The King Of The Irish

ALECK

The cold wind bit through Aleck Sullivan’s wool topcoat, sharp gusts that helped to clear his head. Nothing would be accomplished by bemoaning the past and feasting on regrets, by looking behind. There was but one course to take if he were to protect the Land League, just as there had been one course to take when insults were hurled at both his wife and the Catholic Church. That being said, Aleck realized that assassinating a prominent gentleman who had wormed his way into the fabric of polite society could not be done in a reckless manner. A jury had forgiven Sullivan once, but that incident was more an accident than pre-meditated murder. No one would doubt that Cronin’s demise was anything but intentional.

Even though Chicago was a wide-open city, Dr. Cronin had too many friends in high places to make his removal a quiet affair. A snug cocoon of protection was wrapped around England’s agent, supported by the majority of Americans who looked on the Irish as untrustworthy and lacking in loyalty to the United States. Added to that population were those who wanted to be rid of Sullivan, who sided with Dr. Cronin when he bleated about Sullivan’s embezzlement of U.B. funds. Sheep. Taking the word of a relative stranger while castigating a man who had spent his life fighting against British oppression. Aleck recalled the headline on the newspaper that Coughlin had deposited on the conference table. An ardent nationalist, yes, but Sullivan was also the most dangerous sort of fool.

No surprise that Margaret was waiting for him in the foyer. You look weary, dear, she said as she relieved him of hat and coat.

All that and more.

Bad news?

She let him guide her into the parlor, where Aleck sank into a chair. He felt as if the weight of the Irish world was crushing him. The judges rendered their verdict, he said. With that, his head drooped until it was resting in his hands, the muscles of his neck tight and aching. His wife sat across from him, ready to hear him out, to ease his burden as much as she could. As he took her hands in his, he tried and failed to imagine how his life would play out without her. And I am ordered to execute their verdict in an expeditious manner.

The maid knocked and Aleck quickly adopted a pose of relaxation before she came in with his supper on a tray, which she set on the tea table before dropping a curtsy and departing as quietly as she entered. He watched her shut the door behind her, all the while wondering if she had male relations in the city, or close contacts among the butchers in Packingtown, or possibly trusted friends in the tanneries on Goose Island. Who was on his side, and who might prove to be a British spy?

Should I make excuses to the Associated Press? Margaret asked. Another journalist could easily be sent in my stead.

His brain working on a solution, the best Aleck could do was shake his head to negate the very generous offer, aware that her trip was of great importance to the nationalist cause. While the public saw her travelling to Paris as a news reporter, they would never realize that she there to raise funds for the Land League and transmit reports from Chicago. No, the public saw a woman whose husband was progressive in his thinking, who did not insist that his wife disappear behind his shadow.

That’s it, he said, suddenly energized. Men went missing all the time, whether they were running from creditors, the law, or public scorn. According to Detective Coughlin’s investigation, Cronin had upped stakes every few years over the course of his worthless life, and another removal would fit an existing pattern. Without realizing it, he continued to stir his tea as he pondered a new strategy. Startled by the rattling that he was creating, he composed himself and shifted in his seat so that he could rest his left foot on the fender. How does one make a man disappear, my dear, and provide evidence that he is alive and well?

Credible reports would suffice, Margaret said. A sighting in a train station, by someone connected with this individual. A conversation there, in which travel plans are laid out.

The authorities in London would turn heaven and earth to find him if they suspected he was running to them, Aleck said.

We have friends in Canada, Margaret said. The traitor has family connections there. A logical step, on the way abroad.

Running from Irish justice. The drama was playing out in his mind in fragments, not yet a whole. Seen in a frightened state, perhaps speaking of going into hiding. Let them think they are tracking a man on the run, a man who does not wish to be found.

As a highly respected writer, Margaret was known for championing the acceptance of Irish Catholics in the mainstream of American life. She was dedicated to the cause, a tireless warrior who made it her life’s work to battle against religious intolerance. Without question, she was a formidable opponent who gave no quarter, and she was firmly and irrevocably in Aleck’s camp. He could ask for no better ally in his drive to free Ireland from England’s crushing fist. Not only was she educated and intelligent, but Margaret was blessed with endless patience and a long memory, a dangerous combination for those who crossed her. For months, ever since Cronin first began to accuse Aleck of embezzlement, she had thought of little more than retribution. One had only to look at her, with the glow of the coal fire twinkling in her grey eyes, to realize that ideas were stewing in her head, had been percolating for all those months. Together, husband and wife would debate and discuss until they had concocted a fool- proof plan to rid the United Brotherhood of a traitor. Their resources were vast and extended well beyond the city limits of Chicago or the borders of the United States. Wherever the Irish had found sanctuary from persecution, there would Aleck Sullivan find willing volunteers.

While Margaret returned to her desk to finish an article on the benefits of female education, he poured out a short whiskey and sat down with the newspaper that Coughlin had so rudely inserted into the evening’s proceedings. The parlor slipped into a comfortable silence that was broken only by the chiming of the mantel clock. He read the headline and murmured a curse. Every word on the page was fuel for the raging fire that Aleck had faced that evening from his fellow Executives. Sullivan’s humiliation was being broadcast all over the city, all over Europe and into every Irish household. For twenty years a spy, Aleck grumbled under his breath. His trusted confidante, his right hand man, the spy Le Caron, was singing like a tireless canary in a London courtroom. Well known in Chicago.

Skimming over the paragraphs of the lead article, Aleck searched for new information when so much new information was flowing across the Atlantic. His friend and Ireland’s best hope, Charles Parnell, was fighting to clear his name amid a campaign by the Crown to undermine a threat to the British Empire. It was a two- pronged attack, with Parnell’s trial only one front in a fierce battle that was meant to destroy the other threat to the Empire: the United Brotherhood in America, also called the Clan na Gael. In paragraph after paragraph, Aleck discovered how Le Caron had constructed a facade and maintained it for twenty years, rising to the top of the Clan na Gael, a trusted member of Camp Number 20, a confidante of Alexander Sullivan. A fury burned in Aleck’s gut, a rage that was would not be calmed by a mouthful of whiskey.

He had laid open the most clandestine of operations under Le Caron’s nose, every detail of every bombing campaign exposed before a single explosive device was constructed. The dozens of volunteers who were arrested the minute they stepped off the steamer in England, who were now languishing in the misery of a British prison, could point an accusing finger at Alexander Sullivan. Searching for at least one glimmer of hope, Aleck’s eyes moved down the page and stopped when he found himself named.

What a fool, what a fool, he murmured, drawing Margaret’s attention. It was nothing. Just reading about Parnell’s trial. What passed between me and Le Caron in regard to the dynamite campaign. The prosecution is trying to tie me to Mr. Parnell because I mentioned a possible trip to Ireland, which must surely mean that I intended to bring a trunk filled with explosives to him personally.

Hearsay, Margaret said with a derisive snort. Not admissible in court, unless it should serve the Crown’s purpose to keep the Irish in chains.

At least the reporter who questioned me yesterday had the courtesy to quote me in his article. ‘It is all bosh and too absurd for any rational person to believe’.

John Bull is far from rational.

For a long time, Aleck sat staring at the glowing coals with the newspaper forgotten on his lap. So confident in himself, he had ignored Coughlin’s warnings eight years ago, certain that the newly minted police officer was mistaken and that Le Caron’s assertions of loyalty were genuine. At the time, he was desperate to line up allies to support the dynamite campaign, and wasn’t Le Caron one of his staunchest acolytes? Because of Sullivan’s blind ambition, his determination to see Home Rule enacted and the name of Alexander Sullivan added to the pantheon of Ireland’s heroes, because of him, the nationalist movement was in grave danger.

It was unbearable to continue reading. The Sullivan name was blackened, as dark as if Aleck himself had been the mole. Such a blight on his honor could not go unchallenged. In his mind, he replayed the 1881 meeting at the Palmer House, heard again his arguments against John Devoy’s peaceful propositions. Ignored again Coughlin’s repeated warnings. Saw again two men sitting front and center. Next to Le Caron was Patrick Cronin, two snakes in the same nest of vipers.

He brushed the paper from his lap, a pile of filth that dirtied his trousers. His own fault, to mistake reckless obstinacy for a leader’s poise, and he was paying a heavy price. One grievous error had cost him the trust of his followers. Without followers, he would lose control of the U.B., precisely what John Devoy and his minority faction wanted. Getting rid of Cronin was the only way to repair the division within the United Brotherhood and reassert primacy over the movement. As the man who had created the disaster, it was up to Aleck to make all necessary repairs, the penance of the sinner fitting the nature of the sin.

The chiming of the clock broke through his reverie. Half past ten, and Margaret was still hard at work, a frown creasing her brow. A particularly difficult composition, my dear? he asked.

"Somewhat. Do you remember Charles Long? He used to write for the Herald until he returned to Toronto to write for his father’s newspaper. She pressed the blotting paper on the page. A very skilled wordsmith, in my opinion."

Such company you keep, Mrs. Sullivan. Ne’er-do-wells and scoundrels with ink-stained fingers.

Aleck planted a tender kiss on her forehead. At the end of April, she would set off for the Paris Exhibition and he would greatly miss her soft voice, with the flavor of Tyrone in its inflection. He would allow himself that morsel of self-pity, his consolation for her absence. As for the plan that he was to devise and execute, it would have to be undertaken and concluded while Margaret was travelling. Should anything go awry, it was important that his wife be spared, and best that she be surrounded by supporters to shield her if he was unable to protect her.

THREE

DAN

Wet behind the ears, the first time Coughlin set eyes on Cronin, copper dust in his hair and the shine still fresh on his police badge. Pegged the doctor straight off, but no one wanted to believe a chap from a mining town in upper Michigan. Dan had instincts and he knew he was right, so sure that he used every free minute he had to excavate the man’s past. Asking questions came naturally enough to him, a skill that Captain Schaack noticed when they were investigating the Haymarket anarchists. Nothing more than an ability to put two and two together. An ability to add up the positives and the negatives, multiply by his driving ambition and calculate the price of his soul.

The judge in the police court bound Dan’s prisoner over for trial and the detective couldn’t get out of the station house fast enough. He stood on the steps, breathing deeply of the cold air and exhaling clouds of vapor as if he could blow out the tension. One day after Captain Schaack was suspended, with an Inspector and Dan’s partner shown the door, they were all on edge, everyone who had anything to do with the Haymarket investigation. Wasn’t Dan aligned with Schaack, and why not believe that he’d be the next one called on the carpet by the acting Captain? Every Irish-American cop was in danger of dismissal by a German bureaucrat who accused them all of spending their days in the saloons and stealing their pay from Chicago’s hard-working citizens. If it wouldn’t give Captain Schuettler so much satisfaction, Dan would quit. It was all politics.

Back when they needed someone to track down the murdering anarchists, they lauded Captain Schaack. Three years later, his enemies on the force were crying about the way that the Captain produced those guilty verdicts. All he did was give City Hall what they wanted, and for doing his job, he was persecuted. Every officer in the East Chicago Avenue station knew that the jury was rigged and the testimony was more perjury than truth. It wasn’t anything new, not in a case where the very wealthy felt threatened by powerless working men. It would have been worse if those working men were Irish or Catholic, for they were denied both justice and equality in a city dominated by bigots.

Not to be equal meant Dan had to be superior, and that meant he had to show progress in solving the Shufeldt Distillery bombing before the acting Captain could find some excuse to get rid of another Irish cop. The fact that he hadn’t been assigned a new partner after Jake Lowenstein was fired was a clear sign that someone wanted him to fail. Without Jake, the burden of locating an informer was twice as difficult, but Dan was determined. He would go back to Lakeview on his own, if that’s how it had to be, and find out where John Kunze had gone to. The diminutive German immigrant had been very cooperative last week, after Dan loosened the man’s tongue with a few beers. Loosened his tongue and loosened his grip on some very important papers relating to the Whiskey Trust and their involvement in the attempted attack. There could be no doubt that the leaders of the Trust were behind it, and once Dan proved it, the press would heap praise on him and his job would be secure.

After making a telephone call to Mr. Sullivan, to ask after a new job in the event that Schuettler made a move, Dan made his way to Market Street. Poking his head into Danahy’s saloon, he spotted a man who had recently arrived from Ireland and joined Camp No. 20 of the United Brotherhood. While all members were given identification numbers to preserve their anonymity, Dan managed to learn that the chap was named Burke and had no immediate family in Chicago. Except for being dim-witted, Burke was like most other immigrant bachelors who lacked roots after leaving Ireland. He was a drifter, and would most likely keep moving west until he fell into the ocean on the other side of the continent.

What’s the word, Burke? Dan asked. He paid for a round and slid a glass down the bar.

Any sort of labor at all, Burke said. There’s nothing I can find.

While Burke rambled on about his hard luck in getting steady employment, Dan took the lad’s measure. A little taller than average and possessed of a strong back, his physique sculpted by a lifetime of hard work, Martin Burke fit the romantic image of the Irish laborer. A lifetime in Ireland had sculpted his demeanor into that of the patient Irish martyr, taking insults with a shrug and a grin and a string of prayers. Passive as a lam, easily led, the type to follow order and not ask questions, he was the sort of nondescript immigrant who evaporated into the swamps of the tenement districts and disappeared in a crowd of others just like him.

From the depths of his coat pocket, Dan extracted a calling card that served as a reminder of an important duty he had to perform before that night’s U.B. meeting. Senior Guardian John Beggs, whose name was printed on the card, was to be informed by Coughlin that matters had been decided in regard to Dr. Cronin’s insubordination. The details were known only to the Executives. The meeting would be very brief.

Get yourself down to Mr. Beggs’ office, Dan said. The United Brotherhood looked after the welfare of its members, doling out favors that were repaid at the ballot box. In time, the Irish would control every political office in Chicago, then Illinois, and then their voices would be heard in Washington, D.C. If there’s an opening in the Streets Department, it’ll be yours.

’Tis a long and a thirsty walk, Burke said. His mouth hung slightly open, accentuating the glazed look in his eye, as if the inside of his skull was as empty as the glass in his dirty fist.

Another dime appeared, Dan’s investment in strengthening the anti-Cronin clique within the Clan na Gael. Ten cents for a couple of beers, ten cents deposit on a voting member whose loyalty would lie firmly with Beggs and Coughlin and those of like mind. The dynamite faction would need all the support they could get if they were to rid the United Brotherhood of the poison that Cronin and Le Caron had injected. Ten cents, money well spent, even if Dan had little to spare. Kickbacks to those who landed him his job cut into his salary.

The bartender mopped up the rings of beer, calling to Dan’s mind the erasing of evidence. The glasses had been there, and then there was nothing to indicate that they had. Le Caron’s singing pretty tunes in London, the bartender said.

The English always manage to infiltrate every Irish organization, Dan said. What is it about us that makes us so gullible?

What is it about the damned Pinkertons taking John Bull’s side, the bartender said. There were credible rumors flying, that England had hired Pinkerton detectives to spy on the Irish in America. Weren’t the generals glad enough of us when they needed cannon fodder at Gettysburg? We ask for their support for our war, and they look the other way when our enemy enters our camp. The bartender folded his arms across his chest. If one of them was dying of thirst I’d not give him a drop to drink.

Every Irishman who had supported the Molly Maguires ten years before had a particular hatred for Pinkerton’s hired thugs. Among the Irish miners of northern Michigan, that hatred was deep and abiding. Dan had left the copper mines, but he never lost his opinion of the private army that accepted the capitalist’s thirty pieces of silver and betrayed the common working man.

Moving on, Dan headed over to Garrity’s, a clubhouse for Chicago’s underworld. Frequent arrests fueled an enmity between Dan and Garrity, a hatred so intense that the saloon keeper’s brother once pointed a gun at Dan’s head while Garrity threatened him with a beer mallet. It was the quick thinking of Detective Lowenstein that saved Dan’s life, and every day since then Dan wished his former partner had pulled the trigger and splattered Garrity’s brains across the bar. Some men deserved to be killed. Eight warrants sworn out for selling beer without a license, but the beer continued to flow. Someone of influence was tucked into Garrity’s pocket.

Spotting a suspect ducking into the saloon, Dan doubled back to the police call box on the corner. He wasn’t going to let Garrity’s threats keep him from doing his sworn duty, but he wasn’t going to go in alone, either. Office Red McDonald arrived in minutes and Dan sent him around to guard the rear entrance on the alley while he marched into the saloon with his gun drawn. Billy Wallace took off running with Dan on his heels, ran into the alley and right into Red’s waiting arms. A startled rat dashed across Billy’s foot and he went to kick it away, only to clip Red’s shin. It wasn’t a case of bringing him in for questioning any more. Wallace would be charged with resisting arrest and striking a police officer.

With ten gold watches in his possession, Billy was ready to make a deal for a reduced charge. It meant Dan had to work after hours to verify the location of the fencing operation that Wallace described, and he would miss the U. B. meeting. He said as much to Michael Whalen, a fellow detective and member of Camp No. 20. Investigating any criminal enterprise was too dangerous a job for one man to go alone, and Whalen didn’t have to be asked to walk out with Coughlin.

I’ll go to Dinan’s for a rig. Call Senior Guardian Beggs to let him know we’ll both be missing, Whalen said.

Dan placed a call to John Beggs at his law office and ended up on the receiving end of a diatribe about reports not being made by the responsible party and Senior Guardians being expected to approve courses of action they knew nothing about when it would be decent of the Executives to provide a slight hint as to their decision. His ear well and truly chewed up by Mr. Beggs, Dan put his mind to police business. Still on the hunt for the formerly loquacious Mr. Kunze of the Shufeldt Distillery, he called a Lakeview man who had proved useful before. O’Sullivan the iceman saw a great deal on his rounds, and he wouldn’t hesitate to assist a fellow nationalist in apprehending a non-Irish criminal.

* * *

Maggie asked no questions when he told her he had to work after hours. She chattered on, the same as any other night, relating the neighborhood gossip and listening to her husband describe his day. After Dan pushed his plate away, she hurried to brush his overcoat, as if he were heading out to church. There was a laugh on her lips, but he could see in the set of her jaw that she was worried about him, not sure if he would come home again. She’d been that way ever since the bomb was thrown in the Haymarket, three years of constant fear.

After he shrugged into the coat she fussed over the collar, a nervous habit that had developed into a superstition. Her magic spell of safety cast, Dan was free to pick up his daughter and kiss her good- night amid peals of childish laughter. For a brief moment that night, he studied Annie’s smiling face and understood why Mr. Sullivan was so adamant about picking unmarried men for the dynamite jobs. Coughlin was a brave enough man, but he saw that he could not find the courage to volunteer for such a mission. It was one thing to endanger yourself, but not possible to endanger your wife or child.

If the weather’s fair on Sunday, what do you say to a drive? he asked. He hoped to put a smile on Maggie’s face before he went out to face who knew what. Offering an outing in the brutal cold made for a clever little joke.

That would be grand, Maggie said, her gaze fixed on some non-existent speck of lint on his sleeve. She wouldn’t be pacified with a touch of humor.

I have to run down to Peoria next week to meet with Ed Spelman. See if I can trick him into giving up some information about the Whiskey Trust. A prosperous distiller, Spelman was also a leader in the United Brotherhood. Dan had used Irish interests before to get Spelman talking, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. He’d use every trick in the book to bring the Whiskey Trust to justice.

She twined another muffler around his neck. Mind yourself out there tonight.

Yes, ma’am. He kissed her good-bye and her lips parted, the kiss returned with passion, a promise that he would find her in bed when he returned home, waiting for him.

He was grateful for the extra insulation on such a cold February night. The horse slipped across the frozen ruts, eliciting the occasional curse from Whalen as the buggy lurched. Dan’s head was filled with campaign strategy for the March election, mentally organizing the precinct workers, lining up the muscle for the polling places, and calculating the cost of debaters strategically placed in the saloons. There were boarding houses to be packed, votes to be bought, and favors doled out. Getting Irishmen into office, whether Republican or Democrat, was akin to planning an all-out war.

Did you hear about the Captain’s book? Whalen asked. Selling like hotcakes, is it? Dan said. Only a man seeking to promote himself would write a book that made him the hero of the Haymarket Riot investigation. The officers at the East Chicago Avenue Station called it a work of fiction behind Schaack’s back, but they bought it just the same, to curry favor with their Captain.

Like all the rest of them at the station, Whalen feared that the Superintendent of Police would come after him any day, ticking off the names of every cop named in the book for the crime of being listed in print. It wasn’t enough for Superintendent Ebersold to get his revenge on Schaack for being painted as the villain who impeded the Haymarket investigation. He wanted every single head to roll, right out of the door onto Chicago Avenue. With a sickly wife and a houseful of kids, Whalen had good reason to be nervous about his future.

Look, Jake Lowenstein did it to himself. If he hadn’t made his wife mad, she wouldn’t have ratted him out, and he wouldn’t have been fired, Dan said. And if he hadn’t stolen valuables when he raided the anarchists’ homes in the first place, he never would have lost his job.

The Inspector who was let go, he didn’t fence a thing, Whalen said.

Dan tucked his hands into his armpits, wishing that he was at home in his bed with Maggie to keep him warm. I know. Fingers frozen stiff, Dan rubbed his hands before tucking his fingers into his fists. He’d ask Maggie to knit him up another pair of mittens to fit over the ones he had. But we’re nobodies, like Jake. Solve enough crimes and they won’t bother us.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, like an old married couple. Dan’s thoughts drifted to the Turner Hall, where the Camp meeting might or might not be done by the time his police work was finished. The Senior Guardian might or might not have reported that a certain matter was settled. Some other spy or friend of Cronin might or might not have been present, to rail against the secrecy that shut out the members, to create even more conflict.

Just like in the police force, decisions were made by the higher-ups and orders issued to men like Dan Coughlin, who obeyed without asking questions. The three men who sat in judgment on Dr. Cronin were about as high up as one could get in the nationalist organization, one a local millionaire and the other the Chief of Police in San Francisco. As for Aleck Sullivan, the man had deep roots in the cause and friends in every corner of the world. He was Michael Davitt’s right hand in America, the Land League’s agent on the far side of the Atlantic. He was the right kind of friend to have in a town where a man needed friends to get ahead.

Ponderings gave way with a start when the buggy rolled to a halt. Three blocks away, Whalen hitched the horse to a post and the two detectives fell in step on the wooden sidewalk, a crisp walk to get the blood flowing to numbed feet. With Whalen taking the north side of the lot and Dan the south, they picked their way across the prairie and blended into the shadows, drawn to a solitary cottage where a shaft of light sliced through a broken shutter. A brief glance was all it took to discover a trove of silver cutlery and glittering jewelry stacked in piles on a motley collection of rough tables.

As quiet as his large feet could carry him, Dan went to the back of the house and signaled to Whalen that they had done all they could until they obtained a search warrant. They were climbing through a broken section of fence when they stopped in their tracks, afraid they’d been seen. The back door of the house opened and the figure of a man, bundled in dark clothes, walked towards them.

Hands shoved into overcoat pockets, the two police officers walked along like a couple of laborers heading home from the horse car. The man who had left the fence’s place of business walked faster, head down, and bumped Whalen’s arm as he tried to pass.

Sampson, what brings you out on a night like this? Dan said as he clamped his hand on a thick shoulder. He had run the criminal in twice before and figured that a little more information about the fencing operation could be gained by bringing Sampson in for a third time.

The man hemmed and hawed, but he had been nabbed often enough to know that coming along peacefully was the wiser tactic. Just a few questions, Whalen said; Dan realized that his evening would not end early as he had hoped. With his sidearm trained on the suspect, Dan squeezed onto the bench of the buggy while Whalen gave the reins a flick and the old grey gelding lifted its feet, making for the lock-up at the East Chicago Avenue station. For all the trouble Sampson had given them over the years, Dan entertained a fleeting thought. Save the county the trouble and expense of a trial, one squeeze of the trigger, but the cost he would pay in guilt wasn’t worth it.

Got yourself some time off for good behavior? Dan asked. How do you manage to keep yourself out of the pen?

Fuck off. I got nothing to say, Sampson said.

Whalen’s eye flickered, a sidelong glance at Coughlin. Criminals who bought their local alderman were untouchable, protected by a mountain of boodle that stood as a fortress around much of Chicago’s underworld. They might have wasted an entire evening, gotten chilled to the bone for no reason. For their efforts, they were just as likely to earn the Captain’s acclaim as his censure, get a pat on the back or a blot on their record that would