The Roswell Legacy Frances Statham (mini ebook reader .txt) 📖

“Please, Stanley. You’re hurting me.…”

“Stanley?”

The voice was a man’s and he gave a start. “Yes?”

“The service is over,” Charles said. “It’s time to go.”

“Yes. It’s over,” he repeated, and followed Charles, Ginna, and Jonathan out of the cemetery.

CHAPTER

33

In that August of 1893, the personal problems that divided families and caused such uncertainty ran parallel to the economic distress felt by the majority of working-class Americans.

“It’s that damned eastern moneyed group,” Tug Birmbaugh complained to Rad and Tripp Drake. “The poor western farmer and the city laborer don’t have a chance in hell against them.”

“You Silverites in the West haven’t helped, Tug,” Tripp responded. “Forcing the government to buy silver to be redeemed in gold has just made all money scarce.”

“The whole situation is a lot more complicated than that,” Rad responded. “We’ve overspent and overproduced ever since the Civil War, and it’s finally catching up with us.”

“Maybe we need another war,” Tug said in a joking manner. “That always helps in time of economic depression.”

Rad frowned. “You didn’t fight in the last war, did you, Tug?”

“Not between North and South. I was too busy trying to keep my scalp from the Indians.”

“Then you should know what devastation war wreaks on a nation. So I assume you said that in jest.”

“Maybe. But I think the people are beginning to spoil for another fight.”

“Preferably with some poor island dictator or monarchy,” Tripp said.

Tug became slightly belligerent with his two colleagues, for he knew that Congress would more than likely defeat the Silver Purchase Act, which would do harm to his own silver mines. So the words spoken in jest began to take on a more serious, argumentative note.

“Well, the British are sending troops into Nicaragua to protect their interests. I don’t see why Cleveland doesn’t do the same for American interests,” he said.

“I would have thought that deposing Queen Liliuokalani and annexing Hawaii would have sufficed the expansionists’ urge, at least for a while,” Tripp replied.

“I think the real war is going to come from within,” Rad cautioned. “It’s going to be a class war, between the haves and have-nots—the owners versus the workers. Just look at what’s happening in Chicago. George Pullman has laid off any number of workers and cut the wages of those still employed by twenty-five percent. Yet he hasn’t reduced the high rents for the houses his workers live in. My daughter writes that the mobs are becoming unruly because they’re so desperate for food.”

Their conversation continued, bringing into the open the division that separated the people as well as members of Congress.

The hot days of August passed into September and October. While the debate over the money situation raged in Congress, the white and gold fantasy of Chicago’s Columbian Exposition quietly vanished, leaving in its stead an inherited legacy of riffraff to roam the city and get into mischief.

Morrow returned to her work at the settlement house. But she still made her weekly visits to the Andretti family, who were more destitute now than ever. But because of the mobs, Mateo rode with them.

“It’s just a losing battle, Miss Morrow,” Allie said, as they traveled through the littered streets toward the tenement. “How can one basket of food make any difference in this sea of starving faces?”

“It makes a difference to me, Allie. If it hadn’t been for some stranger here and there with a meager offering of food years ago during the war, my mother and your mother surely would have starved to death.”

“I guess you’re right, Miss Morrow. My papa, Big Caesar, used to tease my mama about being beholden to him since he let her take his fishing hole from him. That used to rile her ‘cause she was so proud. Proud till the day she died.”

“Have you heard from him lately?”

“Yes, ma’am. Last week. And he’s proud, too. Said Mr. Jonathan told him he didn’t know what he’d do without him running the farm and taking care of the horses while he’s gone.”

“Well, it’s been hard on everybody. Jonathan and Ginna, I’m sure, had no idea they would be apart for so long.”

“I never understood why they just didn’t come out with it and tell everybody they were already married.”

“Once Mrs. Forsyte died, it was too late. It would have seemed such a hole-in-the-wall affair. But it won’t be long now. The three months are nearly up.”

A worried Mateo, looking at the sky, saw a cloud of black smoke beginning to spiral above the buildings. And in the distance a clang of firebells indicated that a fire had broken out.

“Mrs. Lachlan,” he said, “I’m afraid there’s a fire ahead.”

“Keep going, Mateo,” she said. “Maybe it’s not that close.”

But a short distance away, a policeman waved them back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This street’s blocked. Carriages won’t be able to get through.”

“Is a tenement building on fire?” Morrow asked.

“Yes. And you know how dry wood burns. The whole street is likely to be covered in flames in a few minutes.”

“Wait here, Mateo.”

With the policeman occupied elsewhere, Morrow stepped down from the carriage. “Come on, Allie. We’ll travel by foot.”

Holding the basket, Allie trailed behind Morrow. Drawn by the smoke, a large crowd had begun to assemble. And with each step, a few more people joined the throng on their way toward the fire.

But then the smoke turned into flames, angry and red against the sky. Tongues of fire began to lap at the roofs of other buildings, and soon the heat swept toward the crowd, forcing them back.

“There’re people still trapped in the buildings,” someone shouted.

“Can’t you get them out?”

“It’s too late.”

Morrow and Allie stood in the crowd, watching the flimsy tenement buildings crash down like matchstick playhouses. And all around the cries of relatives matched the screams of those trapped inside.

“Get back! Get back. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Please. My wife and baby are on the fourth floor.”

“I’m sorry. They’re dead by now. No need