The Throughway

By Gary Link

Upholding the law is John Parker’s life. It gives his world meaning and direction. It provides something he can always count on. And, because he is a Constable for the City of Pittsburgh, it is also his duty. But what if the law is wrong? In the third installment of the "Pittsburgh Historical Mystery Series," High Constable Abraham Butler assigns Parker to capture a group of runaway slaves, forcing him to confront this dilemma. Tracking the slaves through Pittsburgh, Parker discovers a network of local people aiding their escape – one of whom he holds most dear. As Parker closes in on them, he must decide whether he will uphold the law or abandon it. In pursuit, too, is a slave catcher who prefers to transport dead bodies rather than live ones back to the South. The fallout from their convergence will determine not only who returns to bondage and who goes free, but also who lives, and who dies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Link
• Release date: Sep 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465821676

Gary Link

Gary Link is the author of the “Pittsburgh Historical Mystery Series.” This is a series of crime/mystery novels set in Pittsburgh in the 1840’s, and having as its main character the fictional Pittsburgh City Constable, John Parker. The story for each novel is framed around an actual historical event, and each novel contains much real Pittsburgh history. The first novel, The Burnt District, tells the story of Pittsburgh’s Great Fire of April 10, 1845, and also highlights the Pennsylvania Canal. The second novel is titled The Spectrum, A Novel. It highlights Pittsburgh’s leading role in the US – Mexican War of 1846. The third novel is titled The Throughway. It explores the Underground Railroad in Pittsburgh and Western Pennsylvania.A Teacher's Guide to all three novels can be obtained for free by emailing Gary at [e-mail]

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The Throughway

by

Gary Link

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY

Gary Link on Smashwords

Copyright © 2008 by Gary Link

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1.

William Rowlinson, Jr. jumped to his feet and thrust an accusing finger toward the other side of the great hall, You, who would betray this body, you would hand out assets over to the enemy and condemn this city to sink into the sands of obscurity until we are no more than a backwater town!

The already raucous crowd on the other side of the aisle sprang up, everyone hurling vehement rejoinders at the opposite side. The central aisle that split the body of seats in Franklin Hall formed a neutral area filled only with the same cigar smoke that hung over both sides of the gaslight-illuminated crowd. But now encroachments on this boundary seethed back and forth from both sides, as adversaries stepped forward as if to physically impress on their opponents that which they charged verbally.

City Constable John Parker fixed on this slowly eroding buffer, noting that it threatened to disappear altogether.

It is you, Thomas Egler shouted from the other side of the hall, after the din had subsided sufficiently to enable a man to make himself heard, who would send our city to ruin by forcing us to turn our backs to the rest of the Commonwealth!"

And who would that be? William Rowlinson, Jr. retorted amid the rising shouts on both sides of the aisle. The people of Harrisburg and Philadelphia? They have improved their own lot for over a decade while letting us in the west languish. Their machinations serve none but their own interests to our detriment. It is they who have turned their back on us!

One solid roar arose as both sides jumped to their feet. The tone of this public meeting regarding the Pittsburgh and Connellsville Railroad Company had deteriorated almost from the moment the gavel had brought it to order hours ago. The individual speeches making organized and reasoned points had long since passed. Emotional outbursts and accusations gradually took their place. Gone, too, were any attempts at civil behavior. Now Parker watched the expressions on men’s faces turn from determination to anger.

Both sides pressed again toward the middle. Several men encroached on the aisle, raging at the other side. Then the buffer zone between them collapsed entirely.

Physical contact began with angry fingers being thrust into chests. Parker signaled a meaningful glance across the hall to Constable Albert Perry, who nodded a quick acknowledgement. Both constables drew their nightsticks and shouldered their way through the crowd, advancing toward the center from opposite ends. Parker pushed people to either side, trying to physically re-establish the aisle. William Rowlinson, Jr., in dead center, cocked his right arm back to throw a punch at the man whose collar he held with his left hand. Parker reached to grasp Rowlinson’s arm while thrusting his nightstick between the two combatants.

At this moment someone knocked into Parker from behind. The jolt sent Parker’s nightstick, already in forward motion, into William Rowlinson, Jr.’s forehead. Stunned from the blow, Rowlinson loosened his grip on his opponent. He recovered and turned his full rage on Parker.

Do you know who I am, you lackey? Without warning he sent an uppercut punch into Parker’s stomach, then started pummeling him with fisticuffs. Parker did know who William Rowlinson, Jr. was, and attempted to fend him off without using any extra force.

As the meeting descended into complete chaos, Parker realized that the very thing had come to pass that High Constable Abraham Butler had assigned him and Albert Perry to prevent. This thing, this Railroad fever, has been raising hackles across the state for years, the High Constable had told his two senior assistants. It threatens to boil over today at Franklin Hall. You are the two, of any of my constables, whom I can count on to see that it doesn’t. Even as he tried to disengage from this madman, surrounded by men engaged in similar tussles, Parker couldn’t help but spare one moment of concentration to imagine the scene of him explaining to his boss that his confidence had been sadly misplaced.

But his immediate problem still struggled to assault Parker with every appendage he possessed. When Parker grabbed Rowlinson’s arms, the latter kicked him. The expanding melee around him told Parker that he had to disentangle himself from this individual now. In a simple maneuver he knew he would live to regret, Parker jabbed the tip of his nightstick into his attacker’s stomach. William Rowlinson, Jr. dropped immediately to his knees. A trickle of blood trailed down from his forehead from the initial, accidental blow, curved around his face and trickled down past his cheek. As he sunk slowly to the floor, he mouthed wordlessly at Parker, (for he could not breathe, Parker having knocked the wind out of him) You will pay.

Now free from William Rowlinson, Jr., Parker looked around to see that Albert Perry had gained control of his immediate area with considerably more success. Perry had separated the two groups using his body, and had cleared the aisle that had divided the groups originally. On both sides men returned to their pre-melee positions.

To his embarrassment, Parker realized that not only was the remaining trouble localized to his area, but that he, indeed, was the center of it. He seized two combatants and shoved them away from each other. Albert Perry, in the meantime, found a crier’s bell on a desk at the head of the hall. Raising it by its short wooden handle, he rang out a knell that boomed across the hall. Everyone stopped in mid-motion.

That is enough! Perry yelled, holding the bell aloft.

The men in the hall, the city’s businessmen and civic leaders, looked startled, then chagrined at each other. Everyone except William Rowlinson, Jr., still on the floor, returned to their seats, their heads bowed. Parker leaned over and extended a hand to Rowlinson, who refused it.

You can only but wish I would accept a hand from you, lackey. I can assure you that it is you who will require assistance in the none to distant future.

Adamson Barr received the crier’s bell from Albert Perry and carried it back to the desk from which it had been taken. He set the bell down and rapped the gavel on the desktop.

It is clear that we cannot resolve the matter before us in this public forum, Mr. Barr said. The stockholders of the Pittsburgh and Connellsville Railroad must decide on for ourselves our role in the fate of the railroad connection to Pittsburgh. We shall schedule a stockholders’ meeting before the month is out.

He rapped the gavel again.

This meeting is adjourned.

Men rose and filed out the large wooden double doors of Franklin Hall. The grumbling remained at a low murmur, no one wishing to revive the emotions that brought the meeting to ruin. Perry walked over to Parker.

What was Junior Rowlinson going on about with you?

Nothing. I hit him by accident and he came after me. I couldn’t get him to stop hitting me. I had to get him off…

So you hit him again.

Parker shook his head, There wasn’t anything else I could do. He wouldn’t stop punching and kicking me.

You sure picked the wrong guy to tussle with.

Well at least I didn’t hit his dad.

His dad would probably be less angry if you had hit him instead of his favorite boy.

"His only boy."

Parker and Perry stood just inside the doors as the last of the crowd departed. Only Adamson Barr remained.

Sorry about that, boys, Mr. Barr said. This railroad business seems to ignite the deepest passions of men.

Why is that? Perry asked.

Money, of course, Mr. Barr said, and dreams of success. Success of their businesses, present and schemed. Some believe even the future of the very city itself is at stake. It all depends on which route the railroad throughway will take to the west.

Do you really think there’s a chance the railroad wouldn’t go through Pittsburgh? Parker asked.

Look at the National Road, Mr. Barr said. It completely bypassed us and went to Wheeling instead.

But it sounds like two railroads are competing to get to Pittsburgh. How could we be bypassed? Perry said.

One faction present at the meeting here today doesn’t trust the Harrisburg and Philadelphia men to make good on their promise of a Central Railroad to the city, so they want to construct the Connellsville Line that would eventually connect to the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad that will be headed through Maryland and Virginia. The other faction, quite the opposite, has placed all of their faith in the Pennsylvania men and the Central Line. They want the Connellsville Railroad Company dissolved, so it doesn’t compete with the Central Line. But if the Connellsville Line thusly disappears and if the Philadelphia men do not make good on their promise of a Central Line across the state, then east-west commerce will by-pass us on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad to Wheeling, just like the National Road did.

And so after all of this trouble, the railroad could still miss Pittsburgh, Perry said.

That, Adamson Barr said, is the great fear.

* * * * *

Rising for work the next morning proved doubly difficult for Parker. For one thing, the previous night’s extra duty pushed his bedtime back considerably. Restful, unimpeded sleep being a new thing to him, Parker cherished every moment of it. Second, the coldest December in anyone’s memory gripped the city, and Parker dreaded crawling out of his covers to get dressed.

The Franklin stove that heated the Wright House, where Parker boarded, fended off the cold for the most part. But the frigid air found and exploited even the slimmest gaps in window sills, and penetrated even the house’s wooden frame. When Parker’s feet hit the cold floor, every inch of his five feet, eleven inch frame shuddered.

Parker stripped off his night clothes, withdrew socks and winter under undergarments from the chest of drawers that stood at the head of his bed, and slipped them on. With arms folded across his chest, rubbing his own shoulders for warmth, he padded across to the tall wooden wardrobe that stood against the opposite wall and pulled out his standard black britches, boiled shirt, his short jacket, and his Blucher boots. He slipped them on turn, working as fast as he could force his cold fingers to move. He took his heavy, butternut-colored constable’s overcoat off of the coat rack by his door and went downstairs.

Parker had not given himself time to eat breakfast in Jenny Wright’s kitchen. But he did, before he left, stoke the stove with more coal for his landlady.

Outside, Parker fastened every button on his overcoat and turned the collar up against the cold day. He wondered, not for the first or last time, why he never wore nor even owned a hat. He huddled forward and started his walk to work.

The Watchhouse stood on Grant Street a few blocks away from his residence on the corner of Sixth and Cherry streets. An inch of snow crunched under his feet as he strode up the sidewalk to the two story structure where he reported for work six mornings each week.

Arriving at the Watchhouse on Grant Street, Parker entered, as he always did, through the side door that opened into the stairwell that led to the Constables’ offices on the second floor. He nodded in greeting to officers of the Night Watch arriving to report in to their supervisors to end their shifts. Upstairs, Parker found all of the other Assistant Constables already seated in the announcements room outside of the High Constable’s office.

Their number remained at six, though the number of city wards they patrolled had increased to nine. High Constable Abraham Butler was forced to double the duties of some of his men. He assigned to Parker the new Eighth Ward, formerly known as Kensington, adjacent to Parker’s original beat, the Second Ward. Butler moved Daniel Whitney over to Third Ward, formerly patrolled by Hugh Ihmsen. He assigned Ihmsen the Sixth and Seventh wards. This gave Ihmsen the entire Quarry Hill, covered mostly by the two predominantly black communities of Hayti and Arthursville. Ihmsen complained loudly about this for weeks. It took a private conference with the High Constable to quiet his public grumblings. The new Ninth Ward, upstream along the Allegheny River and adjacent to the Fifth Ward, was added to Assistant Constable Charles Cameron. Assistant constables Albert Perry and Art Keller escaped increased duties because no new wards were created adjacent to theirs.

The assistant constables’ chairs sat in rows facing a wooden podium, with an office door beyond. The High Constable’s shadow grew larger on the beveled glass of the office door’s window until it filled the pane, then the door opened. Abraham Butler stepped into the room and did not look up from his notes until he stood behind his podium. His eyes did not lift, even though it became clear he was not actually reading anything, but stared unfocused as one emerging from some helpless dilemma to a conclusion, or perhaps no further than to another question.

How does, the High Constable paused even as he started, a law enforcement officer tasked to keep order in a public meeting end up starting a riot?

It took Parker a moment to realize that the question, if not directed to him (though he felt he should attempt a reply) certainly referred to him. How indeed? He had not started the fight, to his recollection, but simply became embroiled when trying to stop it. Perhaps his boss had some other information.

Do you mean me, sir?

The High Constable looked at Parker as if emerging from some confusing fog and spotting him for the first time. He spoke in a slow, measured pace, Yes. I mean you, Constable Parker.

I didn’t start a fight, sir. I tried to break one up.

Judge Rowlinson has reported to the Mayor that you assaulted his son. You know Judge Rowlinson, don’t you? The President Judge of the County Court? The senior judge in the city?

I did not assault William Rowlinson, Jr. I stepped in as he attempted to attack someone else.

That is not Junior’s side of the story. And it’s his side that his father is subscribing to. And the Mayor as well.

Sir, I promise you that is not what happened.

Reportedly, he’s sporting a nasty cut above his eyebrow from your nightstick as testament to the contrary.

That was an accident, sir. Parker realized as soon as the words escaped his lips that he had just condemned himself. He heard snickering from the direction of Ihmsen, Cameron, and Keller.

The High Constable paused again. And the broken rib? An accident as well?

I did not break his…

When you struck his midsection with your aforementioned baton?

Parker sank in his chair. The blow must’ve been high. He looked down at his boots.

I thought as much, Butler said. Come and see me after Report is over.

Yes, Sir.

Compared to that bombshell the remainder of the High Constable’s morning announcements and instructions were mundane. And brief. Most of the news of any interest these days was word of the city’s volunteer militia companies serving in the occupation forces in Mexico, far away from city happenings.

That is all, gentlemen, Butler said after he finished. He turned and stepped into his office, leaving his door ajar behind him.

Constables Cameron, Ihmsen, and Keller smirked as they filed past Parker. Albert Perry gave a supporting pat on the shoulder as he left. Daniel Whitney’s face looked as if he were seeing Parker off to his execution. Parker gave a reassuring nod. He had been on the hot seat before. He stood up, walked into the High Constable’s office, and closed the door.

His boss sat at his large oak desk facing Parker. Only Abraham Butler could make such a massive desk look small. He filled any furniture, possessed any space he occupied. His Prussian blue uniform, impressively trimmed in yellow gold, would’ve added gravitas to any other man. But Butler’s presence, not his uniform, carried the authority of his office. His large brow furrowed above his bushy eyebrows now even more than it typically did when his most wayward Assistant Constable stood before him.

I do not need to question you further to know whose version of yesterday’s events is the more accurate. But I do want to tell you, in the most serious of terms, that Judge Rowlinson is vehement in his condemnation of you. And for his part, the Mayor is correspondingly agitated, bearing, as he is, the Judge’s full ire.

And his, in turn, to you, Parker said.

I can fend them off, for a time, and hope that tempers cool, Butler said. But until then you need to stay out of trouble, keep a low profile, and stay away from Junior Rowlinson.

I will, Sir.

You have no choice, John. Make no mistake about it this time.

Parker nodded affirmatively and left the High Constable’s office. He descended the Watchhouse stairs and exited out onto Grant Street. By now the sun was up but no one could see it through the overcast and snowy sky. The temperature hadn’t risen with it, though, and Parker felt the cold even under all of his layers of clothes. He walked to the Second Ward.

Ordinary daily traffic, which commenced well before sunup, passed Parker on Grant Street. Flatbed wagons, box wagons, Conestoga’s, two-wheeled drays, and every conceivable type of horse-drawn conveyance carried produce, dry goods, and manufactures to and from the Monongahela Wharf. Pedestrians shivered on their way to work or daily errands.

Parker made a detour down Fourth Street to its corner at Wood Street, a deviation from his regular route that he’d started upon invitation from Hamilton Simms, the manager at the St. Charles Hotel. Almost exactly one year ago Parker had investigated the murder of one of the hotel staff, eventually proving it to be part of a string of murders in the city. Parker solved that case in a manner that did not disrupt the hotel’s daily business. Simms had appreciated his work, and invited Parker to stop in for morning coffee on his way to his rounds. Parker didn’t stop every morning, but he did stop frequently, especially on the mornings when he could use a strong mug of coffee and a friendly, if necessarily short, conversation. This was such a morning.

Parker entered through the St. Charles’ front door and walked straight back behind the concierge’s desk. The time of morning that he stopped usually coincided with a lull in the hotel lobby’s traffic between the early risers, already gone, and the wave of guests that rose later and ate breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant. Simms did not even man the front desk at this time, but rather sat in the back office with his paperwork and a pot of coffee. Simms looked up from his work as Parker entered the office.

Ah, Constable Parker, my good luck charm. Always the sign of a good day ahead when you walk into my office in the morning.

Good morning, Hamilton, Parker said in a manner not quite as cheerful as his host’s. He picked up a mug from the desktop and helped himself, as he’d been admonished to do by Simms in the first several of these morning visits.

But I perceive that many mornings that you choose to stop in are not such good ones for you. And this is one of those mornings.

Parker let out a short laugh, You’re very perceptive. He sipped his coffee. It was very hot, very strong, and very good. He closed his eyes for a moment just to enjoy it. I’d never tell Jenny, my landlady, this, but you’ve got the best coffee in the city.

We staff get to enjoy the same coffee that we provide for our guests.

Looking past his host, Parker saw two hotel maids, both negroes, approach in a narrow hallway off the far side of the office. They stopped in the middle of the hall and removed fresh linens from the shelves that lined the hallway’s wall from top to bottom. One maid pulled the linens out and stacked them on the other’s outstretched arms. They conversed quietly during this procedure, looking over at Parker and their boss a few times as they worked. Quickly they were gone. Parker observed that Simms was aware of their presence, but took no overt notice of their operation. It was obviously daily routine.

What’s the order of business for today? Simms said.

Staying out of trouble , I suppose, Parker said.

I thought your job was to keep others out of trouble.

Lately I don’t seem to be able to do either.

A bell rang from the front desk.

The day begins anew, Simms said. He rose from his desk and walked out of the office. Parker finished his coffee and also departed. Both men were used to their morning session ending abruptly by the ring of the bell. Further comment was not needed. Parker exited the hotel.

As he started down Wood Street a wagon approached from behind. It slowed but did not stop at the hotel, but rather seemed to adopt the same pace as Parker’s. It turned the corner just as he did, staying just at his shoulder. Finally he turned around, and the logo emblazoned on the box wagon’s side did not encourage him. The Great Southern Cotton Mill, Parker knew, was a