The Broken Rose

THE BROKEN ROSE

A novel of Alaska in the early years of the twentieth century

by: Ken Lord

Copyright 2012 by Kenniston W. Lord, Jr.

Smashwords Edition

Introduction

For more than a century, Alaska has been news. The oil-rich reservoir, the seven billion dollar pipeline from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, and the political controversy surrounding the pressures to drill for oil in ANWR—the Alaska National Wildlife Reserve—keep Alaska in the headlines when Middle Eastern oil has exceeded $120 a barrel. Alaska also became notorious with a bridge to nowhere earmark in the Federal Budget and cancelled, a United States Senator convicted of fraud, and a Governor who nearly became the first female Vice President of the United States.

A century ago, however, the discovery of vast deposits of copper placed Alaska squarely in the sights of the Lords of Creation, the barons of Wall Street who had the resources necessary to reach, develop, and extract the mineral. Copper was in demand for a looming conflict in Europe, what we now call World War I—what they then called The Great War.

The discovery of copper deposits at Kennicott, Alaska brought together industrial giants, caused the building of an expensive transportation system, and involved the country in political turmoil. As Alaskan oil has center stage in today’s environmental and economic discussions, a hundred years ago the arguments were the same; the mineral was different.

The rich copper deposits were among Alaska’s most beautiful scenery, and in one of its more remote locations. In the southeastern part of Alaska are the permanently snow-capped Wrangell Mountains, which rise to 18,000 feet along the common border with Canada. The Chitina and Copper Rivers drain the western side of these mountains and work their way toward the coastal lowlands to the Gulf of Alaska, and later the sea. The similar spellings—Kennicott (the town) and Kennecott (the copper company) are correct; unexplained, but correct.

Along the southern Alaska coast were three distinct seaports at the time—Cordova, Valdez, and Anchorage—developed from the tent cities pitched by miners on the way to precious metal deposits in the years following the Klondike Gold Rush, yet each would adopt a particular mission in the days following the death of the gold fields as a large lucrative business. Anchorage became a deep port for ocean-going vessels. Valdez is today the terminus of the Alaskan Pipeline that carries oil from the North Slope to the rest of the world. Cordova, at the beginning of the 20th Century, became the shipping point for the copper ore removed from the Kennecott mines and moved to Washington State for smelting.

This is a story of tragic consequences that occurred in the town of McCarthy, near the town of Kennicott, home of the mine. McCarthy was the northeastern terminus of the Copper River and NorthWestern (CR&NW) Railway, the railroad that carried ore to Cordova for placement in barges and transportation south. The core story is accurate, and in that regard, The Broken Rose is a documentary. However, there are few one-hundred-year-old records about this town—among the most remote in Alaska—and its people. Therefore, the author has taken some poetic license. This then has become a historical fiction.

Following the Civil War, a cadre of Eastern people who sought to extract money from the South became known as Carpetbaggers. Likewise, Eastern people with similar motives who moved to the gold fields of the Klondike and Alaska beyond became known as Codfish. This story reveals two Codfish: Gus—who arrived in 1914—and Rose, who arrived in 1916. Each had the same objective; they differed only by method.

Kenniston W. Lord, Jr.

Ps: For a nonfictional history of the area, please refer to the appendix of this work. It would be good background for the fiction that follows.

Acknowledgments

This story got its genesis when the author watched a PBS travel program called Globe Trekker, which had visited McCarthy and Kennicott, Alaska, and highlighted the murder of McCarthy Rose. My interest was piqued; I was looking for a subject for a short story.

Internet research put me in touch with Rick Kenyon. Rick, a local weather observer, runs a summer season Bed and Breakfast and publishes a newspaper, The Wrangle-St. Elias News. He also conducts nondenominational church services. Rick has been of outstanding assistance. He, in turn, put me in touch with Neil Darish, who runs the McCarthy Lodge, and with Richard Anderson of Anchorage. All have been of important assistance.

The result of those contacts led me to write the short story The Suspicious Death of a Codfish Aristocrat, published in Rick’s paper in the November/December 2007 issue.

Rick also arranged contact with Peggy Guntis, who, lives in Tucson, AZ, in the winter—where I lived at the time of the first draft. When McCarthy weatherman George Cebula visited Tucson, it was my good fortune to visit with Peggy, her husband Jim, and him, who together provided much taste of the Town of McCarthy and insight into its history.

They, in turn, recommended that I acquire the book Legacy of the Chief, by Ronald N. Simpson, published by Publication Consultants, Anchorage, AK, in 2001. It is available from www.amazon.com in paperback for $34.95, ISBN: 1-888125-95. I used Mr. Simpson’s book for background and vignettes for this work. It provided names and descriptions found in this story. I recommend you spend time at: http://copperraildepot.com, Mr. Simpson’s website, where there is a historically accurate model railroad presentation of the town of McCarthy.

I also used for reference James A. Michener’s voluminous work Alaska, published in 1988 by Random House Publishers, New York, NY. The book is still in print, and may be obtained using ISBN 0-449-21726-7. I used Michener’s fictional character, the Belgian Mare.

Copy editing assistance was gained from Elizabeth Doyle, Lee White, and Peggy Guntis.

Finally, critique groups in both Tucson, Arizona and Syracuse, New York helped bring this to print.

My thanks.

Ken Lord

Of Historical Note

Because this is a historical fiction, there isn’t much room to include scene-setting facts about the times, the location, and some of the principals involved. At the rear of the book is a factual appendix which will provide an extensive background to this work. Reading it is not necessary if your interest is a fiction story, but it will provide opportunity to put you into the story.

Chapter 1: The Dilemma

McCarthy, Alaska

April 11, 1918

Rose Silberg, McCarthy Rose, had been murdered and now lay stuffed into a wooden box in Jeffrey Dugan’s barn. The corpse had begun to thaw and, according to Dugan, to stink. A second murder victim, Joe Petrie, lay in a similar box beside hers and they were both defrosting; daytime temperatures had begun to rise. While Petrie’s body awaited resolution, it would receive an official embalming and burial. The disposition of Rose’s body, however, was disputed. Dugan, a tall, lanky farmer of Midwest origins, moved from person to person in the room, declaring his need to remove the two crates of remains from his property.

About thirty people stood around the room, as close to the pot-bellied stove in the middle as possible, removing the heavy winter garments that keep the temperature at bay. They were gathered because of a summons delivered during that morning by the stationmaster, Farley Stanton. Stanton would moderate the meeting as an official representative of the Kennecott Copper Company’s Copper River and NorthWestern Railroad.

Many in the room were the so-called elders of the Town of McCarthy and most knew other members at the meeting. One man, however, clad in an ermine coat, stood at the back with a young girl and a baby. They were not recognized by the others, but the meeting had begun before introductions could be made, if, indeed, people could stop shouting long enough to hear one another. McCarthy, the wide-open community near the mine, was populated by many involved in immoral activities. The question the meeting needed to answer was what to do with Rose’s body. It took but a few seconds for the room to erupt in argument.

Stanton, the fair-haired youngster—he had to be about twenty-five, though he had attempted a mustache—had come north to help build the railroad at Whitehorse. After a year, he couldn’t resist the increase of his salary to take over the McCarthy station of the Copper River and NorthWestern. He was generally all business and seldom—because of his age—taken seriously. The addition of a Colt pistol, which, of course, he needed to protect his employer’s interests, had given functional authority, if not respect. Nonetheless, he represented the railroad, and that—if nothing else—made him a focus in the operation of the town. And he was the only one in town with a mimeograph machine.

After several unsuccessful attempts to calm the group, Farley walked to the entrance, where he slammed the door. From there he called for order—and was ignored. He moved among the men and women waving his arms, attempting to gain attention, but the noise left him unable to speak to more than a handful of people.

There was extreme tension in the room, as if good were about to confront evil in remote Alaska. Without a town administration—a territorial authority—and any official law and order, several of these people often met to make important decisions that affected the town.

Farley’s shouts were insufficient, and personal entreaties were ineffective. No sooner did he leave a conversation than hostile shouts began again. Even his efforts to involve the US Marshal, Joel Feister, in bringing the group to order were ineffective. In frustration, he removed the pistol from his belt, aimed it at a bare spot in the wood beneath his feet, and pulled the trigger. When the echo died, there was silence and all eyes were focused on the young stationmaster. There was also the sound of a baby crying, as its mother sought to quiet it.

Now that I have your attention…

Put up the pistol, Mr. Stanton, said the Marshal. There will be no violence here tonight. We’ve had more than enough of that.

You’re gonna pay for that hole, said Archie Poulin, owner of the Alaska Billiards Hall.

Yeah, Archie, like all those drunks around your pool tables, no doubt. Don’t get your feathers ruffled—I’ll fill it with a plug, like the others in the floor. What are there now, twenty or more?

Farley turned to the group. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to decide what to do with Rose. He held aloft the notice of the meeting and the most recent issue of The McCarthy News.

Sara Adams stepped forward. "I don’t care if you dump her in the Copper River and she floats to the sea! That whore is not going to be buried in the town cemetery. This town is wide open as it is. It’s difficult enough to educate the children of the few God-fearing people of this town. I’ll not allow it. The Christian women here won’t allow her to be celebrated as if she were an upstanding member of the community. If they need to bury her in the area, let ‘em do it in Kennicott. That’s why she was here, after all, wasn’t it?" When she had finished her speech, the Christian women present loudly voiced agreement.

She adjusted her scarf above her hair, as if she had spoken her piece and was about to reenter the frozen air outside the Alaska Billiards Hall. The speech was met by applause from some of the women present. Along the walls at one side of the room stood the town’s madam, Kate Kennedy, and several of her employees. These women never would be able to associate with the so-called better class of people of the town. That suited them just fine, thank you. The speech, however, failed to stifle a guffaw from Tumble-weed Sal, who recognized several male faces in the small crowd. Look at ‘er—Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. You’re no better than us, dearie!

Sara exchanged hostile looks with the woman who, had anybody cared, was known to her family as Sally Tapper. The hell I’m not! she retorted, as she moved toward the prostitute, fists doubled.

Marshal Joel Feister, in town for the inquests that followed the murders, blocked Sara Adams’ path. Cool down, Missus. We’re here because some decisions have to be made.

The men in the room weren’t about to make a commitment either way. Some had been more intimate with Rose and others who lined the wall tonight than they wanted their spouses to suspect. People speculated about the cadaver’s disposition, each contribution allowing little room for compromise.

How about it, Ralph? Can we bury her up at the mine? asked Farley.

That’s not going to happen. The speaker was Ralph Featherstone, paymaster at the Kennecott Copper Company Mine, and the man representing the mine at the meeting. The Kennicott Cemetery is reserved for employees and their family members who cannot be shipped to their homes. The company will accept Joe Petrie, once the ground thaws, because he used to work up there. I’ll see if we have a record of Petrie’s family, and if possible we’ll ship the body to them. As for Rose, the company will do nothing. She was a resident of McCarthy and not an employee of the company. Send her to New York. I’ve heard she’s from there.

The rumble became a torrent. "Why should we pay to ship her carcass across the continent? asked a woman. Rose Silberg was hardly beloved by this town. She paused, cleared her throat, and with a mischievous grin added, at least by the womenfolk." Laughter rose from several members of the group.

Do you speak for yourself, Mr. Featherstone, or are you here in an official capacity? asked one of the women. She had enough fire in her eyes to raise the temperature of the room.

A management representative can be here within the hour, should that be necessary, said Ralph.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold, shouted a shriveled little man, kneeling in a crouch behind the outer ring of men. Grumble Brantley was allowed to sleep against the wall of the back room of several places in town. Everyplace that had a still warned him never to divulge it.

Shut up, Grumble. What do you know of this? asked Sydney Johnson, owner of the McCarthy Livery.

Grumble issued a shriek, and through eyes made bloodshot from a decade of homemade whiskey, looked around the room, as if seeking a familiar face. Look out, Cap’n, the Afrikaans are comin’ over the hill.

Shut up, old man. The Boer War has been over for twenty years. We got a problem here, shouted one of the men closest to the stove.

Grumble, The McCarthy Mutterer, often held conversations with himself, with friends long dead, and with people not present. Where’s Gus? he demanded. Gus knows about this. He was with Rose. Joe Petrie told me.

Grumble was former First Lieutenant Addison Brantley of Her Majesty’s Regulars. Decorated by Queen Victoria herself after the first Boer War, he’d helped put down the insurrection that followed—the Second Boer War. He’d been wounded in the trenches of the Transvaal. While he survived the explosion, he was permanently shell-shocked and was discharged in Pretoria, South Africa in 1901. Friends and do-gooders passed him along until one day somebody gave him a ticket to Canada and he showed up in Edmonton, Alberta. Unable to find work, somebody in a bar recommended he apply at the Trans-Canada Railroad. He did and was rejected, because the company would not accept responsibility for his medical condition.

Since then, he had found his way to Alaska and to McCarthy and had done odd work around town—washing dishes at the Alaska Restaurant, sweeping out one or more of the bars, mucking the stalls at the livery, shoveling snow to clear the railroad tracks. Nobody knew where Grumble lived; just that he drank nearly everything he earned, talked to himself, and always had a wild look in his eyes.

Yeah, said Farley Stanton, Gus should be here. He was one of her best customers. Farley held aloft the copy of The McCarthy News he’d brought. According to the paper he’s up north buying furs. I assume somebody’s keeping the business open. He’s due for Alien Registration, and I’m not so sure he likes the idea.

The man in the ermine coat now spoke: He’s nowhere buying furs, he said. I have the furs he was supposed to buy. He owes me twenty-thousand dollars!

Identify yourself, Mister, commanded Farley.

I am Phineas Titsworth, Doctor Phineas Titsworth of Ottumwa, Iowa, representative of the C. J. Rouser Drug Company of Lansing, Michigan, at your service.

What does that have to do with furs? asked one of the men.

I… ahem… furs are a sideline, and Mr. Priesner—Gus—and I have an arrangement whereby we collect furs throughout the territory, consolidate them here, and Gus sells them in the state of Washington. I can assure you, it’s all legal.

So what’s your business with Rose Silberg? asked Dr. Hill.

Why none, absolutely none. I’ve met the woman, of course. This is a very small town. I’m a happily married man. Meet my wife. The drummer turned to the slip of a girl standing beside him, holding a baby. My business is with Gus. Is anybody trying to find him?

My Deputy has sent telegrams to several places, said Marshal Feister. When we learn anything, we’ll let you know. These aren’t the only ones, you know. Jake Evans was killed on the train, and he’s gonna be buried down in Chitina. We don’t know yet if these three murders are connected.

Doctor Jedediah F. Hill now rose from the chair where he’d sat listening. He had ordered Rose’s body removed to Jeffrey Dugan’s barn and asked that it be put into a box and packed with sawdust. There, exposed to subzero temperatures, the body had frozen. That had been almost a month ago. Nothing had been done because of the impending inquests. The temperature had made delaying the decision possible. Temperatures had climbed and the bodies had begun to stink. The issue tonight was Rose.

Well, we’ll have to bury her somewhere, said the doctor. It’s too late to send her to Cordova to be prepared for burial, even if we knew where her family is, and we don’t. So if she can’t be buried up in Kennicott, then we’ll have to bury her here.

Again, the contingent led by Sara Adams shouted, almost in unison, No! Another said, We will not honor a woman like that with a headstone.

So we bury her without a headstone, offered Dr. Hill.

Again, the chorus, now fortified by a few of the men who had evaluated the risk of not siding with their women, expressed—loudly—their disagreement.

Kate Kennedy stepped forward from the position where she had been leaning against the wall. Listen! she commanded. Shut up and listen! Some of you may not have liked Rose Silberg. Some of you may not care for me and my girls. Frankly, I don’t give a damn. Rose was a real lady and deserves a proper burial.

A voice came from the back of the room: What does that have to do with—. Kate wheeled around to address the man who had spoken. You’re gonna hear this. Several of the group began to speak in protest. Kate merely stared the women into silence.

The room quieted again, and Kate continued: Like you, Mrs. Adams, Rose was once a little girl with big dreams. She was born into a wealthy family, and had the best of everything—big house, maid, cook, butler, chauffeur, horses, gala balls. Anything she wanted, her rich daddy would get for her. He gave her everything she wanted.

Don’t listen to her, shouted one of the women. She and her kind ruined this nice town.

Undeterred, Kate continued: Whether you like it or not, there is a market for what me and my girls provide—the oldest profession. The men in a ten-mile radius outnumber the women by at least twenty to one. Any children, Mrs. Adams?

Two, replied Sara.

How did you get them? Did Santa Claus bring them?

Of course not, protested Sara Adams, but…

Think of it this way, ladies. Because my girls and I are here—and because Rose was here—we have kept the temperature down in the town. Without us—she now looked again at Sara Adams—you might have had four.

Sara Adams’ disgust was apparent. The hell, you say.

The group quieted as Kate—the remaining Madam of McCarthy—now had control of the room and the attention of thirty pairs of eyes and ears.

When Rose arrived in McCarthy back in 1916, some of you may remember that we had a confrontation at the train station.

I remember, said Farley.

Kate rubbed her jaw with a hand. I do, too, she joked. We knew she was coming. She visited my sister’s place in Cordova, and I had a telegram within an hour of her leaving.

That’s true, said Farley. I delivered it.

When Rose dumped me on my butt, I could try to get her to go away or find a way to profit from her. She and I reached a truce and an accommodation. Because Rose was a woman of class, she would attract men who never would visit me or my girls. At this point, she paused to nod to Ralph. Up that hill are several men whose wages are larger and whose responsibilities are greater. Rose offered services that nobody would pay me for, and it didn’t take long before she was serving those willing to pay her prices and accept her guarantee of privacy. The irony is that her parents were recently killed by a train, and she inherited the estate—her hotel was there waiting for her to renovate it, and she could go back East with a pocketful of money to set it up. Kate paused to take a drink from a bottle one of her employees had handed her.

The flu epidemic and the quarantine seriously hampered her plans. She faced a dilemma. She had begun to develop feelings for Gus, and even contemplated getting out of the business, marrying him, and staying here. She’d told me on the afternoon she was killed she thought that Gus was going to pop the question that night. She was torn. She wanted to go back to New York, yet she wanted to be with him. She didn’t know whether he’d be willing to go back with her, and if he was not, she intended to go anyway. The hotel was first in Rose’s plans. If Gus wanted to be a part of that, so much the better.

Dr. Hill now interrupted. That’s good, Miss Kennedy, but that’s not why we’re here. We have to figure out how to dispose of her body. I suppose we could cremate her body and spread her ashes across the glacier—or to make Mrs. Adams happy, dump them into the Copper River.

One of the men gained his voice. What are ya gonna do, build a bonfire in the middle of town and toss the casket into it? Think, man. The only proper place to do that is in Cordova, and I don’t see anybody here willin’ to pony up the money to pay for it.

Sara Adams responded: No, we will not build a bonfire and toss the woman into it. There is no way we will allow this town—or Kate Kennedy and her kind—to celebrate this woman. Rose may have a sob story, but I will not allow her life to be imprinted on the minds of my kids.

She saved my Eben, said Phoebe Sanford. The day she came to town my boy was in the wagon when the horses bolted. She stopped ‘em and saved my Eben.

Again Sara Adams replied. Have you forgotten that you are the WCTU in McCarthy, Phoebe? Rose Silberg pushed a lot of booze.

I don’t care, responded Phoebe. If she did only one nice thing in her life, she saved my boy.

Stow it, Phoebe. That woman is not going to be buried in McCarthy. No while I have breath.

We could bury her on Nicolai’s mountain, offered one.

Marshal Feister quickly responded. You want another incident like the one where the Irishers ran the track through the Indians’ burial ground? That’s all we need. We received a curse, but we’ve been able to live with it. Nicolai and his boys have kept it calm around here. I’d not want to stir the ashes in that potlatch, if you don’t mind. There has to be someplace along the railroad’s right-of-way where she can be buried in an unmarked grave. Any chance of that, Stanton?

I’ll see what I can do.

From the rear of the room rose the drunken whine of Grumble. Please close that door. It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm. Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.

Somewhere in Canada, Robert Service rolled over in his grave.

Chapter 2: The Codfish Recruit

Toronto, Edmonton,

Whitehorse, Canada

Skagway, Alaska

June, 1914

No way to get there, said the man to his left at the bar.

Whaddaya mean?

Look, mister, they ain’t no roads. Getting to Dawson overland from here is impossible. You could travel by horse or mule, but the mountains are too high and the terrain too difficult.

So what do I do? asked Gus.

* * *

Gustave Priesner, a German, emigrated to Canada during the land rush coincident with the Canadian Pacific Railroad’s push west, a part of a huge displacement from Eastern Europe—people seeking to flee the conflicts developing there. Priesner arrived in Nova Scotia late in the spring of 1913. With no family, no job, no roots in eastern Canada, and aware of the tensions between the English and French populations of the country, he made his way to Ontario and its capital, Toronto.

A strapping man, Gus had developed the physique of a man who wielded a pickaxe and shovel as a coal miner in the Ruhr Valley. A tall, yet thin, man, he was at least a head taller than most men he passed. His face was as finely chiseled as the stone he worked, and it was offset by a mustache that was by now wider than he preferred. Often he turned the