Sisters on the Case

Frighted Out of Fear; or, The Bombs Bursting in Air by P. M. Carlson

The problem with diamonds is that when a young lady sells one, she receives a lovely large amount of money, and in 1886 Chicago was filled to the brim with fashionable bonnets and delicious cakes and expensive Parisian scents-in short, as Shakespeare says, it was a surfeit of the sweetest things. So I knew that the money would have disappeared quick as a wink.

I had just come from St. Louis, where my darling little niece Juliet, not yet four years old, lived with my friend Hattie in a home that was pleasant but with a roof that was beginning to leak. As there were only five diamonds remaining of the ones Juliet’s father had left, I had resolved to keep them for her future use. For safekeeping I’d had them set into a cheap theatrical bracelet, interspersed with flashy paste jewels, to disguise their value. Oh, I know, rich people prefer to keep their valuables in bank vaults. But an actress on tour never knows when money might be needed, and if the diamonds are far away in a vault they aren’t much help. Besides, when men like Jay Gould decide it’s time for their banks to fail, everything disappears except for Mr. Gould’s share. The bracelet had proved much more convenient for me.

Not that I planned to use it, except of course as part of my costume. It was boom times in Chicago. Just a few steps north of the train station I saw the brand-new Home Insurance Building and lordy, it must have been nine or ten stories high! The April breezes were alive with the smells of the lake, the smokestacks, the bakeries, the stockyards, but to me it seemed the scent of money. I reckoned I’d soon be joining the ranks of the rich folk like Marshall Field and George Pullman.

There were a great number of shows playing, and in the normal way of things a few cast members would have succumbed to sciatica or a catarrh by now. But unfortunately, actors in Chicago all enjoyed superb good health that week. Even when I showed managers the Kansas City clipping calling me ‘‘Bridget Mooney, the Bernhardt of Missouri,’’ one after another informed me that replacements were not required.

Well, hang it, what’s a poor girl to do, when even her fellow actors conspire against her? To avoid having to pry one of Juliet’s diamonds from my bracelet, I was reduced to performing my comic impersonation of Lillie Langtry in a variety show at Kohl and Middleton’s Dime Museum, the one on Clark near Madison. That week the program also included a local pair of jugglers called the Flaming Flanagans and a troupe of ten trained Saint Bernard dogs. ‘‘Thoroughbred canine heroes!’’ said the advertisements. Shakespeare must have been thinking of a manager when he wrote, ‘‘He has not so much brain as earwax,’’ because the dogs received top billing, even though I was appearing in an olive green figured sateen dress with handsomely draped bustle that had once belonged to the rich and beautiful Lillie Langtry herself.

The giant dogs were amiable but slavered copiously. As we were preparing for the first show that afternoon, one of them drooled into the Flanagans’ box of juggling balls backstage. Johanna-the female Flanagan-fetched the huge dog such a whack that he turned tail and ran for his trainer. Her eyes blazing bright as the torches that she and her brother juggled at the finale of their act, Johanna advanced on dog and trainer. The trainer babbled confused apologies and Johanna quickly relented. ‘‘Oh, the dear puppy, I didn’t hurt him, did I?’’ She petted the animal’s massive skull, and I decided she had a warm heart after all.

My judgment was confirmed after the show, when she learned I was looking for lodging and promptly offered me a cheap bed. I was quick to accept, and Johanna looked pleased. ‘‘Good! You can share my room in my mother’s house,’’ she said. ‘‘Mutti charges less than a boardinghouse, and you won’t have to pay till we get our money.’’

As Kohl and Middleton paid very little, and not until the end of the week, this was welcome news to me. ‘‘Johanna, you are so very kind! Will there be space for my costumes?’’ I gestured at the trunk I’d had brought from the station.

‘‘Yes, at the foot of your bed.’’

‘‘But did you say ‘Mutti’? Are you German, then?’’ I asked. It was true that Johanna was blond and tall in stature, and looked more German than Hibernian despite being a Flanagan.

‘‘I’m half German,’’ she explained. ‘‘Da is Irish, but we haven’t seen him these fifteen years. And when my brother Peter and I went on the stage with our blazing torches, we thought ‘The Flaming Flanagans’ was a good name.’’ She finished removing the rouge from her cheeks, closed her box of paints, and said, ‘‘Let’s go, then. Peter’s off to the beer hall with his friend Archie tonight, and-oh!’’ She looked apologetic. ‘‘I forgot to say, I promised to call on my friend Mabel on our way home. Do you mind? Just for a short chat. You must come too, she’s ever so nice, and good at finding bargains, and we won’t be long.’’

‘‘I would be honored to meet your friend.’’

‘‘Oh, good! Here, let me help you get your trunk down the steps.’’

We pulled it out the stage door into the balmy April night. I hailed a porter, a hollow-eyed fellow in a yellow checked cap who gave his name as Peebles and clumsily bumped my arm as he lifted my trunk into his barrow. Then I hurried up Clark Street toward Johanna, who had strolled ahead a few steps toward the crowds spilling from the Grand Opera House. Suddenly a strong hand seized my arm. ‘‘Stop in the name of the law! Your kind aren’t permitted here!’’

I turned to see a man with a mustache and a derby hat. Despite his ordinary clothes he was wielding the weighted cane used by police detectives, so I said most politely, ‘‘Why, sir, I have done nothing wrong! I am but a visitor to your city.’’

He seemed taken aback by my excellent speech, as well he might be. My tutor had been the great actress Fanny Kemble. But he blustered on, ‘‘You’re new in town, that I believe, if you think you’ve done nothing wrong! Red hair, clothes beyond your means-you’re a tart!’’

Lordy, was there ever such an insult? True, my hair is red, and I was still wearing the dress that had been the notorious Lillie’s, but those are not good reasons to arrest a perfectly innocent young lady who only rarely is forced to resort to the line of work he mentioned!

Johanna had finally looked back and now came striding up, nearly as tall as my captor. But her voice was girlish as she simpered, ‘‘Why, Detective Loewenstein, what a coincidence! I was just taking my friend to meet your wife! Bridget, let me introduce Detective Jacob Loewenstein, my dear friend Mabel’s husband, and one of the finest policemen in Chicago. Detective Loewenstein, this is Miss Bridget Mooney.’’

Hang it, he didn’t seem such a fine policeman to me! But he had finally released me, and it appeared that I was about to call on his wife, so I followed Johanna’s lead and said loftily, ‘‘I’m delighted to meet you, Detective Loewenstein. It is indeed reassuring to know that you are protecting the citizens of Chicago with such zeal.’’

‘‘Yes, er, happy to meet you too.’’ He gave me a little bow, looking a bit flustered.

‘‘And how is your friend Officer Degan?’’ Johanna asked him.

Loewenstein answered, ‘‘I believe he is well, Miss Flanagan. As auxiliaries to Captain Bonfield, his unit is very busy these days.’’

‘‘As you must be, I’m sure! Let’s be on our way, Bridget,’’ Johanna said, sliding her arm into mine. ‘‘Mrs. Loewenstein will be waiting for us.’’

I looked to make certain that Peebles the porter was following and we joined the jostling throngs before the brightly lit opera house and courthouse. We crossed a drawbridge and continued on Wells Street. The crowds thinned as Johanna led me north to a handsome three-story corner building, adorned with a tower at the entrance. I instructed Peebles to wait and we ascended a well-kept staircase to the third floor, where the Loewensteins had their rooms.

Of the two Loewensteins, I much preferred Mabel. She was short in stature with dark hair and lively eyes, and her stylish dress was of lilac-colored foulard with flounces of ecru lace. ‘‘Johanna, it’s good of you to come! We haven’t had a good gossip for quite a while! And you’ve brought a friend, what a pleasure!’’

Johanna made the introductions and Mabel sent her nephew to purchase some cakes for us while she went into the next room for tea. The sitting room was well-appointed with Turkey carpets, lace at the windows, soft upholstered chairs, and a handsome parlor stove. I murmured to Johanna, ‘‘The city of Chicago appears to pay Detective Loewenstein well for his efforts.’’

‘‘A thousand dollars a year!’’ whispered Johanna, eyes round at the prospect.

As Mabel returned with the tray, she said, ‘‘Miss Mooney, that is such a lovely sateen!’’ She cast an admiring glance at me and my Langtry dress. I murmured my thanks and she added, ‘‘If you ever wish to sell it, I have a friend who loves that shade of green. Tell me, are you Irish too? I was a Keenan before I married Jake.’’

‘‘Yes, I’m Irish. And your husband is German?’’

‘‘He speaks it, and that’s very helpful these days with all the unrest. Do you know how many German immigrants are in Chicago? Four hundred thousand! Poor Jake has a great deal to do.’’ I could see the tenseness around her eyes. ‘‘Besides the usual problems with gambling and unsavory women, he says those dreadful German anarchists are trying to take over the labor organizations, and turn the workers against all the decent people.’’

‘‘Oh, he should know better than that,’’ Johanna said. ‘‘The German workers Mutti knows are decent people too. Of course when Pinkerton men shoot striking workers some of them talk about defending themselves. But it’s all talk.’’

Mabel frowned. ‘‘Still, I worry about Jakey. He’s given some special assignments, because he’s a favorite of Captain Schaack.’’

‘‘What kind of assignments?’’

‘‘He won’t say, but- Come look,’’ said Mabel abruptly, taking something from under the leg of the stove. We followed her into a velvet-draped bedroom. She pulled a box from under the bed and unlocked it. ‘‘You mustn’t tell because he doesn’t think I know where the key is. But can that be what it seems?’’

In the box, sitting among gloves and watches on layers of lace and velvet, was a round iron object. Emerging from one side was a thick cord perhaps five inches long. Johanna peered at it and gasped, ‘‘Oh, Mabel, how thrilling! It looks just like the pictures in the Tribune, when they wrote about how the anarchists make bombs!’’

Mabel shuddered. ‘‘It’s horrid! I’ve hardly slept since I saw it there.’’

‘‘But how splendid that Jake has found an anarchist! He’ll be a great hero,’’ Johanna declared.

‘‘You look on the bright side.’’ Mabel locked the box and slid it back under the bed. ‘‘Johanna, you’ll be an excellent policeman’s wife.’’

Johanna blushed pink as a rosebud. ‘‘Oh, Mabel, don’t tease!’’

Mabel smiled at me, explaining, ‘‘Officer Degan is sweet on Johanna. I expect wedding bells any day.’’

‘‘What good news, Johanna!’’ I exclaimed in my most sincere tones, although I have never been enthusiastic about marriage to anyone, not even for a thousand a year. ‘‘This Officer Degan must be a good man.’’

‘‘Oh, yes, Matt is a dear fellow!’’ Johanna said earnestly. ‘‘And he has promised to escort me to the park Monday, when we both have free time.’’

Mabel clapped her hands. ‘‘Oh, Johanna! This puts me in mind of the days when Jakey was courting me! Such a happy time!’’

Well, I couldn’t imagine being pleased by the attentions of a fellow like Detective Loewenstein, who hid bombs under his bed and tried to arrest perfectly innocent young ladies. But in the past I too have had moments of being blinded to the truth by a manly shoulder or a twinkling eye, and Mabel was right, it was a happy time. So for a few moments we all three praised the qualities of Johanna’s Matt and Mabel’s Jakey and my dear departed Slick, and wondered if Matt would be asking for Johanna’s hand Monday.

After this pleasant half hour, Johanna and I awakened Peebles the porter and continued to Johanna’s more modest home. ‘‘Mutti’’ was tall and of sturdy physique like her daughter, and she seemed pleased to have a paying visitor. The little bed in Johanna’s room was narrow but clean and warmed with a featherbed, and I would have had no complaints exceptfor one thing. I had quietly checked the contents of the pocket I’d sewn into my bustle, because a couple of handsome gentlemen’s hunting watches had found their way into it as we jostled through the throngs of opera patrons this evening. But as I removed my Langtry dress I gasped.

‘‘What is it, Bridget?’’ Johanna, already in her white nightdress, was brushing out her long blond hair.

I took a deep breath, as I confirmed that nothing had caught in the lacy sleeve of the dress. ‘‘A trifle. Part of my Langtry costume is missing.’’

‘‘Oh, dear!’’ Johanna turned from the little mirror over her table and looked at me with consternation. ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘A trifle,’’ I repeated, keeping the despair from my voice. After all, Johanna was possibly guiltless- though I remembered her slipping her arm through mine as we walked toward the Grand Opera. ‘‘I suppose the clasp broke and I dropped it along the way. Just a bracelet with a dozen paste jewels.’’

Well-seven paste jewels. The other five had been my little niece’s future.

Next morning, as soon as Johanna left our chamber to assist her mother, I did a thorough but fruitless search of her vanity table and clothing-although I couldn’t truly believe that Johanna had it. For all her skill as a juggler, she didn’t seem clever enough to remove a bracelet from under the sleeve of a young lady as alert and knowledgeable as I. I donned a simple walking dress and went in to a hearty breakfast. Afterward I thanked her mother, told Johanna I would see her at the theatre, and set off to retrace my steps.

I did not have high hopes of finding my bracelet. Johanna had not been the only one who had been near me the night before. The porter, Peebles, had bumped my arm as he lifted my trunk into his barrow and numerous people had brushed by on the crowded streets. As I walked I tried to remember the details of our journey the night before. Here was a corner where I’d paused to look back at Peebles and my trunk; here Johanna had met a German relative of her mother’s on the street; here was Mabel Loewenstein’s home. I paused; could I have dropped it on that Turkey carpet? It was too early to call on her, but later I would.

I continued down the street and across the drawbridge. If the hasp had broken there the bracelet might have fallen through the steel grid into the busy Chicago River below, which teemed with scows and shouting rivermen. But when I reached Clark Street and remembered the jostling throngs outside the Grand Opera, I had to admit that even a young lady as clever as I might have missed a master pickpocket if distracted, and hang it, I had been distracted. I’d been conversing with Johanna, and watching for gentlemen with hunting watches, and making certain that Peebles, in his yellow checked cap, was following with my trunk.

Peebles, who had nudged my arm. He could so easily have taken my bracelet.

It was time to hunt for Peebles.

It was not easy.

Though I watched for him every day, Peebles did not appear near the theatre where I had first found him, nor around the train stations. Johanna was no help, being all atwitter about her upcoming Monday walk in the park with the peerless Officer Degan. Toward the end of the week Kohl and Middleton asked us all, even the slobbering hero dogs, to play for a week at their second theatre, a mile west on Madison, and Sunday was spent moving and rehearsing in the new space.

On Monday I wished Johanna a happy day with Officer Degan and returned to question the porters at the railroad station. At last I found a spiky-haired fellow who knew Peebles. ‘‘He’s not really one of us, mum, he’s a machinist. Worked for McCormick Reaper, see, but got locked out back in February along with the other union men,’’ he explained. ‘‘To put bread on the table he works as a porter when he can get the use of a barrow.’’

‘‘Do you know where he lives?’’

My informant shrugged. ‘‘Moves from one relative to another. If you want to find him, try looking at the McCormick works.’’

‘‘But you said he’d been locked out.’’

‘‘A lot of the union men picket outside the gates and holler at the scabs.’’

When he’d given me directions to McCormick’s, out Blue Island Avenue, I rewarded the unkempt fellow with a few pennies, then took the streetcar, as the McCormick works were some three miles from the city center.

I did not ride the full distance, because when we reached Twenty-second Street I saw a large crowd of workers, Peebles perhaps among them. The workers were gathered around a boxcar, and atop it stood a man perhaps thirty years old, with a handsome light brown mustache and a gaze that might have inspired Shakespeare to cry, ‘‘Look on me with your welkin eye!’’ He was speaking in German when I first approached, and about half of the large crowd was nodding, but he soon shifted to pleasantly accented English. As I wandered through the crowd searching for Peebles, I couldn’t help but hear some of what the handsome gentleman was saying. ‘‘Wherever we cast our eyes,’’ he declared with a sweeping gesture, ‘‘we see that a few men have not only brought technical inventions into their private ownership, but have also confiscated for their exclusive advantage all natural powers, such as water, steam and electricity. They little care that they destroy their fellow beings right and left.’’ The blue eyes blazed and indignation radiated from his honest face.

‘‘Who is the speaker?’’ I murmured to a grizzled man who was nodding enthusiastically.

He looked at me with pity. ‘‘You don’t know? He is the editor of the best German newspaper, the Arbeiter-Zeitung, and one of our most popular speakers. His name is August Shpeece.’’ Later I learned that, in the peculiar way the Germans have, it was spelled Spies, but I always thought of him as August.

‘‘We must progress to cooperative labor for the purpose of continuing life and of enjoying it,’’ August told us. ‘‘Anarchy does not mean bloodshed, does not mean arson or robbery. These monstrosities are, on the contrary, the characteristic features of capitalism.’’

Well, having recently been robbed, I certainly agreed that it was a monstrosity, and I was ready to do away with whatever had caused it, though I wasn’t certain what this dreadful thing ‘‘capitalism’’ was. And August had mentioned anarchy favorably-but surely he couldn’t be one of the horrid anarchists that the newspapers told us we must fear! I couldn’t believe it of such a kindly, well-spoken man.

‘‘Do not be slaves! Your toil produces the wealth, it is yours, not the bosses’!’’ August cried. ‘‘Workers must stand firmly together, then we will prevail!’’

Oh, they were splendid words, as stirring as Shakespeare’s ‘‘Once more unto the breach’’! I was on the verge of running up to Kohl and Middleton and pummeling them for higher wages! But on reflection I wasn’t certain that the other workers would stand firmly with me, as August advised. Johanna might, and perhaps her brother if he wasn’t at the beer hall. But those giant hero dogs were more likely to rescue the managers than attack them. I decided I’d best wait for better troops.

There was no sign of Peebles, and I could see another clump of men farther along Blue Island Avenue near the McCormick works. So I left August and his enormous crowd behind me, and moved on toward the pickets outside McCormick’s. Suddenly a loud bell clanged. A man called, ‘‘Here they come!’’ and as workers began to emerge from the door the men who’d been locked out began to holler ‘‘Scabs!’’ and ‘‘Shame!’’ and some German words that sounded even worse. I thought I saw a yellow checked cap on the far side of the little crowd and started toward it eagerly. But a few among the picketers picked up stones and threw them at the strikebreakers, and suddenly there was a melee. One of the two policemen on duty fought his way to a patrol box to call for help.

Well, my aunt Mollie always said that a lady should never get involved in anything as low-class as a riot, so notwithstanding August’s inspiring words I ducked around the corner of a building, and a lucky thing I did! When I peeked I saw a patrol wagon full of policemen, drawn by two galloping horses, careening up Blue Island Avenue and straight into the crowd. ‘‘It’s Black Jack Bonfield!’’ cried a picket, and a few stones were thrown at the police. The officers laid about with their nightsticks and bloodied many heads, and soon were joined by dozens of officers on foot. The strikebreakers had run back into the building but a few picketers continued to throw stones. Although the police had the upper hand, whenever I glimpsed a face under a helmet it looked frightened. Captain Bonfield, a squinty-eyed fellow, yelled something I couldn’t hear above the shouting, and the officers pulled their revolvers.

Well, in my experience revolvers make a situation a sight more dangerous than stones and nightsticks. I dove back to safety and pulled my Colt from my bustle pocket. I heard gunshots and screams and in a moment the pickets were dragging their wounded friends away, some to the haven where I stood. The groans of the bleeding men were piteous indeed.

At last the gunshots stopped, and I peeked again, but could not see Peebles. I heard a familiar voice and saw August come running toward the factory, looking as shocked and sickened as I felt.

The picketers had scattered, and the police arrested the stragglers while shouting congratulations to each other for winning such a glorious victory. Yes indeed.

When they’d left I put away my Colt and tore strips from my petticoat to hand to those who had crept out to help the wounded. Peebles was not among them. My chance to find him was gone, and even the handsome blue-eyed August had left. Frustrated, I kicked a stone into the street and made my way back to Kohl and Middleton’s.

At the theatre I found Johanna too in a dark mood. She wore a terrible scowl, and was distracted and clumsier than usual, dropping a ball once and almost lighting her poor brother’s hair on fire with a poorly aimed torch. Afterward he drew me aside. ‘‘Please, Bridget, walk home with her! The only thing she said to me was, ‘You men are beasts!’ ’’

Well, I had to agree with her opinion of men after seeing all the pelting and shooting at McCormick’s. I followed her out the door and murmured, ‘‘Johanna, what did that dreadful Officer Degan do?’’

‘‘Nothing!’’ She strode up Halsted Street and I had to trot to keep up.

‘‘Nothing? You mean some other horrid man has hurt you?’’

‘‘No! I mean he did nothing! He didn’t meet me in the park!’’ She began to weep.

I offered her a handkerchief, patted her arm, and asked, ‘‘Didn’t Detective Loewenstein say that Officer Degan worked with Captain Bonfield’s men? They were in action today, so perhaps Matt couldn’t-’’

‘‘But he promised!’’ Johanna sobbed.

I suggested, ‘‘Why don’t we go speak to your friend Mabel? She can tell you if Officer Degan had adequate reason for such a terrible breach of courtesy.’’

Johanna nodded and allowed herself to be guided toward the Loewenstein home. I was pleased, for I too had questions.

‘‘I’m delighted to see you!’’ Mabel, in a violet jacket dress, hugged us both. ‘‘Jakey is so busy these days. I dined alone again tonight-’’ A shadow darkened her lively features. She looked more closely at Johanna and added, ‘‘But Johanna, what is wrong?’’

Though red-eyed from weeping, Johanna was listening carefully to Mabel’s words. She asked, ‘‘You say Jake is busy these days? Abandons you?’’

‘‘Sometimes it seems that way! Captain Schaack assigns him to these secret meetings-oh, I shouldn’t be telling you this-’’

Johanna sank into a plush armchair, sniffled into my handkerchief, and asked, ‘‘Do you think Matt Degan was assigned to a secret meeting?’’

Mabel looked surprised. ‘‘I wouldn’t think so. He’s not a detective. If he had to stay on duty to help Captain Bonfield, it wouldn’t be a secret assignment like Jake’s. Matt should have got word to you!’’

‘‘He didn’t,’’ Johanna sobbed.

‘‘Let me get you some tea,’’ Mabel soothed.

I followed her into the butler’s pantry. She frowned back at Johanna and murmured to me, ‘‘Poor Johanna! She should not bestow her heart so easily.’’

‘‘Do you mean Officer Degan is not reliable?’’

She shrugged and placed the teapot on the tray. ‘‘When I mentioned Johanna’s hopes to Jake, he laughed and said Degan had more than one young lady at his beck and call.’’

‘‘Oh dear, poor Johanna. Mabel, I had another question. I may have dropped a bracelet while I was visiting here.’’ I described it as we carried the tea back to Johanna, who had risen from her chair and was pacing about the parlor.

‘‘I will look very carefully,’’ Mabel promised with a little frown. ‘‘Sit down, Johanna, have some tea!’’

We finally convinced Johanna that Matt might yet apologize and she stopped sobbing. Mabel maintained that Jake and the others were upset because of the labor unrest, and would be kind and loving once again when the work was not so frightening. ‘‘Jakey hates to feel frightened. He much prefers being angry.’’

I couldn’t help thinking of wise old Shakespeare, who said, ‘‘To be furious is to be frighted out of fear.’’ Captain Bonfield’s order to shoot had helped his men feel fury instead of fear; but laborers were men too, and Bonfield had given them cause to be more frightened than ever, and I wondered if their fear would turn to fury too.

Instead, they called another meeting.

At breakfast Johanna was silent, probably brooding on Matt Degan, but her brother Peter was reading the Arbeiter-Zeitung and I asked if it mentioned the shots at the McCormick works. ‘‘Oh, yes!’’ he said. ‘‘They write about the injustice of the police firing on unarmed men, and say workers should carry dynamite or revolvers in self-defense. They’ve called a meeting tonight. Look, it’s at the Haymarket, very close to the theatre! Our show will be over in time to hear the last speeches.’’

‘‘This is strong language,’’ his mother cautioned, pausing teapot in hand to frown over his shoulder at the paper. ‘‘ ‘Avenge the atrocious murder that has been committed upon your brothers today’-Do be careful, Peter.’’

But like Peter, I wanted to go. Peebles might well be there with answers about my bracelet-and perhaps the handsome, fiery August as well.

It was after nine and dark when Johanna and Peter and I departed from Kohl and Middleton’s, leaving the Saint Bernards to finish the evening performance. We walked a block to Desplaines and turned north toward the meeting, where Peter met his ruddy-faced friend Archie, a reporter for the Chicago Times. ‘‘Look at all the police Captain Bonfield has mustered,’’ Archie said.

‘‘Why do they call him Black Jack?’’ I asked.

‘‘He can be brutal. Like yesterday’s shooting,’’ Archie said. ‘‘Or last year during the streetcar strike, when he clubbed everyone in reach, even store owners who came out to see what was happening. A gas company worker named Kerwin is still laid up from that beating.’’

‘‘They ought to replace Bonfield,’’ Peter said.

‘‘The mayor might, but Marshall Field and his rich friends are nervous with this talk of dynamite, and they think Bonfield can frighten the eight-hour supporters. Look, he’s lining up reinforcements.’’ Archie gestured at the alley we were passing and made a note.

Johanna said nothing but I saw her crane her neck to look for Matt Degan among the massed officers. I tugged her arm and we moved on up Desplaines.

There was a large crowd ahead, and several men including the welkin-eyed August up on a wagon. The man speaking was nearly as appealing as August, but had coal black hair and mustache. His beautiful English had a hint of a Southern accent. ‘‘It’s Albert Parsons,’’ Archie told us. ‘‘He edits the English-language anarchist paper. That’s his wife and children on the next wagon, see them?’’

Parsons was saying, ‘‘I am not here for the purpose of inciting anybody, but to speak out, to tell the facts as they exist, even though it should cost me my life.’’

I was beginning to think that the rich folks had it all wrong about the anarchists, who claimed to be filled with the noblest of sentiments: truth-telling, cooperation, and love for family. Parsons mentioned Jay Gould, who owned railroads now instead of banks, and someone shouted, ‘‘Hang him!’’

‘‘No,’’ Parsons replied, ‘‘this is not a conflict against individuals, but for a change of system. Kill Jay Gould, and like a jack-in-a-box another or a hundred others like him will come up in his place.’’

‘‘Hang him!’’ cried a boy, and the huge crowd laughed.

Archie seemed disappointed and snapped his notebookclosed. ‘‘Won’t sell any papers with that peaceful stuff.’’

But it was my bracelet that I wanted to find. I excused myself and slipped into the crowd to search for Peebles.

After introducing the next speaker, a bearded British fellow named Fielden, Parsons left the speakers’ wagon and joined his family nearby. I continued searching through the crowd. There was a low rumble of thunder in the north, and a gust of wind blew papers about. Parsons called to Fielden, ‘‘It’s going to rain! Do you want to finish in Zepf’s Hall?’’

Fielden said, ‘‘I’m nearly done. Then we can all go home.’’ Parsons nodded and gathered his children to take them to Zepf’s for shelter.

Many people were glancing at the sky and leaving. Fearing that I would miss Peebles, I made my way up the entry steps of a building for a better look. At last, in the glimmer of the streetlight, I saw his yellow checked cap! He was making his way toward Lake Street, not far behind Parsons’ family. I started after. It seemed now that there was a faint thunder in the south as well, but I didn’t take my eyes from him until I heard a loud voice call out, ‘‘Disperse!’’ and Peebles stopped to look back.

I looked too, and hang it, I’d never seen so many policemen! The street was inky with them, rank on rank, filling Desplaines Street from the speakers’ wagon back toward the police station. At the head of the wall of police was Captain Bonfield, facing Fielden on the speakers’ wagon. Fielden said, ‘‘But we are peaceable!’’

‘‘Disperse!’’ insisted Bonfield’s spokesman.

Fielden didn’t argue. He said, ‘‘All right, we will go,’’ and jumped down from the wagon. The others shrugged and began climbing down, even August. I was about to turn back to Peebles when I saw a bright spark like a shooting star sizzle through the air from the east edge of the street into the center of the police ranks.

And then, lordy! A fearsome thunderclap. A flash as bright as noon. A blast of wind that blew me against the wall. Around me windows cracked.

For just an instant, silence quivered in the air. I looked for Peebles and he was standing there bedazzled, like the rest of us.

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?

Jake bellowed and fired twice, and I shot him in the hand because if he kept firing he might realize that someone had emptied his Smith and Wesson. Blood streamed down his face, blinding him, and his cries grew weaker. Mabel was still whimpering, ‘‘Jakey, no!’’ when he fainted and fell on her.

I rushed out and down the stairs, clutching the valise, passing the old Scandinavian neighbor on his way up. ‘‘Help! They need a doctor!’’ I gasped.

He began to shout, ‘‘Doctor, come quick!’’ while I ran down the front steps and melted into the morning crowds.

My first stop was at the lawyer Kern’s office on LaSalle Street. When I sent in word that my business had to do with Lingg’s missing brooch, he consented to see me. He was intrigued by the brooch and the papers and the keys to three boxes of further evidence. When I explained that Mabel would need a good defense lawyer because his fellow policemen would try to claim that she was trying to kill Jakey instead of the other way around, he agreed to take her case if she requested his help, and meanwhile he would deposit the evidence into the vault at Merchant’s Bank.

Next I found Mabel’s sister and told her that Mabel was in trouble and would have to move out, and to be sure to take the three locked boxes under the bed along with her gowns and clothing, and that a lawyer named Kern was prepared to defend her for a reasonable fee.

But the police moved fast too. Mabel was in jail almost as soon as Jakey was in the hospital. Captain Schaack wouldn’t let family or friends see her, and I knew he was trying to get her to agree to his story. But as Jakey recovered he and Schaack must have realized that Mabel held all that evidence and they became more respectful. I decided it was safe to go on to St. Louis, especially since the actress with the sprained ankle was recovering and wanted her role back.

Mr. Kern did well by Mabel and got Jakey to withdraw the charges; but I grew impatient for action against those who had hanged dear August so unjustly. Marshall Field’s pet Tribune was hopeless as usual because it favored the police version, but when I returned to Chicago after the holidays I left an unsigned note for Archie at the rival Chicago Times, telling him to talk to Kern and keep a close eye on the Loewenstein shooting case.

Within days the Times had published Mabel’s side. ‘‘Her home was turned into a warehouse for stolen goods!’’ ‘‘Captain Schaack and ‘Jake’ Loewenstein were in the game!’’ ‘‘Other and higher members of the force said to be implicated!’’ Schaack and Bonfield sued the Times for libel, but the editors had seen the proof and didn’t back down. Heaps of newspapers were sold to a public eager to read about Lingg’s brooch, Mrs. Hill’s dress, and manufactured evidence in trials. A month later Mayor Roche suspended all three officers.

They never caught the Haymarket bomb-thrower. A few years later in Colorado I happened across a traveling carnival that featured a tall blond lady juggler called Anna the Anarchist. I watched a moment, until sensible Aunt Mollie began to whisper in my head that it might be best not to recognize Johanna, so I slipped out the side way; but not before I’d seen that the gray balls she was juggling had been fitted out with burning fuses to look like the bomb she’d stolen from the box under Mabel’s bed, the one that had landed with such precision on the faithless Officer Degan.

Others were also chipping away at the police story, and in 1893 Governor Altgeld looked at the trial record and fully pardoned the three anarchists who were still alive, with scathing words for police and court alike. But, hang it, life is not as neat as melodramas. Governor Altgeld was not reelected, and a new mayor reappointed Schaack and Bonfield to the force, and rich businessmen erected a statue in Haymarket Square to the police, the ‘‘heroes of Haymarket.’’ Yes indeed.