“’Tis a private matter. If Jenny had wanted you to know, she’d have told you. I’ll not be sayin’ a word about it.”
Kate laid her hand on Patrick’s dirty jacket. “She’s missing, Patrick. She never came home last night. We have people out looking for her now. Please, won’t you tell us? It could help us find her quicker.”
“Jenny is missin’?” Patrick’s hands balled into fists. “I shouldn’t have listened to her. She wouldn’t let me see her home on account of her not wantin’ any of you to know she’d been here.”
“But why? What was so bad that she felt the need to keep it from us?”
For a long time Patrick remained silent, his head down as he kicked the black grimy soil with the toe of his black grimy boot. When he looked up, his countenance was so fierce it made Kate step backward.
“She was protectin’ me. She came to show me the coffin notice and asked if it was one of my Mollies who sent it.”
While Joshua appeared surprised, Kate only shook her head. “I don’t understand. She already told me you were part of the Molly Maguires. Why would she feel the need to protect you now?”
“She didn’t want the law askin’ me questions. She was . . . .” his voice broke, “she was always worryin’ over me so.” He looked past Kate and Joshua. “She went home that way.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the usual trail; the very one they had traveled to get here. “Best you start there. Trace her steps and see what you find.”
“Will you be coming? The more eyes we have the . . . .”
“No. You go on.”
It was obvious by the way his lips were drawn tightly together, the way his body was planted so firm and straight, that for Patrick, the matter was settled and he wasn’t going to change his mind. And by the look in his eyes, Kate saw that he was somewhere else, somewhere far away.
“I’m a Pinkerton agent, working for Mr. Gowen,” Joshua said, stepping closer. “If you know anything about Virginia’s disappearance, anything at all, and are withholding that information, it won’t go well with you, I can promise you that!”
Patrick continued staring past them, but his eyelids fluttered just a bit. “If that’s a threat, be savin’ your breath, Mr. Adams. If anythin’ happens to Jenny, it won’t matter a bit what you do to me.”
CHAPTER 11
Virginia brought her shivering arms up to her chest. Her bare shoulder was so numb she couldn’t even feel it. She tried covering it with her bound hands hoping their warmth would relieve the ache. The trip here had been a blur. Even so, she had felt the dense brush snag her green linen dress, ripping it at the shoulder and elsewhere, and making what was left of her long sleeves hardly warm enough for the interior of a mine. And the line of squeezed timbers—bent like a regiment of old men—and the rusted and misaligned car rails told her that this mine was abandoned.
She held her breath when a rat darted across the rails, then pressed her back against the hard, rough wall when she saw another scurry by. Then another. Did they smell blood? Her wrists were bleeding from the coarse ropes; so were her ankles. She sighed with relief as the rats passed without stopping and disappeared behind the mound of coal and slag that looked like it had fallen from the roof.
At least it wasn’t pitch black. Half a dozen oil lamps, placed along the tracks, lit several yards of the shaft. It also enabled her to see the roof, though she wished she couldn’t, for a large crack, centered above her head, ran in both directions.
She had been struggling against her ropes ever since her captor buried himself beneath that filthy blanket. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t loosen them. All she had succeeded in doing was cutting herself deeper.
Now as she sat motionless against the wall all she could think about was the cold. It made even that disgusting blanket look inviting. And she was tired, too. So tired. Her lids felt like anvils. But she dare not sleep. Not now, when any minute he might wake up. She needed to stay alert, to keep her wits, so she could make her escape.
She tried ignoring the stench that floated from the body and blanket several feet away. It was a mix of body odor, dirt, whiskey and kerosene. The kerosene, especially, was distasteful, reminding her of the hands that had dragged her from the path to this shaft.
But what shaft? There were so many abandoned shafts in the Schuylkill Mountains. It would take weeks for rescuers to search them all. But she couldn’t think of that now. She needed to keep up her courage. If only she wasn’t so cold and tired. And in pain. Her whole body ached, including her back which had been pressed against this hard wall for what seemed an eternity. Still . . . she was grateful he had not gagged her. She supposed it was because he didn’t care if she screamed or made a fuss. Who would hear?
Suddenly the blanket moved, writhing like an anaconda she had once seen at a circus—so big it could swallow a grown man. It would be easy for him to leave her; let the shaft swallow her, and the rats finish what was left. Earlier, when he was drinking, she thought he’d do just that. Now, any minute he’d be up. Would he start drinking that foul smelling liquor again? And act crazy?
She watched the blanket ripple. Who was he? What kind of man made his home in a dark underground hole? The signs of his makeshift abode were everywhere. Half a dozen large tins held kerosene for the lamps. The place reeked of them. And nearby, a cluster of amber-colored whiskey flasks formed a small pyramid. Next to it, amid the coal and slate chips, sat a dirty tin plate and fork, a can opener, several cans of tomatoes, and a can or two of some kind of meat spread. He could spend days here without having to return to the surface.
Oh, God help me.
Virginia worked the ropes again, pulling here, twisting there, then stopped. What was the use? Even if she managed to untie herself, how was she ever going to find her way to the surface? Mine tunnels could go on for miles, and often led to dead ends. If only she hadn’t been nearly unconscious when she first came. Then she could have observed the markers and landscape showing the way out.
Was this to be her grave?
Suddenly, the dark, odious man threw off his blanket, then yawned a phlegmy-sounding yawn. When he sat up and rubbed his stubbled face, it sounded like sandpaper scraping wood. Another phlegmy yawn, then he routed around in his things before picking up one of the amber bottles, which he quickly uncorked and drank. She was so thirsty that even a mouthful of that cheap whiskey would have been welcome. She was hungry, too. When had she eaten last? She couldn’t remember. And he had given her nothing. No food or water. Not even a blanket to keep her warm. She watched as he drained half the bottle in only a few gulps. The last time he drank this much he rambled incoherently for hours.
He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, then tilted his head and the bottle, and drank the rest. When he finished, he tossed the bottle behind one of the sagging timbers. Virginia heard glass shatter as though it had landed on a pile of other bottles.
He rubbed his face once more, then glanced up. When he saw her, he blinked then rose and began pacing—his footfalls surprisingly steady between the ruined tracks.
“‘Tis all your fault, you know. ‘Twas your meddlin’ that done it. Turned Patrick against me. And him just about my only friend.”
Virginia held her breath. He had talked this way after draining his last bottle. He had cried, too, and pulled his hair, and raved like a madman.
“You shouldn’t have done that. Turned Patrick against me. When it was me that done you all them good turns by takin’ your articles to Tamaqua and that fella at the Monitor. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”
Virginia stared at him in horror. Who was he? Until now, she had been too terrified to speak. But that had to change if she hoped to learn why he had brought her here, then use it to her advantage. “Well . . . thank you Mr . . . Mr?”
“Patrick gave me two silver half-dimes every time I made the trip.” He fumbled in the pockets of his dirty trousers and pull
ed out the coins. “See! I still got the last ones. He was good like that. Always tryin’ to throw a little work my way.”
She closed her eyes and tried to remember if Patrick had talked about any of his friends, and only one name came up; Powderkeg Kelly. “Yes . . . Patrick said he liked giving you jobs.”
“He was . . . my only friend. And now you’ve gone and ruined it!” He turned and scowled at Virginia. “It’s your fault you’re here. Don’t blame me. I didn’t mean for none of this to happen. But what’s a man to do when he’s down on his luck? And me, the best blaster in Schuylkill.”
It had to be Powderkeg Kelly. Virginia’s heart dropped as she remembered Patrick’s words: some say he’s crazy. “Yes, Patrick told me you were skilled with blasting powder.”
“He did?” Powderkeg wiped his eyes with the back of his blackened hand. “He was my best friend, you know.”
“Patrick also told me how you helped him find the two men Mr. Roach hired.” She tried to sound calm. “And how fearless you were.” She needed to gain his confidence.
“Well you can’t be no sissy if you handle explosives for a livin’. But that don’t mean I like hurtin’ people. Don’t go thinkin’ I wanted to tie you up like this! It don’t give me no pleasure. You’re a real lady, I can see that. And I don’t mean you no harm.”
“Then why don’t you let me go, Mr. Kelly?” She’d have to tread carefully. Not push too hard. He was a tall, massive man, someone she could never overpower. Freedom would come only by employing her wits. “If you let me go, it will please Patrick.”
“You just stop that now!” Powderkeg smashed his hand against one of the bowed timbers causing it to shudder. “You stop talkin’ about Patrick! I don’t want to hear no more about him. He was gonna turn me over to the law. And me, his best friend! Now why would he do that?”
Was this the man who killed Mr. Blakely? “Did you do something wrong?”
“I should never have asked Patrick to sell that gold for me.”
“What gold?”
“But what was I to do? Me, being down on my luck?” He paced up and down between the tracks, his hand smacking the timber pillars as he passed, making them groan and creak.
Virginia trembled as she envisioned the entire roof caving. Don’t think of that now! Keep your wits! Years ago, hadn’t Father told her about a gold nugget Mr. Blakely used as a paperweight? Was that the gold Powderkeg was talking about? It had been the only thing missing from Mr. Blakely’s office the night he was killed. Father had talked about how much Mr. Blakely prized that nugget, a worthless piece of fools-gold weighing nearly a pound; a nugget he had found as a young man panning during the California gold rush. She remembered Father talking about how Mr. Blakely kept it as a reminder of the price of greed since it cost the lives of his two best friends; friends who had been his mining partners and who had been killed by would-be claim jumpers thinking they had struck it rich. The incident made Mr. Blakely pull up stakes and head back to Pennsylvania. And Father had told her that as long as he could remember, Mr. Blakely had used that nugget as a paperweight.
“I should never have shown Patrick the gold.” Powderkeg tore at his hair. “No. Shouldn’t have done that.”
“Are you . . . talking about Mr. Blakely’s paperweight?”
“I liked Mr. Blakely. He was a good man. All I wanted was a job. I asked him nice like, too, but he said he couldn’t use me on account of the drink. Said I would endanger the other men.” Powderkeg thumped his chest. “I can handle my liquor. He shoulda known that. Besides, I don’t drink much. He shoulda given me a chance.”
“Mr. Blakely was a good man. I’m sure he would have used you if he could. Everyone knows what a good blaster you are. Mr. Blakely knew that too.”
“I never meant him no hurt.” He wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “Why did he have to leave that stack of money on his desk? And with that big chunk of gold sittin’ right on top? A man down on his luck . . . well he . . . he might do anythin’. But I was only goin’ to borrow it. ‘Til I got back on my feet. I would have repaid every cent, don’t think I wouldn’t have, either!” Powderkeg beat his head with his balled fists. “I would have paid it back.”
“You . . . took his money?” There had been no mention of missing money at the trial, and being so close to payday when collieries had an abundance of cash in their strongboxes, anything missing would have been noticed since everyone knew, based on the size of a given colliery and the number of men working it, how much payroll there should be. But Mr. Blakely’s paymaster handled all that, not Mr. Blakely himself, and pay was dispensed in gold and silver pieces, not folding money since many immigrants didn’t trust it. And during the trial it had come out that there was a stack of paper currency on Mr. Blakely’s desk but no one had bothered trying to figure out why. If it wasn’t for payroll was it for the investigation he and Father were conducting into Martin Roach’s activities? Was that why Mr. Blakely wanted to see Father that night? To tell him he had found a contact at the railroad who could be bribed into letting them see Mr. Roach’s contracts, and the money on his desk was the bribe? And Father, being a railroad man, was the one to handle it? Why else would he leave a stack of paper currency in the open like that? But it hardly seemed to matter now. What did matter was Powderkeg’s role in it. “Did you . . . steal Mr. Blakely’s money?” she repeated.
“His money? No . . . no money. Just that gold nugget . . . in my pocket, though it was the foldin’ money I was after . . . being so light, and easy to carry and all . . . and so much of it, too. I’d seen a stack like that at a bank once. It would have kept me for a year, maybe two. But Mr. Blakely turned from the cabinet, the one he had been shovin’ all his papers into, just as I was reachin’ for it. I didn’t mean him no harm. He was a good man. I never meant to do him hurt.” Powderkeg wrung his hands as if remembering that day.
“Is that when you . . . killed him?” Virginia couldn’t believe she had said that. What was she thinking? It was dangerous pushing him to the edge like this.
Powderkeg waved his hands in the air. “I told Mr. Blakely I just wanted to borrow the money. But he said he’d get the law after me if I didn’t get out. He shoulda let me go. I was goin’ too, ‘til he started shoutin’ somethin’ about his paperweight. I told him he was daft. What would I be knowin’ about any paperweight? He shoulda let me go.”
Virginia was picturing what happened: the elderly Mr. Blakely holding Powderkeg’s arm; refusing to let him go until he returned his prized paperweight; and Powderkeg not understanding that he meant the worthless gold nugget in his pocket. And then what? Mr. Blakely had been killed by his own knife. Had he pulled it on Powderkeg? They must have fought. Mr. Blakely was getting on in years and no match for a more powerful, younger man. It would be easy for Powderkeg to wrestle the knife from him and then . . . . She suddenly felt sorry for her captor as she visualized the skirmish.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him. The knife . . . he fell on it and . . . I ran.”
“You must tell that to the police.”
“No! No police. They wouldn’t believe me anyways. They’d say I did it on purpose, and then they’d lock me up. And even if they did believe me, they’d still be mad about Superintendent Foley. But that was his fault. He shoulda left town like I told him.”
“Are you the one who . . . hurt Mr. Foley?”
“He shouldn’t have fired me. Now what am I supposed to do? A man needs to work. He goes crazy if he don’t work.”
“We’ll go to the police and make them understand. We can tell them together.”
“No! I said no police! Now stop tryin’ to confuse me!” Powderkeg pointed a shaking finger at her. “I know what you’re up to! But we’re not goin’ nowhere. Not to the police . . . nowhere. Not for another day or so, ‘til it’s safe. Then we’re goin’ far away, you and me. No one is gonna hunt me down while I got you. Not Patrick.
Not anyone. I thought it all out, careful like. When I’m safe, I’ll let you go. But no more talk about the law or I’ll bind your mouth shut. See if I don’t!”
Virginia closed her eyes. Mr. Blakely was killed over a piece of fools-gold. And indirectly, Father, too. Oh, the irony of it, after Mr. Blakely’s two friends had been killed for it as well. Now, was she to die for the same reason? Oh, God, don’t let this happen!
“It don’t give me no pleasure stealin’ you away like this and trussin’ you up as if you was a turkey. Don’t think I wanted to. But you only got yourself to blame. You shouldn’t have turned Patrick against me. You only got yourself to blame.”
Virginia slumped against the wall. Let him rant. She wouldn’t say another word. She had already learned what she needed to. It was clear that Powderkeg wasn’t going to turn himself in for killing Mr. Blakely or for the Foley beating, or allow Patrick to do it, either. It was also clear he was planning to make his escape, perhaps to another state, and use her as a hostage in order to keep everyone away. Maybe even as a shield if things got rough. But he wasn’t going to hurt her. Not yet. Not while she was still useful. She’d bide her time, and once out of the mine, make her escape.
“Jenny!”
Virginia jerked upright, scraping her back against the wall and causing pain to shoot up her spine. She must have been dozing . . . and dreaming, because she thought she heard someone call her name. And there was only one person who ever called her “Jenny.” How her heart ached for him now. And how she wished she had told him, just once, that she loved him. What a wretched thing pride was.
She looked around. Why was it so dark? Oh . . . just three kerosene lamps were lit. What happened to the others? Had Powderkeg let them go out? He must be drinking again. And what was that scuffling noise? She craned her neck in the direction of the sound but saw nothing. Too many shadows. The three lamps illuminated only a few yards. Beyond that was nothing but a black void. Surely Powderkeg had not left her here? No . . . wait . . . there he was . . . coming out of the shadows and waving his arms like a wild man. And . . . what was that in his hand? A knife? Too dark to tell, but it flashed whenever he moved. And he was shouting something, too.
The Daughters of Jim Farrell Page 23