastries today?’’
‘‘Yes, please!’’ Mabel hurried to the door and gave the lad some coins, then returned to the bedroom and said, ‘‘Jakey, do you love another? Tell me!’’
‘‘I’m tired of your jealous nonsense, Mabel! Stop it or we’ll have to split up!’’
She cried, ‘‘But I’ve kept quiet! I’ve only sold what you told me to! I’ve been a good wife!’’
‘‘Shut up!’’ He grabbed his Smith and Wesson from his jacket and waved it about.
Well, I was pleased, though Mabel wasn’t. ‘‘Jakey, no! I’m a good wife!’’
Just then I got the perfect angle through the gap between the hinges. Jake was in profile, and I could have hit him square in the temple, but instead, as a favor to Mabel, I aimed a bit forward and took off his left eyebrow.
I know, I know, proper ladies are not good marksmen, but growing up in St. Louis I’d learned to hit a squirrel in the eye from thirty paces, and some days it’s hard to give up the old ways. Jake was much nearer and much slower than a squirrel. And how can a poor girl resist when fate provides her with one of the finest Colts in the nation, once the favored gun of Jesse James?
Sisters On the Case Page 5