Death at Pullman (19 page)

 “Whatever do you mean? Mr. O'Malley, I don't believe it is safe for you to be here. The police will arrest you if they see you.” I looked over my shoulder.

“Aye, miss. That Jennings is determined to blacken the name of O'Malley, but it was him and that Stark who were behind it.”

“It was you who sent me that note, then? About the bomb in the clock tower?”

“Aye. 'Twould not have been dealt with fairly by the company. I hoped you might get them to stop it and show the truth of it. But that Stark and Jennings got away with it for all that.”

“I'm sorry that is so. I've protested, but no one will do anything. I am very sorry, but I don't believe anyone can do more about that until the strike is over.”

“If ever it is.”

“It must be.”

“It's not for that I've come now. There is something else that must be stopped. After they took the men away some of the dynamite was gone, was it not?”

I remembered back to what Detective Whitbread found at the end of that evening. “My brother told me there were four sticks missing. I assumed Mr. Jennings and Mr. Stark had spirited them away.”

“'Twas not, 'twas LeClerc.”

“What? How? He was not even there.”

“But he was, miss. And so was I. I hid myself there most of the day, don't you see. I hoped you would find someone to stop them, as you did. But I could not let them go through with it if you did not, so I hid to watch, hoping I'd not have to show myself. And who should I see arrive before you all? It was LeClerc. I thought at first you had gone to him instead of the police and MacGregor. I was surprised, but as long as they were stopped, I cared not. But then I saw you and the police detective and MacGregor. Well LeClerc, now, he did them a favor. When Stark ran, he nearly got away. 'Twas the ARU man who grabbed him and threw him back to you. I could see it all from above, as I had been watching in the dark all along. But while you were all arguing with Jennings, I saw another thing. I saw LeClerc sneak in and take the dynamite. Well, I followed him then, but he only left. He wasn't going to use it. You'd stopped the trouble, as best you could, but Jennings had still got away with it. To expose the ARU man then would only make it go bad for the strikers. There seemed no reason to do it. They wanted me, too, so I saw no way to expose it without causing myself and the innocent men like MacGregor nothing but trouble. So I kept mum, and I kept low. Even after poor Mooney was killed. It would only make for more sympathy for the company and the sheriff's men, give them more of an excuse if they knew LeClerc was the one stole the dynamite.”

“But you are telling me, now. Why? Why are you telling
me
?”

“I'm afraid now he'll use it.”

“Surely not. Mr. Debs and the ARU have been against violence all along. They have forbidden it. Just like Mr. MacGregor. They don't want to blow anything up. They want a peaceful resolution. It was the company that wanted to make it look like the strikers were behind the violence. Why would Mr. LeClerc use the dynamite now? I don't believe it.”

Joe pushed aside some of the branches to look towards the camp of soldiers around the Florence Hotel. “Things have changed, you see. Times are desperate. Maybe Debs forswears violence but the men as work for him, like LeClerc, maybe they see the end in sight and it's not a good one. Maybe they're losing faith in Debs and the leaders.” He let the leaves fall gently back into place. “If he uses the explosives, they will blame the strikers. What do you think the army will do then?”

“No, he wouldn't. But why do you think he will use the dynamite? He hasn't so far, has he?”

“He's in the brick shed, miss. He's there using the tools to fill a pipe with nails and screws from the machine yard and I'm feared he will use the sticks of dynamite to explode it all.”

“How do you know about this? Have you been following him? Working with him, like you did with Stark?”

“No, miss. Not like that. It's not LeClerc I've been following.” He hung his head. “It's Miss MacGregor. I've been trying to reason with her. To make her see what he plans to do, but she'll not listen.”

“Fiona? But she was ill when I saw her last week. She was with Raoul then.” So was Joe O'Malley in love with Fiona, too? Fiona, who had engaged the affections of the doctor, Raoul, and Joe's dead brother. She had certainly been busy. No wonder she had no time for the clinic. “Surely Miss MacGregor is not involved in something so dangerous.”

“She's at the shed in the brickyard with him now.” He looked across at the army camp again. “I cannot go to her father. Besides the fact I'm in hiding, he would not believe it of his daughter. But we cannot let them make the bomb and we cannot let the soldiers find out what they are doing. We must stop them, but not let anyone find out.”

“But why do you come to me, Mr. O'Malley? What do you expect me to do? How can I stop them?” I was bitterly disappointed in Raoul LeClerc. It was possible that Joe O'Malley spoke only out of jealousy, but somehow I believed him. I wanted to turn away and go back to my relief station. And there was nothing to stop me.

“I thought you could get the police detective to help us.”

“You mean Detective Whitbread? After he went along with them the last time? And after he saved Stark when he shot Mr. Mooney? I have not spoken to him since then. Why would you think he would help in this? You may as well tell Colonel Turner and have done with it.”

“No, miss. I don't think so. I think the detective will see that if the company and the army find out about this, it would be a disaster. I think he can stop them. But you must decide, miss. I cannot go to them. I can try to stop LeClerc, but Fiona will take his side. And if I am not successful, then they will use the bomb. I must go back.”

“Mr. O'Malley, you must go and tell Detective Whitbread yourself. I cannot do it.”

“No, miss. I'll go back to the shed. You must send the detective if you can see your way to do it.”

“No, Mr. O'Malley, don't go.” But he had already left.

I stepped out from the alley and looked towards the camp at the Florence. Who to tell? Who to warn? Should I go to Mr. MacGregor again? But what if the soldiers saw a confrontation at the brickyard shed? Surely they would assume all of the strikers were involved in the bomb plot. I could picture them surrounding and shooting MacGregor and his men. And this just when Nellie Bly was set to describe how peaceful and pitiable the situation was for the people of Pullman. And what of Raoul LeClerc? His connection to the ARU would be obvious. They would assume Debs had ordered the attack and all hope of a compromise to settle the strike would be lost. This was all the newspapers would need to crow over “Dictator Debs.” Nellie Bly would never get her story published. Could I allow the desperation of two people like Raoul LeClerc and Fiona MacGregor to destroy the hopes of the men and women who had joined this boycott in an effort to bring some justice to the starving workers of Pullman? I did not know why I had to decide what to do—what did I know of such things? But to merely return to the relief station and act surprised when a bomb exploded, ruining everything, was something I could not bring myself to do. I regretted that Joe O'Malley had picked me to tell of the dilemma, but I could not escape the consequences of knowing about it. I kicked a clod of dried mud and headed across the street.

 “Quickly, Miss Cabot, we want to avoid being seen.”

I was following Detective Whitbread across the mud flats to the brick shed. We had come through town and past the MacGregor house, so we were taking the same route I had followed that first day in Pullman when we found Brian O'Malley hanging in the shed. It sent a shiver down my spine to remember that. Whitbread, with his long legs, was striding too quickly for me to keep up. I had to run.

It had not been particularly easy to lure the detective away from the billiard room of the Florence to tell him about another bomb plot. I had to swallow my blind anger at him for saving Stark after the man had shot down Mr. Mooney, but I did. When I confronted him, I realized for the first time exactly how strained he looked. Ceding authority to anyone would not come easily to him, and having to relinquish all responsibility and allow a military organization to take control was not something he would approve of, especially knowing that the military had been called in by the influence of the Pullman Company and the railroads. I knew from past experience that Whitbread did not give in to pressure and I came to the sudden realization that the only reason he did not quit his job altogether was that the balance between civil order and chaos stood so shakily in the current situation, that his sense of duty would not allow him to desert no matter how much he objected to the orders of the day. That he was not above making his own interpretation of orders was something I was well aware of. That he would use that discretion in this case was proven by his immediate reaction to my news. He agreed with Joe O'Malley. The construction of the bomb, using the stolen dynamite, must be stopped without informing the authorities.

We reached the wall of the shed, and Whitbread crouched close to the door, gesturing for me to duck behind him. He moved until he could see through a slit between the wall and the open door. By standing up halfway behind him, a hand on his shoulder, I could also see. At the workbench along the wall, Raoul LeClerc had his back to us as he worked on something—presumably the bomb. I could see glass jars of nails and screws and a pile of plumbing pipes. Fiona MacGregor was perched on the workbench screwing something together. She looked less weak than when I had last seen her. There was no sign of Joe O'Malley.

Suddenly, Whitbread took my arm and dragged me off to the end of the building. “Miss Cabot. I will attempt to apprehend them. You must stay hidden. In the case that I am unsuccessful, you must go and alert Colonel Turner. Stop.” He put up his hand and I shut my mouth, opened in protest. “I know we do not wish to involve the army, however, that is the missing dynamite, at the end of the workbench. We cannot allow them to use it. If I am overcome or incapacitated, you must stay hidden, let them get away, and then go and get the soldiers. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“It is essential that they do not know you are here. Essential. Whatever happens, you must stay hidden.”

“Yes, yes, all right.”

We crept back. I stood to take another look and saw Fiona MacGregor reach over to stroke LeClerc's hair. He pulled back. Meanwhile, Detective Whitbread stood up and took out his pistol. He quietly walked forward.

“Stop what you are doing,” he announced. I remained crouched down, watching from my hiding place. “Put your hands up and turn around slowly. I have a gun and I will use it if necessary.”

LeClerc froze where he was, his hands still on the workbench. Fiona jumped down and stood in front of him, between his back and the detective. “No, no. Leave us alone.”

“Miss MacGregor, move out of the way. To the side, please. Mr. LeClerc, put your hands up and turn around. Slowly.”

But Fiona wouldn't move and suddenly Raoul swung around and threw something. Whitbread ducked, but I heard a crunch as he was struck. He did not fire, as LeClerc knew he would not. He wouldn't risk hitting Fiona. Raoul grabbed her and kept her in front of him as he moved back through the high piles of drying bricks. There was a gunshot and I saw that Whitbread had fired in the air. Another missile came flying and the detective overturned a bench and retreated behind it.

“Mr. LeClerc, come out.”

“Why? So you can arrest me and let a killer like Stark go free?”

“What were you planning to do? Complete the bombing of the factory that Jennings and Stark had planned? Why? You know they wanted to make it look like the strikers were to blame. Why do what they wanted to do and make it real? Surely you can see this would just defeat the purposes of the ARU and play into their hands?”

“What do you want us to do, lay down and die for them? And they can do anything? They can starve the people, organize a fake bomb plot, then use it to shoot innocent people and call in the army to do their dirty work for them. All this they can do and you want to put Debs in jail? You want to put me in jail? While men like Leonard Stark are given stars to wear so they can kill with impunity? That is your justice? That is your law? What do you expect us to do?”

“Mr. LeClerc, the wrongdoings of others do not justify your own. You stole that dynamite with the intention of using it. You may believe you are justified in causing damage to the property of the Pullman Company or the railroads, but your actions are unreasonable and unjustified. People could be hurt by such an explosion.”

“People are being hurt by the actions of this company and those railroads. People are starving and dying. They are being clubbed and beaten and shot. Why don't you go and arrest them? Go arrest Stark.”

It seemed to me, from the variation in his voice, that he was moving but I could not tell where he was in that large, open barn of a shed. I thought I heard another noise closer to me, but the angle of what I could see was extremely limited.

Whitbread continued to try to reason with him. “I can understand your frustration, Mr. LeClerc. I can only agree with you that Mr. Stark should be in custody. However, he is currently protected by the sheriff. It is something that can be pursued after the current tensions come to an end. After this is over, I promise you Mr. Stark's actions will not be forgotten. If it is possible to charge him with the death of Brian O'Malley as well, that will be done.”

Suddenly, I saw a figure stand up in front of the crack in the door. “Stop, watch out,” I yelled, but it was too late. Fiona had lobbed a brick at Detective Whitbread and hit him on the head. I heard a crunch and he slumped over. I ran out from behind the door. LeClerc leapt to the fallen man and grabbed his pistol. He had it pointed at me.

“Emily.”

I ignored him as I knelt next to Whitbread. He was breathing but unconscious. I called his name, loosening his tie and collar. “What have you done?” I snapped at Fiona.

She stood with another brick in her hand, as if ready to strike again. LeClerc reached out a hand and took the brick from her. “We are sorry, but it was necessary. Come, Fiona. We will get our things and leave before he comes to.” He pulled her towards the workbench.

“You can't do this,” I yelled at them. “What are you doing? You cannot bomb the factory and hope to create any sympathy for the strikers. You'll ruin everything. Stop!” I was still crouched down, trying to stop the bleeding from Whitbread's head wound. I pulled out a handkerchief and wished the doctor was with me.

LeClerc stopped and turned to face me, still holding Fiona by the hand. “Sympathy? What good is sympathy? Does sympathy feed the starving down here? Does sympathy stop the soldiers? It's too late for sympathy. The only thing that will make an impression is fear. Fear of the power of the workers. Unless we can impress them with that, all the sympathy in the world will do no good.” He turned angrily back towards the workbench and ran into Joe O'Malley. “Get out of my way.”

Joe blocked him from reaching the pipe bomb. I could see it now. There were wires and two of the sticks of dynamite. “No. No bomb.” He held up a hammer in his hand, threatening. LeClerc took a step back.

“No. Go away,” Fiona screamed. She ran forward, but Joe grabbed her with his left arm still holding the hammer up towards Raoul. “Let me go, let me go.” She twisted herself away as Joe kept his eyes locked with those of LeClerc. Fiona made to attack Joe again, but this time Raoul caught her arm.

“No, stop. We're leaving.”

“Fiona, don't go with him,” Joe pleaded.

“Let us have it,” the girl begged. “Come with us. You can come with us. We need . . . ” She started forward, but Raoul pulled her back before she could finish her sentence.

“No,” Joe said. “I can't let you take it. I can't let you do that.”

As Detective Whitbread began to move with a groan, the others looked around.

“Leave now, before he wakes up,” Joe told LeClerc. The ARU man looked beyond him to the bench, as if calculating whether he could overcome O'Malley, but the husky young Irishman stood tall and stubborn. “I won't let you,” he told LeClerc.

Whitbread groaned again and began to try to sit up. LeClerc shrugged and stooped to pick up a bag.

“Leave the pistol,” Joe demanded. The ARU man set it gently on the ground and with one look over his shoulder at me, he started towards the door. I felt my heart in my throat as I took the imprint of his back and planted it in my memory. I was sure I would never see him again and a whole world of opportunity and possibility seemed to close down with his exit. I still felt something for him, I could not deny it.

Fiona MacGregor stood looking back and forth between Joe and Raoul.

“Fiona, don't go,” Joe pleaded. But she glared at him and ran after LeClerc, who was already out on the mud flats. Joe slumped against the workbench, putting down the hammer as he looked at us.

“They're getting away,” Whitbread grumbled. “Help me up.” I steadied him as he got up.

“You're still bleeding.” I tried to stop him, but he pulled away and loped over to where his pistol lay on the ground, bending to pick it up. “I must go after them.”

“But the bomb materials . . . ” I objected.

“You and Mr. O'Malley stay here and guard them until I can send someone. I told you to stay hidden. When will you learn . . . ”

Before he could finish, the O'Malley children, Lilly and Patrick, ran through the open door. “Joe, Joe . . . it's Gracie. She's gone to the railroad,” Patrick told him.

“Here . . . stop . . . what do you mean?” Joe stooped down to ask them.

“She's gone. She took Brian's gun. She's gone after them. We don't know what she wants to do. She wouldn't tell us. There's a big crowd out north of the factory. We told her we saw him, we saw the man who killed Mr. Mooney. We told her.”

The straggly-haired little girl, Lilly, was near tears. “She went to get him, Joe. I'm afraid. Will he shoot her? Will he shoot her like he shot Mr. Mooney?” She burst into tears then and fell into her brother's arms. He comforted her.

“Detective . . . ” I began, but he interrupted me.

“It's Mrs. Foley? She's gone after Stark with a gun?” he questioned and Joe nodded, holding on to his little sister.

Whitbread took a last look at the backs of LeClerc and Fiona MacGregor, retreating across the mud flats. Then he moved to the workbench. He found a burlap sack and started putting the sticks of dynamite into it. “Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him.”

“What is it?” I had never heard the policeman curse before.

“There's one missing. He's taken it. There's nothing to be done . . . here.” He tied the sack with some string and handed it to me. “Hold on to this.” He steadied himself on the bench, still dizzy from the blow to his head. Then he took up his pistol and checked it for rounds.

“Detective Whitbread, you're still bleeding. Come with me to the doctor.”

“No, we must stop Mrs. Foley before she does something she'll regret.” He looked down at the children. “Where did she go? North, you said?”

Patrick ran to the door and pointed to where a cloud of dark smoke was rising north of Pullman. “Up there.”

Detective Whitbread began striding away. I heard Joe sending the children home as I ran after the policeman. “But what do you want me to do with this?” I held up the burlap bag.

“Keep it safe. The rest of the bomb making is just nuts and bolts and pipes. Without the dynamite they cannot do the harm they planned. They have only one stick, now. We'll alert the army as soon as possible. Make sure they don't get hold of that lot.”

He strode on more quickly than I could keep up with and pretty soon Joe O'Malley came up behind me. He took my arm and we followed Whitbread towards the crowd along the railroad tracks. There were houses here lining the tracks and people were perched on the roofs, as well as standing in crowds down on the ground. Two railway cars had been overturned and there was an engine, attempting to move north, that was blocked by them. Men were making an effort to right the cars and get them out of the way, while soldiers and deputies surrounded them, trying to keep the crowd at bay. Every now and then a bottle or brick flew through the air, hitting the ground near the soldiers.

As we got closer we saw the crowd swaying and swirling around something. I saw Whitbread begin to run, so I hurried as much as I could. Then I saw him. Just stepping down from a cowcatcher on the engine was Leonard Stark, holding a pistol. The crowd in front of him was parting. When Joe saw this, he dropped my arm and began running. Through the bodies I suddenly saw a space clear. There was Gracie Foley, hands extended, pointing a pistol at Stark. Some soldiers with bayonets on their rifles saw, too, and moved in to try to protect Stark, but the crowd was pushing forward. I saw the top of Whitbread's head and his arms flailing as he forced his way through the crowd. Suddenly, I saw a large boulder in front of me, so I jumped onto it in order to get a better view. There was a gunshot, smoke, yells, and screams from the crowd. I jumped up trying to see and as the smoke drifted away I saw Whitbread, down in Gracie's arms. He had taken the shot.