P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Watching him circle the room, she was struck by how tall he was, yet lanky, almost thin, even. He radiated an intense energy she could feel even from where she sat—she suspected he rarely relaxed. He ran his fingers lightly over the bindings of the library’s extensive collection of leather-bound books—lightly and reverently, she thought.

She found him to be an intriguingly complex man. Under different circumstances, she would have been drawn to know him better, perhaps to even form a lasting friendship with him. It had been a long time since she’d indulged in the simple pleasure of intelligent conversation. But unfortunately, they’d ended up on opposite sides—she had no choice but to remain guarded around him.

He abruptly turned, facing her. “Longren Shipping is blacklisted by the union. It has been instrumental in forcing lower sailors’ wages, and it has condoned violence against union members. I doubt you and I will find any common ground.”

“That remains to be seen.” She gestured at the stack of files in front of her. “These are the ledgers and files for Charles’s business. I brought you here to make a proposal, that you use them to prove you are right about his business practices.” She ignored his look of surprise. “By giving you access to my husband’s files, you can prove to me whether or not he regularly used shanghaiers, and also whether the company can afford to hire unionized sailors.”

His expression was skeptical. “And what do you hope to gain from this arrangement? Do you aspire to salvage your husband’s good name?” he mocked. “Or perhaps you wish to let it be known you gave the sailors’ union a chance, so that you can continue to support a corrupt system?”

“I could simply wish to derive satisfaction from having improved the rights of workers, could I not?” she asked lightly.

He snorted. “I rarely find that business owners are motivated by humanitarian principles. If not for the reasons I’ve just stated, why have you brought me here?”

She sighed. “Very well. To be frank, you and Mona Starr both made accusations about my husband that trouble me. I wish to prove them either true or false.”

“And you don’t have the training to decipher the books,” Frank concluded shrewdly.

“No,” she replied, loath to admit any weakness in his presence. His brashness annoyed her, but at the same time, she had to admit that after her dealings with Greeley and Johnson, she found Frank’s straightforward manner refreshing, even when he was deliberately attempting to rile her.

He remained silent for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Very well. I can hardly resist an opportunity to review the books, can I? But if I prove what I believe to be true about Longren Shipping’s policies, you agree in return to change them. All new hires must be union sailors at union-specified wages, and you will give me the chance to talk to your existing crews, to see whether I can convince them to join up. Agreed?”

She shook her head. “You must think me naïve, Mr. Lewis. I can’t commit to pay wages of an unspecified amount that could potentially cripple my company. However, I will agree to give your suggestions serious consideration, as well as make every attempt to negotiate a contract with the union that makes provisions for hiring union sailors at fair wages. In addition, if you can prove the sailors are mistreated during voyages, I will immediately alter the practices by the ships’ captains and first mates while at sea.”

“And what of Clive Johnson? God knows I’d love to see his power on the waterfront diminished, but he’ll never agree to what you’re proposing. I’ve seen, and heard firsthand accounts of, his brutal tactics.”

“If he doesn’t mend his ways,” Hattie replied with deceptive mildness, “I’ll replace him.”

Frank raised his brows but didn’t pursue the subject. “You’re currently paying your crews twenty dollars per month. The wages that are necessary, at a minimum, are thirty dollars in Puget Sound, thirty-five dollars for outside ports. Are you willing to consider those figures?”

“Prove to me that I can afford it,” she shot back as Sara entered with a tray.

“Fair enough. Where would you like me to start?”

“Well, to begin with,” she said, unaccountably frustrated by his insistence on keeping her at a distance, “I’d like you to be seated.”

He smiled slightly, but moved forward to sit across from her. While Sara served, his gaze returned to the walls of books. Hattie made a mental note to offer him the use of her library for the duration of the time they worked together.

Sara plunked down the last of the plates on the desk, rattling the china.

“Sara …” Hattie admonished.

“Hmmph.” She gave Frank one last hard look, then stalked out.

“You’ll have to forgive my housekeeper,” Hattie said as she held out a plate of sandwiches, then poured tea. “I seem to shock her daily, and she is dedicated to me.”

“On the contrary, I find her loyalty admirable.” Frank’s tone was wry. “She is right to worry about you.” He took the tea she offered and set it down. “Show me the ledger. Perhaps the notations will reveal payments made for procurement.”

She handed over the heavy book, and he shoved food and drink aside to make room. Selecting a beef and hard cheese sandwich with one hand, he flipped the ledger open and started reading.

She nibbled on a cucumber triangle and waited. He finished his first sandwich, and she handed him a second without thinking, responding to an unconscious urge to feed him. He took it, glancing up at her, and she sat back, embarrassed by her action. His mouth quirked, but he returned to the task at hand.

After a long interlude, he stopped reading to drink some tea. “I may see a pattern,” he said. “Deposits are occurring with regularity, probably in the form of advance wages from ships’ captains to Longren Shipping. Expenses of corresponding but smaller amounts are then logged to a number of vendor accounts—these would be, in all likelihood, accounts for boardinghouse operators or shanghaiers. One of these vendor accounts is always credited at the time of the deposits, so I’m guessing that amount is the cut Clive Johnson takes. The amounts going to the other vendors are only slightly more than what is required to pay the sailors’ ‘boarding’ expenses. In some cases, if we trace back to where these sailors are renting rooms, we will probably find that the owner of the boardinghouse is the shanghaier.”

Hattie shook her head, totally confused. “I don’t understand.”

Frank settled back in his chair. “When a ship drops anchor in the harbor,” he explained, “the shanghaiers like Mike Seavey pay longshoremen to take their Whitehall boats out and lure the crews away with promises of jobs and free rent while in port. Though the ships’ captains try to protest this practice, the sailors are motivated to desert ship because of the treatment they’ve suffered while at sea—the lure of better conditions is simply too hard to resist. This frees the ships’ captains, by the way, from paying back wages, since the sailors have technically deserted ship. The sailors are then transported to shore and forced into the tunnels. Those more willing to oblige the shanghaiers are allowed to ‘rent’ rooms in the boardinghouses; the rest are kept in chains in the tunnels.”

Hattie set down her sandwich, her appetite gone. “That’s appalling,” she admitted. “But I don’t see where Longren Shipping comes in.”

“I’m getting to that. As the time to set sail nears, the ships’ captains contract with Longren Shipping for a crew. The captain pays an advance against the sailors’ wages, along with a procurement fee to Longren Shipping. Clive Johnson pockets a portion of the wages, deposits the procurement fee to the business, then pays out to the boardinghouse operator—or the shanghaier—the rest. The shanghaier releases the sailors without pay, claiming their room and board are barely covered by the payment received. Once back in Johnson’s custody, longshoremen transport the sailors back out to a ship. Anyone attempting to resist is drugged or worse, to guarantee they will be ‘accommodating.’”