“See those smokestacks, boy?”
“Sir?”
“Over there,” he said. “Those are the mills, factories, packing houses, and plants that make this city run. And, Tor, they—all—buy—my—coal. All the stores and most of the homes in this part of the city, too. Think of it, boy. They give me their money and I give them my coal. When their coal is burned up, they come back with more money looking for more coal to burn. It has made me a very rich man, Son.”
“But the smell of the coal and all that smoke—it makes it hard to breathe, Sir. Hard for everyone in the city.”
“Only on days like this. Most other days the smoke goes high and the wind takes it away. Frankly, it is not such a bad smell, boy. It is the smell of progress. To me it is the smell of fortunes being made, the smell of money. And you, Tor, you are now an important worker in my enterprise. Why, you are as important as any man in my employ. You will soon learn to appreciate the smell of coal smoke. Do a good job and you will always have a place here at the Chicago River Fuel and Dray.”
“Yes, Sir. My pa always told me to do my best. I don't remember all that much about him but I do remember that. Sir? Someday I want to find out what happened to him. I have an uncle, too. Pa’s brother. He’s the last of my family. I never met him. Someday I want to find him, too.”
“All in good time, boy. All in good time.”
They stepped into the bustling office. The dark, filthy coal yard stood in contrast to this clean and orderly workroom. Four big roll-top desks stretched across the back wall of the large room. Each was manned by a clerk and had many pigeon holes filled with slips of paper. The desktops each had wire baskets stacked high with papers. Above each desks stretched a thin, white cord connected to a pulley. Tor watched as a clerk reached up, clipped a form to the string, and pulling the cord, sent it to the desk farthest from him, declaring, “Fourteen ton to Mercer and Peckworth by noon today,” in a loud, clear voice.
Instantly the slip was snatched from the line, stamped by the man at the receiving desk and thrust onto a spindle. This clerk quickly recorded the order on another paper, folded and inserted it into a small cylinder. He opened a vertical tube mounted to the side of his desk and put the cylinder into the tube, sending it to the floor below. In the same motion, he pulled a cord on the wall next to his desk. The loud, clear ring of a bell could be heard from the floor below. “Order out, Mercer and Peckworth, fourteen ton,” called the clerk.
As these men tended to their work, two other clerks, each wearing white, collarless shirts with gartered sleeves, sorted other papers. They placed them into baskets and bins on a worktable. Neither man spoke. Their attention was focused only on their work. As DeWilde and Tor walked across the room, one of the clerks noticed his boss, stopped abruptly and shot out, “Good morning, Sir!” Hearing this, each of the others repeated the greeting.
“Sorry to interrupt you, men,” said DeWilde. “This is Tor Loken. He is our new clean-out boy. You’ll be seeing him around here from now on.”
Ignatius DeWilde escorted Tor through another door as the clerks returned to their work routine.
The next room was Mr. DeWilde’s private office, neat, comfortable, and quiet. Before DeWilde could reach his mahogany desk, another door swung open. In walked a large, muscular man. Around his waist was a wide belt carrying a sheathed hunting knife on one side, a nightstick on the other.
“Tor,” said DeWilde, seating himself behind the desk, “this is Big Jake, our plant security man. He will show you to your room. If you have any questions about your work, see Big Jake.”
DeWilde pawed through some mail on his desk as Big Jake Riggens escorted Tor out of the room and down a short hallway. They entered a small room with one small window looking onto the coal yard and the nearby factories. An old jacket and hat hung on one of several spikes driven into the wall. A single chair stood next to a small table. A pocket knife lay on the table. In the corner stood a small stack of books next to a plain, metal cot with a straw mattress and one blanket.
“Here’s your bed, boy. There’s some picture books in the corner. You can get rainwater from the cistern at the end of the hall. It gets piped down from the roof. Or, if you like, you can carry water up from the barn. No matter. Use the pitcher and bowl in the cupboard to wash up. Throw your wash water out the window. You won’t hit nobody. It’s just coal down there. If you want to take a bath or scrub your clothes, there’s a washtub at the bottom of the stairs and troughs in the horse barn. Use the privy outside the barn. It’s for the workers. You will find a chamber pot under the bed. It will save you a walk to the privy in the dark of night. You'll appreciate that more, come winter. You following me on all this, boy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Big Jake stepped to the table and picked up the knife opening one of the two blades. He examined it, felt the edge, and closed it again. He opened the second blade to find it broken off halfway from the tip.
“Here, boy. You might as well have this. The other boy don’t have no use for it no more.”
“Thank you, sir. Where’s the boy who left it here?”
Jake Riggens was silent for a moment. Then, “He don’t work here no more. He didn’t do a good enough job and now he don’t work here. He was a good boy, a real good boy, but not a good enough worker, that’s all. No more questions about him. Come with me.”
They walked down the hallway. Jake opened a closet door revealing several brooms, a dustpan, mop and bucket, and a wooden box containing cleaning rags. A dozen Fels-Naptha soap cakes were neatly stacked on the top shelf. Two feather dusters lay on the second shelf.
“These are the tools of your trade, boy,” said Jake. “You’ll use these to keep all the halls, stairways, and rooms clean, mornin’, noon, and night. There’s a push broom for the sidewalks. When you’re low on supplies, see me. Don’t bother anyone else. Clean every room every day, including yours,” he said. “Now about the clerks’ office, Tor. They work from seven in the morning till six at night. You are not to enter their office while they are working. Never. You’ll have to clean the clerks’ office after supper. And, Tor, this is important—do not ever go into Mr. DeWilde’s office unless you are told. Mrs. Ostralder cleans it for him. You stay out. If you see Mr. DeWilde, don’t speak unless spoken to. Never. He don't need to be bothered. Now, come this way.”
At the end of the hallway they descended a narrow stairway taking them out to the yard. Again, the acrid stench from the slaughterhouses, mixed with the odor of coal smoke, cut Tor’s nostrils. “The smell of fortunes being made,” he remembered.
A long line of empty coal wagons led to a series of four-story, concrete coal storage silos. The teamsters, wet from the weather and black from the dust of earlier loadings, directed their horse teams toward the bottom of the silos. There, four wagons could be filled simultaneously. At each loading dock, a coal-blackened worker controlled a long, slender, metal chute. As the sturdy wagons entered each coal dock, this man would pull on the shorter of two chains to direct the coal chute over the wagon. Then, pulling the long chain, he would open the chute's top gate. Both the teamster and the fill men would cover their noses with rags as coal and billows of black dust spewed from the chute.
Tor watched as one of these wagons was filled beyond the top rails in a matter of seconds. The chain was slacked off, the coal stopped, the teamster gave a giddup, and the coal-blackened team of four workhorses pulled the heavy wagon forward. A whoa from the teamster stopped them.
Two men, one on each side of the wagon, lowered a screed board onto the wagon rails and leveled the load. The excess coal fell to the black concrete. As the teamster drove toward the gate, the two men used wide shovels to clear the area for the next wagon.
Above and across the yard, a narrow gauge steam locomotive labored to pull a procession of small, stout coal cars up an incline toward the top of the coal silos. Another train of empty cars was working its way down the grade on the other side of the yard, having unloaded its c
argo. Beyond and below, a larger railroad track disappeared behind one of four gigantic piles of coal. Men with shovels kept the loading dock clear of excess coal. Another man watched over it all, occasionally using his shovel to clear a small amount of spilled coal.
Big Jake Riggens escorted Tor to the loading crew foreman, shouting above the noise of the steam engine, “Wadalski—Wadalski! This is your new clean-out boy. Name’s Tor Loken. From the boys’ home down on LaSalle.”
“Iss kinda tall, but he’ll have ta do,” yelled the foreman. “Iss dis pup got da goods?”
“DeWilde picked him out himself. Says he’s strong and plenty smart, Wadalski. Smarter than most, I’d say. You just take good care of him. You don’t want DeWilde to call you in. You don’t want that, Wadalski,”
“You listen here. Iss not me vaht says how da cards play out, Riggens. Dat last boy’s fate vas on you, not me, in spite vaht you say. You iss to blame!"
Big Jake shouted back, “It happened on your watch, Wadalski. These things always happen on your watch and you know it.”
Instantly, the foreman’s nostrils flared and he swung his coal shovel toward Big Jake’s head. The security man’s nightstick left his side and flashed through the air, deflecting the shovel. In another fluid movement, the nightstick caught the foreman in the chin, knocking him to the ground. Riggens pointed the stick at Wadalski’s face as he stepped on the fallen man’s right wrist, pinning it to the ground.
“A fool’s move that was, Wadalski, a fool’s move. I could get you sacked for that! But I’ll do you a favor. I’ll keep you and your family out of the poorhouse this time 'round, but I won’t forget this, Wadalski. You dasn't test me again. And, mister, you owe me now. You and your missus and your young’uns owe me big for not reportin’ this. By rights you should be gettin' your walkin’ papers.” He leaned forward putting more weight on the fallen man’s wrist. The foreman grimaced but made no sound. “Now you damn well best keep this boy safe and sound and whistlin’ cheery tunes, Wadalski. I want to hear him whistlin’ cheery tunes every mornin’ from his pigeon-roost up there. Every mornin’. Say it, Wadalski. Say I’ll be hearin’ Tor whistle a cheery tune every mornin’.” Big Jake thrust the nightstick closer to the foreman’s face.
“Ya, ya, every mornin’, Riggens.”
Work stopped in the yard as the teamsters, loaders, screed men and shovelers looked on. Big Jake shot a glance around the yard and all returned to their work, many with wide grins after seeing their supervisor put in his place. Jake turned away and walked toward the horse barn as the yard foreman came to his feet and made a futile attempt to brush some of the wet coal grime from his overalls. He stared briefly at Tor, then picked up his shovel and went back to his work.
Tor had watched and listened intently. Things he had heard and observed at the orphanage, in DeWilde’s office, in his new room, and now, near the coal docks told him something was wrong. This fight disturbed him, as did the words that came before and after the blows. And the broken knife in his pocket—where was the boy who owned it before? What happened to him?
“What have I gotten myself into? What am I gonna do?”
*
Chapter 4
The Place of the Sturgeon