Coal River (12 page)

Is it ever going to end?
she thought.
The death, the maiming, the terrible toll the mine is taking on this town, its families, its children?

She stepped aside to let the funeral procession pass, but could not draw her eyes away from the coffin. Somewhere, she had heard it was bad luck to meet a funeral cortege. If you met one, you were supposed to turn around and go the other way. If it was unavoidable and you couldn’t change directions, you were supposed to hold a button in your hand. She had never believed in such nonsense, but Coal River had a way of making one suspicious. Besides, she’d had enough bad luck to last a lifetime. A burning lump formed in her throat. She pinched a button on her blouse, squeezing so hard, her fingers went numb.

It’s such a small coffin,
she thought, her eyes flooding.
Did one of the miners’ children get sick? Did they go hungry for too long and die of starvation?

She swallowed a sob and wiped her cheeks with her free hand. A minute ago she had been afraid for her life; now she would have almost welcomed the freedom from this horrible, unrelenting grief. How was it possible that this world was filled with so much suffering? How was it all right for humans to be given the ability to love if their loved ones were only going to be taken away? How could it possibly be God’s plan to rip children away from their parents, shattering their hearts and souls forever? For the life of her, she’d never understand it.

A boy on crutches stopped in the middle of the road and turned to look at her. The rest of the boys streamed around him, too lost in their misery to care what he was doing. For some reason, Emma’s eyes were drawn to him and she felt rooted to the ground. It was Michael. He moved toward her, hopping on his crutches, then stopped a few feet away. She waited, her hands clammy, her breath coming shallow and quick. Briefly, she thought about asking him why he had spoken to her, then decided to see if he would do it again.

“Will you help?” he croaked.

Emma swallowed. Suddenly, everything except Michael—the funeral procession, the hill, the sky, the trees—seemed covered in a fine haze, like paper-thin ice after a spring thaw. It felt like they were inside a distorted glass ball where no one else could see them.

“What do you want from me?” she said.

Michael looked over his shoulder at the breaker boys following the coffin up the hill. He watched them for a long moment, then gazed up at her again, his eyes wet.

“Are you asking me to help the breaker boys?” she said.

He nodded.

“But how?” she said. “What am I supposed to do? And what does my brother have to do with this?”

Then the haze disappeared and, without another word, Michael turned away, moving fast on his crutches to catch up to the funeral procession.

She watched him leave, fighting the urge to chase after him and force him to answer her questions. It was one thing to take food to the miners’ village, but how was she supposed to help the breaker boys? And why her? Because she was new in Coal River? Because she was the supervisor’s niece? Because he could tell she was sympathetic to their plight? It didn’t make sense. Her stomach filled with a heavy mass of nausea and confusion.

Twenty minutes later, when she entered the Company Store, her eyes were still swollen and red. Between seeing the funeral procession and talking to Michael again, it had taken forever for her tears to stop. Percy was in the far aisle along the opposite wall, piling bags of flour on a bottom shelf.

“Do you know anything about the funeral being held today?” she asked him.

He grunted and lifted a flour sack over one shoulder, his forehead and lashes covered with white powder. “Was there a group of young boys following the casket?” he said. He put the bag on the shelf and straightened, wiping flour from his sleeves.

She nodded.

“Then it was for a breaker boy. I heard one of them fell in a coal chute the other day and smothered to death. They didn’t know he was in there until yesterday because they were busy with the cave-in.”

She gasped. “But the coffin was so small! How old was he?”

“I believe he was six,” Percy said, his voice detached, as if she had inquired about the price of flour.

“I thought the breaker boys were older!”

“They’re different ages,” he said with a shrug. He headed toward the stock room.

“Wait,” she said. “What else can you tell me about Michael Carrion?”

“Not much. I used to see him and his grandmother shopping in the store. But that was before his parents died. Haven’t seen either of them in here for months.”

“Why not?” she said.

“No money, I suppose,” he said. “Rumor has it she makes potions and tinctures out of herbs to trade with the miners’ wives for food and goods. And he hunts rabbit and sells the pelts. But I also heard they’re living with some old miner. Hard to know what’s true.” Then his eyes went wide. “Why? Did he talk to you again?”

“No,” she said. She had decided not to say anything to anyone until she found out more.

“You must have him confused with someone else,” Percy said. “Everyone knows he can’t talk.”

“I’m surprised the breaker boys were allowed to go to the funeral,” she said, trying to change the subject.

“Mr. Flint’s not heartless. He gave some of the boys a few hours off.”

She scowled, a jolt of anger making her head hurt. “Not heartless? He puts six-year-olds to work in the breaker! And have you been up to the miners’ village? Those people are living in poverty while he sits in that mansion like a king!”

The bell over the door jingled before Percy could respond. Sally Gable entered the store, a wicker basket hooked over one arm. Percy shot Emma a scorching look, warning her to be quiet, then moved toward Sally. Emma followed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gable,” Percy said. “Is there anything I can help you find today?”

“No, thank you,” Sally said in a high, singsong voice. “I’m just here to pick up my usual things.” She went down the first aisle, toward the middle of the store.

Percy checked to see if Sally was within earshot, then looked at Emma. “You’d better be careful,” he said under his breath. “If someone hears you talking like that, they might get the idea you’re spending time with the wrong people. You think my parents are hard on you now? If they find out you’ve been talking to Clayton Nash again—”

“The wrong people?” Emma interrupted, not caring who heard. “This entire town is filled with the wrong people!”

Sally raised her chin and looked over the dried goods at Percy and Emma, her eyes wide and bright, like a hunting dog smelling the air. She made her way toward them and stopped by the sewing supplies, picking up spools of thread. Emma knew she was only pretending to browse so she could eavesdrop. Percy started toward the back room, and Emma busied herself by straightening the canned goods.

“I don’t know what it is with my daughter,” Sally chirped. “No matter how many times I mend her things, she keeps coming home with her dresses ripped. I guess she still has a little bit of a tomboy in her, despite all my schooling on how to be a young lady.” She smiled at Emma. “You’re about Charlotte’s age. What on earth could she be doing that causes her to have such trouble keeping her clothes in good repair? Climbing trees? Hiking?”

Emma bit down on the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to tell Sally Gable that her daughter’s clothes were probably being ripped off by a dirty old man named Otis Shawcross. “I have no idea,” she said. “Perhaps a suitor is being a little too rough?”

With that, Sally went white and dropped the spool of thread. Her lips puckered as if she were sucking on a lemon. “Well, I never. You wait until I talk to your aunt Ida. I can see now she was right all along. You, young lady, have no respect for your elders!” Then she stomped out of the store, huffing and puffing.

Percy stormed toward Emma. “What is wrong with you?” he said. “I don’t need this aggravation! If you hate it here so much, why don’t you leave? You know what? I’m starting to think my father was right. You’re just like your parents, thinking you’re too good for us. So go ahead. Pack your suitcase and take the next train out of here!”

She glared at him. “Trust me. I would if I could.”

“Well, in the meantime,” he said, jerking his chin toward the office door. “Grab a broom and make yourself useful instead of standing there, fuming about something you can’t change!”

She did as she was told, knowing there was no point in arguing. For the rest of the day, she couldn’t get Michael and the image of the small coffin out of her mind. She could still picture the young boys following the grieving family up the hill, their sad, dirty faces and glassy eyes. The thought of a little boy smothering to death in a coal chute made her think of Albert, trapped below the ice, thrashing in the water, unable to breathe. She imagined his last moment, when he could no longer hold his breath, one final, powerful gasp pulling water into his lungs. Was that what it was like to smother inside a coal chute? Did the six-year-old boy’s lungs fill with coal dust? The thought nearly brought her to her knees.

She had little knowledge about the workings of a colliery, but how did someone fall into a coal chute anyway? Wasn’t there a gate or barrier to keep that from happening? And where were the coal chutes located: in the mine, or in the breaker? Didn’t Percy say the boys sorted coal inside the breaker? Was the boy somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be? Or did young boys work inside the mine too?

Then she had an idea. Today her shift was scheduled to end a few minutes before the mine whistle blew to signal the end of the miners’ day. When she got out of work, she would hike up to the mine to see for herself. Maybe, when the boys came out of the breaker, she could ask them about their job and find out why so many were getting hurt. She couldn’t help anyone if she didn’t know what was going on.

And then, after she went to the colliery, she would go over to the miners’ village and look for Michael and his grandmother Tala.

CHAPTER 9

U
p on the mountain, near the main shaft of the Bleak Mountain Colliery, Emma hid behind a timber shed, waiting for the miners to get off work. She held a cotton bandanna over her mouth and nose, her eyes burning from the breaker smoke and smoldering culm. Blackened tree stumps surrounded the area, and any remaining vegetation looked dark and strangled. The breaker loomed above her against the sky, an enormous wooden structure with whirring gears and machinery flashing behind row after row of grimy windows. At the top of a long track leading up to the highest peak of the breaker, miners tipped coal into the shaker machine. The black lumps tumbled out of the coal cars into iron chutes, toward their journey down through the giant building.

Now that she was closer to the mine, Emma’s image of the breaker as a hideous monster grew more vivid. She imagined the great teeth of the crusher on revolving cylinders, chewing the coal into smaller and smaller chunks, the breaker grinding its mammoth jaws and belching out smoke with a ravenous roar, waiting for boys to fall in.

The mine whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift, and she jumped at its piercing shriek. A few minutes later, the monotone growl of the breaker slowed and ground to halt. Then there was near silence, as if the colliery had been working on its own, with no help from human hands, a great beast of machinery that lived and breathed and slept on the side of the mountain. The only noises were the thump of her heartbeat in her ears, and a series of strange metallic bangs and hollow thumps coming from deep inside the earth. There were no birds singing, no leaves rustling in the afternoon breeze, no insects buzzing in the grass. Then, after what seemed like forever, voices floated out of the mineshaft, along with the rattle of chains, and the screech of metal wheels.

Finally, miners trudged out of the black mouth of the shaft, their gumboots grinding on the gravel, their canteens and dinner pails hanging from their belts and filthy hands. Most of the men were on foot, while others rode slope cars pulled by heavy spreader chains. As soon as the slope car cleared the mine entrance, the men stood and jumped off without waiting for the car to stop. The miners coughed and spit on the ground, took off their hats and scratched their heads and necks, raked their hands over red, blinking eyes.

Emma craned her neck to search for Mr. Flint or Uncle Otis, ready to slip behind the shed if she saw either one. Behind the slope cars, a group of black-faced boys with snake whips hanging around their necks led mud-covered mules out of the shaft by their bridles. Some of the boys looked no more than eight or nine years old. Something cold and hard twisted beneath Emma’s ribs. So there
were
young boys working inside the mines, not just inside the breaker. Behind the mules, two miners came out of the shaft, their arms around the waist of a limping teenage boy, his leg bound and bleeding. They helped him over to a flatbed car and laid him on it, then went on their way.

Off to the left, young boys filed out of the breaker, running down the wooden stairway that ran along the outside of the building like ants abandoning an anthill. Soot blackened their caps and faces, overcoats and pants, hands and boots, making them look like little men made out of mud. When they reached the ground, they spit out wet wads of chewing tobacco, then wiped their chins on their dirty sleeves or the scarves tied around their necks. Some of the boys plodded toward the main shaft, where they waited for friends and uncles and fathers to come out of the mine, while others headed in Emma’s direction, toward the slag road that would lead them home.

A number of boys thumped along on crutches, their legs or feet missing. Some had one crutch; others had two. Even with missing limbs and eyes, they still worked in the breaker. Emma blinked back tears and scanned the faces for Michael. But it was impossible to tell one boy from another at this distance, they were so filthy.

As the swarm of breaker boys grew closer, talking, cussing, laughing, shouting, and coughing, she shrunk back, not knowing what their reaction would be if they saw her. One of them snatched a filthy cap off the boy next to him, revealing the boy’s pale forehead. The snatcher started running, three boys chasing after him. The cap-less boy gave chase too, swearing and calling the other boy names. How did they have enough energy to walk home after a ten-hour shift, let alone act like they’d been let out of school for recess?

Before Emma knew it, the breaker boys were nearly on top of her. When one of them saw her standing next to the shed, he dropped his eyes and moved to the other side of the road. Another eyed her and scowled, as if fighting the urge to swear at her or tell her to go home. A third boy spit in the dirt a few yards from where she stood, demonstrating his disapproval.

On the other side of the road, a thin woman in a brown dress appeared, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were freezing, her hair wild, her bloodshot eyes searching every soot-covered face.

“Where’s my Chippy?” she asked the boys as they passed. “Have you seen him?”

Emma’s breath hitched in her chest, her throat suddenly aching. It was the woman from the funeral procession. Her boy had been put in the ground that very morning, and yet she was here, looking for him. Unless she had another son. No. There had been no other boy at her side, only her husband and baby. The river of breaker boys moved away from the grief-stricken mother in waves, taking a wide berth as if she were infected with disease.

“I can’t find my Chippy,” the woman cried. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s dead, you barmy fool!” one of the boys shouted.

Emma put a hand to her trembling mouth, wondering if she should help the confused woman find her way back home. Then she noticed some of the breaker boys had tears streaming down their filthy cheeks. Several wept openly while others tried not to cry out loud and attract attention. When Emma saw the reason for their distress, she gasped. Their fingers were swollen and black, their fingertips cracked and bleeding. She moved toward one of the crying boys, no longer caring who saw her.

“What happened to you?” she said. He looked to be about five years old and was leaning against an older boy who had his arm around him and was telling him to stop crying.

“Mind your own business,” the older boy said.

“Why are his fingers bleeding?” she said. “Did someone do this to him?”

“He’s a red tip,” a voice behind her said.

She turned to see who had spoken. It was the boy from the Fourth of July dance, the one Clayton said would take care of Jack. What was his name?
Sawyer. Yes, that’s it
. “A red tip?” she said. “What’s that?”

“It’s what we call the new boys,” Sawyer said. “Today was his first day. Everyone’s fingers bleed the first few weeks on the job.”

“That’s horrible!” she said. “What on Earth has he been doing?” Shock and fury churned inside her head, nearly making her dizzy.

“Picking slate and rocks out of the coal,” Sawyer said, “sending them down the chutes to the culm banks. The sulfur burns your skin. Makes your fingers swell and crack open. And slate can be sharp. But don’t worry. His fingers will toughen up.” He held up one hand. His fingers were black with soot, but there was no blood or cracked skin. They looked hard and calloused. “Then they’ll only bleed if he don’t watch what he’s doing.”

The other boys skirted around Emma and Sawyer, watching with curious eyes. Some looked at them blankly while others scowled with disapproval.

“Why don’t you wear gloves?” Emma said.

“You have to feel the culm to work fast,” Sawyer said. “Gloves slow you down. If the boss caught us wearing them, we’d get our knuckles rapped, or worse.”

“Your boss hits you?” she said, trying to control her emotions. Was there no end to the nightmare these poor boys suffered?

He shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said. “If we ain’t doing our job.” Just then, a taller, huskier boy bumped into Sawyer’s shoulder and nearly knocked him off his feet. Sawyer dropped his dinner pail but held his footing. He turned to see who had bumped into him, his shoulders tense, ready to scrap.

“Who’s your girlfriend, patsy?” the husky boy said. “She’s a little old for you, don’t you think?” He laughed, and his friends joined in.

Sawyer ignored him and turned back to Emma, his face pinched. “I better go. It’d probably be best all around if you went back home, ma’am.”

“Do you know if Mr. Flint is here?” she said.

The boy shook his head. “He don’t come around much, unless there’s trouble.”

“What about the supervisor?” she said. “Do you know where he is right now?”

He gazed at her for a moment, then dropped his eyes and made a move to go around her. “I better get home.”

She caught him by the shoulder with a gentle hand. He shrugged away from her and frowned. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “You seem real nice, but I don’t want no trouble. If you want to talk to somebody, go on ahead and look for them. But I’m warning you, they ain’t going to be happy about seeing you up here.”

“Can you just tell me where Otis Shawcross might be?” she said. “There are so many buildings, it would take me forever to find him.”

Sawyer hesitated for a moment, then jerked his chin toward the opening of the shaft. “He’s right there. Good day, ma’am.” He put his cap back on and hurried off.

Emma looked toward the mine. Next to a gray building with a sign that read: Engine Room, Uncle Otis was watching their exchange, his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed. He looked cleaner than the other miners, his face only lightly coated with coal dust, his jacket and pants dry. Emma took a deep breath and started toward him. When he saw her coming, he spit on the ground and stormed in her direction, waving his arm in the air and yelling at her to go away. The other miners stopped to watch.

For a split second, Emma thought about fleeing, heading down the mountain and going home.
No,
she thought,
I’ve come this far. I’m not going to turn back now
.

When he reached her, Uncle Otis yelled, “What in blue blazes are you doing here? Go on! Get the hell home!” His face was red, his eyes wild with anger.

“I heard a young boy died up here, and you didn’t even know because of the cave-in,” she said. “Did he work in the breaker?”

“That’s none of your concern. Now turn yourself around and get off this mountain!”

“You tell her, boss!” one of the miners shouted. The miners started talking amongst themselves, shaking their heads or nodding. Some smiled in amusement while others frowned in anger. A few dozen moved toward Uncle Otis, advancing forward and forming a line, as if to keep Emma from getting any closer to the mine.

“Get her out of here!” a man shouted.

One of the miners picked up a rock and held it in his hand. Several more followed suit. Fear and anger tightened Emma’s chest. Would these men really hurt her? Were they afraid of her because she was a woman? Or was it something else? Percy had warned her that the miners were suspicious and she was treading on dangerous ground, but this was ridiculous. Then again, if they were anything like Hazard Flint, willing to let young boys die for the sake of getting coal out of the ground, maybe she should be afraid.

Uncle Otis grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away from the mine, his boney fingers like pokers in her skin. She struggled to break free.

“Get your hands off me!” she said. “I just want to know what’s going on. Why are children doing such dangerous work?”

Uncle Otis dragged her down the slag road, nearly running past the breaker boys. When they were out of earshot, he pushed her roughly down the hill. She tripped and caught herself, then turned to face him, breathing hard.

“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled. “And don’t ever come back!”

“I’m turning you in to the police!” she said. “Little boys are getting injured and killed, and you’re letting it happen! There must be some kind of law to protect them, and you’re breaking it!”

A spiteful grin split his face. “Go ahead and turn me in. And while you’re at it, you can turn in Hazard Flint and every other mine owner, foreman, and mining boss in this state. See how far that gets you.” Then he wiped a hand over his sweaty forehead, leaving a black streak of coal dust, and his face went dark. “I know one thing for sure. You’re going to be sorry you came up here.” He turned to go back up the hill. She followed.

“How can you live with yourself?” she yelled. “You have a big fancy house, buy your wife whatever she wants, and stuff yourself with fancy food and whiskey while young boys are dying to make you rich!”

With that, he spun around to face her, his jaw jutted out, his hands in fists. “Why, you ungrateful little wench,” he said. “You’re just like your parents. You don’t care where the money comes from as long as you’ve got a warm bed and food in your belly. Before they left to go have a good time in Manhattan, your parents stayed with us for two months. Bet you don’t remember that, do you? Oh, they had a high time of it, drinking my whiskey and eating my food, sleeping all morning, lazing around the sun porch while your aunt Ida waited on them hand and foot.”

“I remember it,” she said. “I remember my father fixing the roof for our keep, and I remember my mother washing the floors. But what I remember most is my mother comforting Aunt Ida while you were out carousing every night.”

“Bullshit!” he said. “You have no idea how the real world works. Now get the hell out of here!”

“I won’t sit by while you and Hazard Flint put children in danger.”

“Now you listen here,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “You’re going to march yourself right back down that hill and go home. And from now on, you’re going to mind your own business. Because if you don’t, I’ll find a way to put you out on the street so fast, it will make your head spin!”

“You can’t do that,” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “What would people think if you threw out your poor, orphaned niece?”