Of Grave Concern by Max McCoy Read Free Book Online Page B

that if by midnight of the thirteenth year nothing had come through, I would no longer believe—in anything.
    Now it was May of 1877.
    The anniversary of Jonathan’s death would fall on the coming Sunday, the thirteenth, four days hence. There would be one last séance—if I could get out of jail. Getting sprung required cash for bail, and I was as broke as the Ten Commandments.
    Being acquitted of the charges altogether was even more unlikely.
    If nothing else, I would be found guilty by association.
    In the last decade, there are two women who have created the popular notion of Spiritualism for the American public. One is Kate Bender. The other is Victoria Woodhull. Both claimed contact with the dead, both advocated free love, and both were widely regarded as prostitutes. One is a murderer and, presumably, a fugitive. The other ran for president on the women’s rights ticket and was portrayed by the cartoonist Thomas Nast as the bride of Satan.
    A jury of Kansas men would gladly hang me in their stead.

8
    As Eddie perched on my shoulder and teased my hair with his beak, I heard keys rattle in the heavy door to the bull pen. Tom the Jailer appeared once more.
    He strode into the jail, dragging behind him the polite tramp I had seen earlier. The red silk scarf hung loosely around his neck, the derby was gone, and his coat was ripped beneath the arms. Blood dribbled from his nose and onto his once-white shirt.
    â€œTom!” I scolded.
    â€œI didn’t do it,” Tom said. “It was the railway bulldogs, the private dicks. They left him like this over on the south tracks.”
    â€œWhat did he do?”
    â€œYou mean in addition to being a vagrant? They wanted his name and his hometown so they could put it in their report. He refused to answer, so they roughed him up.”
    â€œAnd you’re jailing him for being assaulted?”
    â€œNo, I’m jailing him for his own protection,” Tom said. “Otherwise, with the tramp hysteria being what it is, they just might kill him.”
    The Panic of 1873 came the September after the Bender murders were discovered. Even now, the country still remained on its knees from the collapse of the investment banks on Wall Street. Thousands of men were out of work and hitching rides in, or under, or on top of, boxcars from town to town. But the newspapers chose to ignore the obvious (the papers were owned by wealthy men, after all) and called these unfortunates a great and threatening “tramp army.” These were men, the editors said, who had learned to forage and bivouac as soldiers during the Civil War and who now chafed at the bonds of work, home, and family. It was all merde, as my Tanté Marie would say.
    â€œIs he badly hurt?”
    â€œHe’s not too busted up,” Tom said, locking the door behind him. “At least as far as I can tell, but he hasn’t said a word to me. Stubborn, I guess. I reckon he’ll be black-and-blue for a few days, but nothing worse.”
    The tramp moaned.
    â€œIs there nothing you can do for him?”
    â€œI’ll bring him dinner directly,” Tom said. “Yours too.”
    â€œIs it that late?”
    â€œIt’s getting along to five,” Tom said. “Have you been asleep?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” I said.
    Tom left and I stared at the poor tramp. He was curled on his side, knees drawn to his chest, his face turned to the wall.
    The world is unfair, life is pain, but to retreat is a mistake.
    â€œTake heart,” I said.
    No response.
    â€œEmpty words, you’re thinking, but I know what you’re feeling right now. I have been beaten down, many times, both physically and emotionally, and the trick is to refuse to allow them to convince you that you’re worthless. That’s what they do best, getting us to defeat ourselves.”
    He was listening, I could tell, because he had slowed his breathing.
    â€œI’m sorry about