Forbidden Love (23 page)

"Trouble, that's all I can say . . . many people hurt, maybe killed. All of the union leaders, including myself, will do everything we can to prevent violence." He held her close to whisper in her ear. "Now, I want you to leave."

She nodded. "I intend to, but I'm not returning to Shadyside."

"Lisa, my Lisa."
Owen drew her closer, cradling her head in his hand. He feathered kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, behind her ear. "I love you so much. Surely you know I can't live without you. Later . . . I must see you later." He gave her a long, lingering kiss,
then
released her.

Reaching up, she ran her hands through his hair, her fingers caressing the nape of his neck while she absorbed his body heat. "Owen, take care of
yourself
. If anything should happen to

you
. . ."

"Nothing will happen to me." He placed a light kiss on her forehead. "Now, I have to join the others at the landing. I wouldn't be surprised if the
Pinkertons
make a move soon."

Lisa saw the pain of separation in his eyes, aware he saw the same expression in her look. With one final embrace, she turned and left him, trembling in fear for his safety.

* * *

A steep prominence on the Monongahela side of the mill led down to the river, where the barges, the
Iron
Mountain
and the
Monongahela
sat side by side, stranded and dead in the water. The frightened young Pinkerton guards saw no escape. The older, experienced agents moved among them, attempting to calm them, telling them they had nothing to worry about. Hell, this was just another job for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. If there was nothing to worry about, John
Holway
wondered, why did many of the guards cower in fear?

* * *

Owen and the other mill workers looked down from their vantage point at the top of the hill to view the two barges. When would the
Pinkertons
make their move? Since he'd left Lisa a few minutes ago, all had been quiet, the
Pinkertons
staying inside their barges, the townspeople having deserted the mill to climb a hill that overlooked
Homestead
.

Bits of slag seeped into his shoes. Dirt from the mill caked his sweat-soaked shirt. His mouth was as dry as steel dust, as if he hadn't had a thing to drink in hours. Damn it, he fumed as he ran his tongue inside his parched mouth. It
had
been hours since he'd had anything to drink.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked Hugh O'Donnell. "Will they make a move soon or stay in their damned barges all day?"

Hugh threw him a sharp glance. "They'd better stay in their barges if they know what's good for them."

Owen's
gaze swept from one mill worker to the next, his fingers tapping against his leather belt. Who could tell what any of these workers might do, these men who clutched their revolvers and carbines, many of the weapons dating to the Civil War? Old men and young shifted from one foot to the other, all of them silent. The Slavs, with Anton
Hrajak
as one of their leaders, stood apart from the others while they fingered knives and clubs, fierce hatred in their dark eyes.

Like a shroud, silence settled over the workers as someone from the
Monongahela
threw a gangplank down on the rocky ground. A Pinkerton captain stepped forward to address the workers atop the prominence.

"We are coming off the boat and up the hill, anyway." He looked from one worker to another, his expression defiant. "So just step back and let us through."

"Don't come up the hill," Owen shouted. "Stay where you are." He darted a glance at the bloodthirsty Slavs behind him. "Better stay where you are," he repeated.

"Yeah, stay there," other workers echoed. "All the
Pinkertons
better stay on the damned boats, if you know what's good for you."

The captain threw them a withering glance and walked down the gangplank, his glance shifting from one striker to the next. Other
Pinkertons
followed him, eyes wide with fear as they stared up at the strikers above them.

A shot rang out. The captain fell to the plank, writhing in pain.

A Pinkerton raised his arm. "Get '
em
, men!" A score of
Winchester
rifles answered, mowing down over thirty
Homestead
men. Rifle fire crackled in the air. One murderous shot followed another.

Men clutched their wounds, screaming in agony.

 
"God, no!"
Owen stared at the carnage. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. Dead and wounded fell around him.

"Ah!" Anton crumpled to the ground. Blood spurted from his arm and stained the soil. Darting venomous looks at the
Pinkertons
, several of his countrymen knelt beside him and carefully carried him away.

Owen rushed to the nearest felled striker, Silas Doherty. They'd both grown up in
Homestead
, had gone to school together,
courted
the neighborhood girls. He crouched beside his old friend and saw the blanched face, the blood seeping from his chest. Aware there was nothing he could do, he closed Silas's eyes, then got to his feet.

"Jesus Christ!" Weaponless, Owen shook his fist at the workers. "Stop the damned shooting!" Fierce anger slammed through his gut. "Let '
em
go back to their barges."

The strikers looked at Owen, then at the guards, and finally at each other. They drew back, a look of indecision on their faces.

As suddenly as it had started, the firing stopped, each side taking stock of its chances as the
Pinkertons
hurried back to the barges.

Joe Murphy cupped his hands, yelling at the others. "Come on! Let's put up some barricades. They killed our men, damn '
em
to hell! Are we going to let '
em
get away with that?"

"Hell, no!" another striker answered. "Collect all the scrap and pig iron lying around.
Just what we need for barricades."

The men worked with feverish haste as they dragged and shoved the scrap iron into place, giving themselves plenty of room to maneuver their rifles. They flopped down on the slag-covered dirt as they fingered their weapons, casting vicious glances at the
Pinkertons
on the barges.

"We're going to get every one of them bastards!"

One of the strike leaders tapped another on the shoulder, jerking his head in the direction of the barges. "Mike, how much
d'you
want
to wager the
Pinkertons
will give up before the end of the day?"

Mike Flanagan spat onto the dusty ground, grinning with fiendish delight. "No bets, Alan. Hell, they can't last more than a couple more hours, if that long." He nodded toward the strikers behind him. "Just look at all the help we have. How can we lose?"

The strikers squinted in the glaring sunlight, their bodies soaked with sweat and aching from their prone position. Wives and friends brought
them
lunches and a brief respite from the firing. After this welcome interlude, they gradually moved nearer to the shoreline, as if to close in for the kill.

"Get rid of the damned
Pinkertons
!" they cried. "Kill '
em
all!"

Pacing up and down among the workers, Owen struggled to end the stalemate. Most of the Amalgamated men and the semi-hysterical Slavs ignored him, bloodlust in their eyes. "Kill '
em
! Kill the damned
Pinkertons
!"

How could he change their minds? Owen stood with his hands on his hips, staring all around him. No matter what, they couldn't go on like this.

Throughout the scorching day, armed non-strikers from Braddock and Duquesne joined them, lifting their spirits. More arms and ammunition arrived from
Pittsburgh
. Time and numbers were on their side, they convinced themselves. The
Pinkertons
couldn't last much longer.

* * *

A cold lump settled in Lisa's stomach as she looked around at the mass of five-thousand men, women, and children who'd gathered on the hills that rose above the steelworks and the borough of
Homestead
. From her safe vantage point on the promontory, she had a clear view of all that happened on the riverbank and the other side of the river--the Braddock side.

She edged past the crowds and eased down on the grass, asking herself if she really wanted to see what else might transpire between the steelworkers and the
Pinkertons
. After the shooting and killing she'd already witnessed, did she really want to see any more action? She had no choice, not when Owen meant everything in life to her.

Lisa cringed whenever she heard a shot. She couldn't believe the carnival atmosphere that pervaded the crowds, the shouts of glee every time a Pinkerton was hit. Has the whole world gone crazy?
she
agonized as she stretched her aching leg out and wiggled her cramped foot. Her head pounded from the heat and tension, her dress plastered to her body. Lacking a handkerchief, she surreptitiously raised the hem of her dress to dab across her brow,
then
quickly smoothed the dress back around her ankles.

A gap-toothed woman with a bovine face and gray, straggly hair flopped down beside her. "I'm Maggie," she said, cracking her knuckles. "What's
yer
name?"

"Lisa
Enright
," she replied, well aware the woman would realize she wasn't one of them. A sudden understanding hit her like a rifle shot. Now she realized why these people acted as they did. The mill was their livelihood, their life! The men were fighting for their jobs, for what they believed in.

What if she
were
married to Owen and they depended on the mill? Would she feel any differently than these people? Wouldn't she cheer for those steelworkers taking pot shots at the
Pinkertons
? She supposed she would, much as she hated to admit it.

"
Ain't
this great!" the woman cackled, turning a merry grin on Lisa. "Why, this is more fun than the Fourth of July!"

She chattered on for an interminable amount of time while Lisa smiled and tried to answer politely. "
Gotta
see what's
happenin
' closer to the river!" Maggie sprang to her feet. "
Wanna
join me?"

"No, thank you. I think I'll stay here for awhile," Lisa said, relieved to be free of the woman's company.

"I'll be back," Maggie yelled behind her as she clasped her skirt and shoved through the crowd.

Let's hope not
. Lisa leaned her elbows back on the grass, asking herself when this dreadful day would ever end. Her stomach churned with fright and exhaustion. Her throat was so dry and scratchy she could barely swallow. Maybe Owen was right; maybe she should return to the hotel. No, she couldn't leave this hill, fearful a bullet might fell Owen.

Shouts burst around her, prompting her to struggle to her feet.

"Coward!" a woman screamed as a Pinkerton guard waved a white flag of surrender. The strikers shot the flag to ribbons, while the onlookers on the hillside squealed with delight, jumping up and down, hugging each other.

Lisa watched warily as Maggie hustled back up the hill to join her again.

"You
gotta
see this!" Maggie pointed across the river from
Homestead
, to the Braddock side of the Monongahela. "Look what they're bringing out
now--a cannon
!"

Afraid of what she'd see yet reluctant to turn away, Lisa pushed herself to her feet and gazed at a hill across the river. Molly was right! The Braddock men were mounting
a cannon
behind a cluster of bushes. She held her breath, pressing a hand to her heart. Within seconds, a cannon ball zoomed across the river and tore a hole in the
Iron
Mountain
.