The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 34

  Chane put down his fork and waited.

  “I think they’re…working women. So I asked Dr. Campbell to check them to be sure they don’t have any unfortunate illnesses they could pass on to your men.”

  “Working women,” he repeated, a smile creeping into his eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “You know. Sporting women.”

  “And did Dr. Campbell check them?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “And did he give you a report?”

  “He said they appeared to be in fine health.”

  Chane picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of boiled potato, and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, Jennie. You did well.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her. “You don’t know how worried I was. I was afraid you’d say…”

  He suppressed a smile. “What?”

  She hesitated to tell the truth for fear he would agree with her. “That I didn’t have any morals.”

  “I’d say protecting my men’s health is a pretty moral thing to do.”

  “I was afraid maybe I should have run them off.”

  “They’d go about a quarter of a mile out of sight and set up camp. We wouldn’t see them, but we’d probably lose about half our men. I prefer to keep a snake in sight, so I can see what he’s doing.”

  Her thinking exactly! Chane had approved of her decision. She was so grateful she felt giddy. It felt like a red letter day.

  January thirtieth was the Chinese New Year. All the Chinese workers celebrated with loud Chinese music, firecrackers, red paper flags, and special dishes they invited everyone to share.

  The Chinese camped on one side of the tracks, the rest of the men on the other. Out of boredom, the other men, immigrants and Americans, walked to the Chinese encampment to watch the festivities. Chane and Jennie were honored guests of Kim Wong, who had prepared a special dinner for them. He explained this year was called Sin-Se, the Year of the Snake.

  The weather was nicer than usual. Warm enough to sit in the sun with coats on instead of going into the sleeping and dining cars. Most of the Chinese preferred being outdoors unless the weather was brutal.

  “Why don’t your men eat beef?” Jennifer asked. She’d noticed they ate fish and chicken, but they refused the rations of beef Chane provided to the crews.

  Kim Wong bowed low. “The men respect cattle and oxen as fellow workers. It would be most rude of them to eat their compatriots, would it not?”

  “What happened to your pidgin English?”

  Kim Wong looked perplexed. “So solly, Missy. What you say?”

  “For a moment you didn’t speak pidgin. You forgot, didn’t you?”

  Trapped, Kim Wong admitted that he had forgotten. On the way home, Chane mentioned it.

  “That was pretty observant of you, noticing he’d slipped out of pidgin.” A sharp light momentarily brightened his eyes. Pride?

  “Was it?” she asked, surprised.

  But he didn’t follow it up.

  Chane left without saying anything else to her. A few days later Jennifer rode past the Chinese encampment and saw them yelling, spitting, and shaking their fists at one another, apparently upset about something. The non-Chinese workers looking on seemed tickled. They cheered the Chinese on.

  Seeing her, men stopped yelling and cheering and went back to work. Later she noticed that three rough-looking men had set up a makeshift blacksmith shop near the company smithy, who had been provided a workplace on a flatcar following the coal bin. The three beat and pounded metal into what looked like swords with long handles.

  She stopped beside the man she recognized as Rooster Burnside. She knew him because Rooster couldn’t sign his name to receive his weekly pay, so the bookkeeper asked Jennie to witness Rooster’s X. A giant of a man, his broad face was shiny with sweat sheen, and his thick arms were bare.

  “What are you making, Rooster?” she asked, stopping beside him.

  Nicknamed for the unruly brush of red hair that stood up like a rooster’s comb, Rooster scowled and looked at his partners. Bobo Boschke, a sturdy Polish immigrant, just looked blank, and Irish Jim Delany, small and wiry, remained his usual silent self.

  Rooster was on his own. He tried a bluff. “Why, we ain’t doin’ nothin’, ma’am.”

  “I can see you’re making something. I’d like to know what it is.”

  “Uhhhmm.” He looked trapped and angry, but he still got no help or encouragement from his comrades. “A spear, ma’am,” he said, sighing heavily.

  “Why are you making a spear?”

  “To sell.”

  “To whom?”

  “Who to?” he echoed, scowling ferociously. His words were still respectful, but his eyes sparkled with antagonism. He looked quickly around at Bobo and Jim, who watched him with a mixture of delight at his discomfort and fear that they’d be in for it next.

  “To…them chinks.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s not my place to say, ma’am.”

  Jennifer could get no more out of him. Behind the shed she saw that they had a stockpile of close to a hundred spears, and from their work she guessed the pile was growing daily. They were odd weapons, but they looked deadly.

  She went to Kim Wong and told him what had transpired. “What’s going on, Mr. Wong?”

  “Not good you ask.”

  “But I did ask. And you have no need of your pidgin English with me.”

  Kim Wong smiled. The expression on his face changed, softened. “Hard times in China now. A bad faction is running the government—the Manchurians. My people, the Red Turbans, are seen as rebels opposing the Manchu government and the Dowager Empress. They fight with the Cantons and the Hong Kongs.”

  “What are these Cantons and Hong Kongs?”

  “Associations formed for protection and to make money. We call them tongs. The Red Turbans are determined to overthrow the government.”

  “But what has that to do with us?”

  “Same here.”

  “You mean among these men there are Red Turbans, Cantons, and Hong Kongs?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kincaid. Same here.”

  “Well, can’t you stop them?”

  “No, the Red Turbans have been insulted. They demand an opportunity to save face.”

  “How were they insulted?”

  “One of the loyalists—” He paused. “—not something a gentleman can discuss with a lady.”

  Jennifer could get nothing else out of Kim Wong. But she watched the activity with foreboding. After the workday ended, Rooster and his friends were busy all evening hammering out weapons. Jennifer knew if she ordered him to cease and desist, he’d probably quit, set up shop again out of her sight a few hundred feet away, and make five times as many weapons.

  In frustration, she walked back to the Pullman coach she shared less and less with Chane.

  One afternoon a week later, Marianne came running up the steps, panting and out of breath.

  “What is it, Marianne?”

  “I heard men talking…I think there’s going to be a big fight tonight…after work,” she gasped.

  “The Chinese?”

  “Yes, mum. The men were all laughing about it. They think it’s going to be more fun than a cockfight.”

  Jennifer realized Chane couldn’t make it back in time. She found Tom Tinkersley in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee. “Tom, get some of your men and follow me,” she said determinedly.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, grabbing his hat.

  “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Is this a job Mr. Kincaid would approve of?”

  “We won’t know until he comes back. By then it could be too late. Are you coming or not?”

  At the blacksmith shop she directed Tom to have his men pick up all the weapons. By now the three men had a stack of spears two feet high and six feet wide.

  Rooster Burnside, a scowl on his broad, shiny face, came running from where he’d been lifting rails and steppe
d between Tom and the pile of long-handled swords. “These are our spears,” he bellowed. “We made ’em in our spare time.”

  Men stopped working on the railroad and walked back to see what was going on.

  “I’ve decided to buy your weapons. Every one of them,” Jennifer said flatly. “And in the future all weapons made within ten miles of this camp or with scrap metal owned by this railroad will be mine. That’s a rule.”

  Rooster pushed up his sleeves as if he were about to wade into a fight. All semblance of politeness was gone from the big man’s face. Now his eyes shot arrows of anger and resentment. A rumble of discontent started among men watching.

  “Can she do that?” a man asked.

  Tom Tinkersley stepped forward. “You heard her.”

  Rooster eyed Jennifer warily. “How much you willing to pay for these here spears?”

  “The going price.”

  Rooster’s eyes narrowed. “I could sell these for five dollars apiece.”

  “Sold.” Jennifer said.

  Rooster frowned, but he was too confused to know how to proceed. Tom motioned his men forward to pick up the spears. Onlookers grumbled about the fun they were going to miss, but they weren’t inclined to take on an armed man of Tinkersley’s reputation leading more armed men.

  “Count the spears,” Jennie ordered.

  Burnside nodded and started in. The men dispersed, but Jennifer had the feeling this wasn’t the last of it.

  An hour later the three men came to Jennifer’s Pullman coach and knocked on her door. She picked up her crutches, hobbled to the door, and opened it.

  “There were one hundred and twenty-two spears,” Rooster growled.

  “I’ll be right back.” She hobbled to her desk, did the multiplication on a tablet, and took out the money Chane had given her in town. She counted out $610 and walked back to give it to Rooster.

  He fingered the money for a second. “We can make lots more of them, at this price.”

  “Those spears were made out of materials you found here, so in truth they belong to my husband. If you decide to make anything else, please check with me first to be sure it’s something I want to buy.”

  The men were so confused by her remarks they couldn’t decide whether to give in or put up a fuss. Tom Tinkersley walked over. “Everything all right here, Mrs. Kincaid?”

  She looked at the men. They looked down at their feet and shuffled off the observation deck. Tom walked up the steps and stood beside her, watching them walk away.

  “They’re likely to be soreheaded about this, you know.”

  “I won’t have any warmongering among the men. Please lock my spears in one of the sheds, Tom.”

  Tom grinned broadly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Two days later, after quitting time, Jennifer rode her horse up to the forward point, where the Chinese were clearing brush out of the right-of-way.

  As she approached she heard yelling. Around a bend in the path, hundreds of Chinese had squared off to fight. Spears and swords gleamed dully in the sunlight.

  Kim Wong was nowhere in sight. Since she hadn’t planned to leave camp, she’d told Tom not to come with her.

  The combatants hadn’t seen her yet. Chinese men yelled and shook their fists and spit at one another across a space of less than twenty feet. The white men were cheering them on.

  Men who had spears shook those and yelled at the top of their lungs in guttural grunts and honks.

  One man shook his spear and ran forward as if he were going to stick it into someone. Jennifer kicked her horse into a run and rode in between the two factions.

  At the sight of her, the men stepped back and fell silent.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

  Shamefaced, Kim Wong ran from behind one of the temporary construction shacks and came forward.

  “Mr. Wong, what is going on here?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid. These men fight.”

  “I know that. Why? And where did they get those spears?”

  “Some men already bought spears before you stopped men from selling them. They fight because of him,” he said, pointing at a small Chinese man cowering beside the locomotive. “Cooky is a loyalist. These men are anti-Manchu. They want to toss him out.”

  “But why?”

  “For saying something about a Red Turban’s honorable father. They will not rest till he leave, but he won’t go. So they have decided to fight until they kill him.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “Yes, he was cook to an Englishman in Hong Kong. He ran away to America to get rich.”

  Jennifer rode her horse over to the young man. “Why won’t you leave?”

  “Needed work when I came, missy.”

  “These men are going to kill you.”

  “Yes, missy.”

  “Come with me,” she ordered.

  The young man followed. When they were away from the clearing, she stopped her horse. “Were you really a cook?”

  “Yes, missy.”

  “Would you come be my cook?”

  He thought about that for a moment. Finally, he smiled. “Yes, missy.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He grinned. “No can pronounce, you. Call me Cooky.”

  “Okay, Cooky.”

  Jennifer expected his leaving to solve the problem between the warring factions, but it didn’t. From Cooky she learned that the loyalists supported the Ch’ing Dynasty founded by the Manchus. The Red Turbans were determined to overthrow the Ch’ing Dynasty because it favored foreign interests at the expense of the Chinese, even allowing importation of opium, the bane of China. Cooky was a loyalist because his father had been one. He didn’t approve of the policy regarding opium, but he would not change now. He missed his father too much.

  Chane came back that night. Jennifer told him about the war and what she’d done to combat any further atrocities.

  “You should have sent for me,” he said, scowling.

  “If I did that every time I have a little problem here, you wouldn’t get anything done.”

  “A war between two outraged gangs of Chinese laborers is not a ‘little problem.’ They may look small, but Chinese men have no problem at all laying down their lives for their politics. I’ll have a talk with them in the morning.”

  The next morning as the men shuffled from the dining cars, Chane climbed up on a flatcar. Kim Wong herded the Chinese around it. Jennifer watched from fifty feet away.

  “I heard talk of your fighting among yourselves. I’m here to tell every one of you that if there’s any more fighting, I’ll deal with it harshly.”

  He paused to let Kim Wong translate. Wong talked a lot longer than Chane had. Finally, he paused and bowed to Chane.

  “I don’t want any bickering. You either get along with one another, or you’ll all be on the next boat back to China. Any man who injures another man will be fired and sent home in disgrace. Any man who kills another man will be hanged.”

  Kim Wong translated again, this time with much arm waving. He ended with a curt nod and a deep bow from the waist toward Chane. The men muttered and scowled, but no one spoke up. Finally, Wong led his chastised, silent workers to the forward work site, where they began clearing the right-of-way.

  Chane stalked to where the non-Chinese workers were picking up their shovels and hammers. He delivered a slightly different message to them.

  “Any man caught instigating fights among the Chinese will be fired. If the fight results in serious injury or death, the man will be hanged. Are there any questions?”

  Men muttered and shook their heads, but no one challenged the edict.

  Chane headed back toward the office. Jennifer hobbled over to intercept him. “Can you do that? Hang a man without a trial?”

  “I’ll give ’em a trial. On a railroad construction gang, miles from civilization, there’s no law but the boss’s. If I don’t provide direction and limits, they’ll be doing what they want in no time.
No one will be safe, especially you. Next time, don’t wait so long to send for me.”

  “Yes, sir!” she said. She mimed clicking her heels.

  Chane expelled a frustrated breath. “Sorry, Jennie. I realize you’re doing the best you can. I know I shouldn’t be leaving you alone so much, but there’s just so much to do and so little time to do it.”

  Jennifer drew herself up the way she’d seen Peter do when training for the cavalry in France. “Forgiven, sir!”

  Chane grinned. The rest of the day, no matter what she was doing, whenever she remembered how he’d looked grinning at her impertinence, she smiled.

  They ate a delicious lunch together prepared by Cooky. She waited for Chane to notice how much better the food was, but he rode back to the trestle site without saying a word.

  In frustration, she sought out Tom Tinkersley and asked him to take her for a ride. Tom’s eyes narrowed at her, and she could see him calculating just how upset she was before he nodded. “I’ll get the horses,” he said, turning back to the men he’d been talking to. “You know what to do,” he told them and walked toward the temporary remuda where the horses grazed.

  They rode for several minutes in silence. Jennifer could feel his concern, and she was grateful that he didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t want to break down in front of him. “Could we ride faster?” she asked.

  “You set the pace. I think I can keep up.”

  Jennifer kicked her horse into a run. The ground was level and fairly clear. She knew she was risking a fall, but it didn’t matter. She leaned low on the horse’s neck and slowly settled into the rhythm. It felt good to have the wind in her face and to feel free. She ran the horse until it was lathered, and then pulled it in. “That was glorious,” she said, acknowledging Tom at last.

  “Need to stop a minute,” he said.

  They reined their horses. They dismounted and Tom checked his horse’s hooves. A rock had wedged itself into a crack in one of the front hooves. Tom took a knife and pried it out. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked, leaning close to watch.

  “The horse? Nah. It would hurt to leave it in, though.” A pained expression clouded his features.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. You have the face of an angel.” His voice had dropped into huskiness. She knew he was falling in love with her. Part of her exulted in that knowledge, but another part of her was filled with guilt. She knew it was hopeless.