Red Jacket (21 page)

58

Red Jacket

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 6, 1913

Bapcat thought it could be useful to go where strikers would congregate in numbers, so he and the Russian could watch, listen, and observe. Normally an ice hockey arena, The Palestra was teeming with people when Bapcat and Zakov made their way into the giant building and found a place to stand where they could see the stage. Bapcat saw George Gipp in the crowd, who winked at him.

A tiny woman with snow-white hair ambled across the stage to the rostrum. “I am Mary Harris Jones. I've lived eight decades on God's great Earth, and I have come here to raise hell on behalf of my brothers of the Western Federation of Miners.”

The crowd murmured and she continued: “Now, boys, some people say to me, ‘Mother, why don't you just stay home in your rocker and take life easy?' You know, we drove over here today from the train, and one of the soldiers your governor sent up here called me a mouthy old bitch. I told the boys to stop the car so I could knock that whelp in the green monkey suit on his arse, but the boys reminded me that all you folks were waiting.”

There was enthusiastic applause this time.

“Instead of just that one soldier, I want you to help me kick the arses of General Manager MacNaughton and his money-grubbing minions and stooges. Yes, brothers and sisters, your mother is an agitator—and damn proud of it! Together we are going to win this righteous fight, and ultimately bring justice to this place. If your mother says it's so, believe it!”

The crowd erupted in wild celebration, screaming, waving placards, whistling, dancing around.

When the cheering subsided, the woman said, “Don't get me wrong, friends. I want you all to find peace and fairness and contentment, but more than that, I want to raise hell with the mine owners, and I want those bastards to know that my only home will always be wherever there's a fight.” She paused to catch her breath and her voice went up. “As a girl in Ireland I watched soldiers of Queen Victoria march past my home with severed Irish heads on their bayonets.”

The crowd hushed, waiting for more.

“They hung me dear father and dropped his body in front of the house.”

A long howl of sympathy and anger ripped through the crowd. “And that very day, I swore to fight for little fellas everywhere, and to fight the bastards with bayonets and bullets if that's how they want it!”

The resultant cheering and chaos lasted for ten minutes before tapering off, and all the while the little woman in black stood on stage, smiling innocently.

“In Russia, the czar's men would put a bullet in her bonnet before she left the stage,” Zakov said.

Mother Jones held her hands over her head like a triumphant fighter, and waved for the audience to be quiet.

Bapcat was astounded by the number of women and small children in the ice hockey arena.

“No one-man drills,” Mother Jones shouted, and the crowd took up her chant, roaring.

“The poor dig copper and die while the mine operators play golf!” she yelled.

“Golf!” the crowd chanted.

“You don't need a vote to raise hell, ladies!”

“Hell!” the crowd roared.

“I'm told the operators said they would blow my brains out if I came here—that they didn't want to see me.” The crowd awaited her next words. “Well, here I am. I didn't come to see them; I came to see and find solidarity with you!”

The cheering was louder than anything Bapcat had ever experienced.

“A lot of you here are immigrants, new to America, just as I once was. You came here dreaming about streets of gold and opportunities without limit. Instead, you found streets of mud and holes a mile underground. The mines kill and maim you every year, and the operators treat you like slaves—no, worse—like pieces of equipment. This country fought a war to free the slaves, but here you are still shackled by the greed of insatiable capitalists.”

The crowd buzzed. “The Russians freed their serfs just as our own beloved Abraham Lincoln freed all slaves, black, white, red, green, short, tall, Greek, Italian, Finn, Austrian, Slovenian, Croatian, Irish—not just
some
slaves, but
all
slaves.
All slaves are free!
”

The crowd roared and surged and Mother Jones continued, screaming, “Brothers and sisters, we are strong united, weak alone! Every inch of progress made by man has come at a cost, often the ultimate cost. We have here injustice on an unprecedented scale. I ask you now to stay the course. Stay the course!”

“Stay the course!” the crowd thundered. “
Stay the course! Fight fire with fire!
”

The audience chanted on, and Bapcat felt the building trembling under the noise and size of the crowd. As he studied the red-faced celebrants he saw Fig Verbankick jumping up and down in the front rank, screaming, his face flushed red, eyes bulging, veins sticking out on his scrawny neck. Bapcat nudged Zakov and pointed at the gnome-like man.

“Born follower,” Zakov said dismissively.

Verbankick seemed to be screaming the same word over and over, but Bapcat couldn't quite make it out, and after a while, he looked around the arena to see what was happenng. He saw people screaming and demonstrating with signs, and waving placards, and breaking into smaller groups.

After the rally, the crowd followed Mother Jones en masse as she rode in a car to the union hall, two thousand people cheering, clapping, and marching behind her in two lines, on both sides of the street. Right behind her car marched Big Annie Clemenc, carrying her giant American flag, which snapped in the breeze like a bullwhip.

Soldiers silently watched the demonstration. But eight C & H special deputies rode behind the marchers on black horses that whinnied nervously and dropped horse apples on paved streets. The deputies wore dark navy peacoats, dark pants bloused in knee-high boots, star-shaped badges over their hearts. None of their caps matched. The horses' shoes echoed hollowly on the paved streets.

“Remarkable country,” Zakov said. “In Russia, the army would shoot demonstrators without discrimination.”

“We're not savages,” Bapcat said.

“No, you're slaves,” the Russian said. “Did you not hear what the
babushka
had to say?”

“You think the strikers can win?”

Zakov sighed. “Not the slightest chance. It's summer, and warm now. Let winter come and see what happens. Wars are often lost in winter. Ask Napoleon.”

“You escorted a general to his death,” Bapcat said, changing the subject suddenly.

“You're misinformed, Lute. I escorted a butcher to a hero's end he did not deserve. What more could a true general ask?”

“The stories you told me were untrue.”

“Only in facts, not spirit.”

“You cut some fine distinctions.”

“In time you may find the wisdom to emulate my ways.”

59

Mohawk, Keweenaw County

MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1913

John Hepting and Deputy Taylor met them at the general store in Mohawk. The day was cool and foggy. “Seeing some leaves start to change,” the sheriff said. “Anything yet on Hannula?”

“Nothing,” Bapcat said.

Hepting said, “I went to see his wife, but she's gone, cleared out. The neighbors don't know where.”

There had been no word from Jaquelle since Lake Linden, and Bapcat reminded himself that perhaps her connections were not as muscular as she had made out, or maybe he had misunderstood. It had been a little more than two weeks since he had seen her at the Hotel Perrault.

“You hear about Seeberville?” Hepting asked.

“Conflicting details,” Bapcat said.

“Croatian boardinghouse, and five fellas from there marched over to South Range to check on strike matters, and drink some beer in a park. When they headed home, two men stopped at a candy store, and when they came out, they decided to take a shortcut to catch up with the others, but the route was past Chapin Mine's Dry House, which is off limits to anyone without an official pass. The soldiers stopped patrolling the day before, so it was special deputies who took over and challenged the men.”

“
Company
deputies?” Bapcat asked.

Hepting nodded. “A deputy challenged the men, who basically told him to go to hell and kept walking. Then a Waddie showed up.”

In the newspapers Sheriff Jim Cruse had repeatedly denied hiring any Waddies—Waddell-Mahon agency strike-breakers—from New York.

Sheriff John Hepting said, “The guard told the Waddie what had happened. One of Cruse's real detectives arrived and got his dander up, enlisting more Waddies and special deputies. Another Cruse deputy and the whole mob joined forces, caught up to the two men, and tried to grab them, but the pair fought, escaped, and went into the boardinghouse. Some soul came outside the house, hurled a tenpin, and hit a Waddie, who took out his revolver and shot the owner of the boardinghouse, who happened to be outside at the wrong moment. All sorts of shooting commenced from the operators' men. The mob left without checking for wounded or dead, and later the Waddies and deputies all swore they'd been ambushed, but no guns were found in the house. Two dead. The prosecutor ordered Cruse to take badges from all those involved, but Cruse has refused. Where
were
you fellas yesterday?” he concluded.

“Boots in the dirt,” Bapcat said. “The usual.”

Said Hepting, “Yesterday the strikers held a rally at the Palestra. There were five thousand mourners and strike supporters. They brought a train through all the towns from Painesdale to Red Jacket. It was one heckuva show. Finnish band, little blonde girls in white dresses carrying bouquets and wreaths, American flags draped in black. One of the dead men was supposed to get married, so ten girls in white with bridal veils marched behind the hearse, like virgins on a death march.”

“Arrests?”

“Two Cruse deputies on Saturday. But the Waddies have disappeared. I heard they sent word through an emissary that they'd surrender if charges got lowered, but the prosecutor refused.”

“With blood in the water, the sharks will feed now,” Zakov said.

“You fellas making
any
headway?” Hepting asked.

“Nothing yet,” Bapcat said.

“The mines got their pumps running again,” Deputy Chilly Taylor volunteered.

Harju said, “We heard there was a compromise on that with the strikers. Fire departments depend on the nearest mine pumps for their water. The fire at the meat market was cited as an example of what can happen without water access. Strikers depend on the stores, and I guess they decided it made sense to compromise.”

“Any compromise in this thing is a loss,” Hepting said. “The operators are dead serious.”

The mine operators' iron resolve supported what Jaquelle had told him.

Taylor asked, “Why is it mines have hoses going out all over the place, stuck in the ground?”

“What?” Bapcat asked.

“I just said, all those hoses we're seeing.”

Bapcat had no idea what the man was talking about and had a more pressing question. He turned to Hepting. “You think the charges will stick with the Waddies and Cruse's people?”

“Would never bet against Tony Lucas,” Hepting said. “Besides, he hates Cruse's guts.” Lucas was Houghton County's prosecutor.

Hepting headed north on foot, Harju and Sandheim east toward the Traprock River country, and Bapcat, puzzled by Taylor's odd comments about hoses, took Zakov with him to find a pump house, to see what they could see.

Leaving the Centennial pump house, they noticed hoses stretching from the center like legs of an octopus. The two men sat on a boulder and lit cigarettes and said nothing. Bapcat noted there were no trees in the immediate area. Off in the distance he saw a boy with a rifle. The two men ran after the boy, yelling for him to stop. He came back reluctantly and walked toward them, eyes down.

“Game wardens, boy,” Zakov said.

“I don't see no badges,” the boy retorted defiantly

Zakov flipped up a collar to reveal their shared badge.

“Hunting?” Bapcat asked.

“Not 'round here,” the boy said. “This here's like the Suharry Desert.”

“A desert has no water,” Zakov corrected.

“And it don't got much wildlife neither,” the boy said, “like rabbits, foxes, woodchucks, even squirrels. The mines got people cuttin' down all the trees on their property. They run hoses down all the animal dens,” the boy said.

“The water will be good for fish,” Zakov said.

“Could be if mines didn't dump big cans of white stuff in creeks.”

“White stuff?” Bapcat asked.

“Barrels full. Got dead fish floatin' everywhere.”

“Which creeks and what's in the barrels?”

“Upper Seneca, Quince, Brown's Run—all the little ones. Don't know what the white stuff is, but it sure kills fish fast.”

“Show us?” Bapcat asked the boy.

Quince Creek was no more than a trickle, clogged with dead, rotting brook trout.

Zakov keened, “Evil ditches, Dante's eighth circle of Hell.”

“Have you seen eagles eating the fish?” Bapcat asked the boy, trying to ignore his Russian partner's ravings.

“Ain't nothing eats such shit,” the boy said bitterly.

“Who dumps this stuff?” Bapcat asked.

“Who do you think?” the boy answered. “The mines.”

“You've seen them?”

“No they do it only at night.”

Zakov knelt by the stream, sniffing. “An acid, perhaps.”

“Which kind?”

“I doubt that it matters to the fish,” he said.

“Deer, dens, rivers—they're trying to kill everything,” Bapcat said. “We need to move around, see how widespread this is. What's your name?” Bapcat asked the boy.

“Jordy Kluboshar,” he said. “I am a proud Croatian.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Past week or so,” the boy said.

Zakov said, “Good for you, Jordy Kluboshar. Run along now. And thank you for your help.”

“You men gonna do something to help us hunters?” the boy asked.

“We hope to,” Bapcat said.

“Can't eat hope,” the boy countered, and marched away.

“Should we inform our colleagues?” Zakov asked.

“When we know more.”

“Come winter,” Zakov said, “this will have severe consequences.”

“I expect that might be exactly the plan,” Bapcat said.