Coal River (23 page)

CHAPTER 19

T
wo nights after Hazard Flint’s henchmen murdered two miners and their wives in cold blood, a strong hand shook Emma awake in her bed. Before she became fully aware of her surroundings, she thought it was the doctor in the Manhattan hospital, waking her to break the news that her parents were dead, burned to ashes in a fire. Or maybe it was Michael, coming to deliver another message from Albert. Then moonlight streamed through her window and spilled across Percy’s pale face, hovering above her like a wild-eyed ghoul. Startled, she pulled the blanket up to her chin and scooted toward the headboard.

“What are you doing in here?” she said.

Percy straightened. A man stood behind him wearing a burlap sack over his head. He was holding a pistol to Percy’s back. Emma’s heart did a hard double beat in her chest. The man waved his gun at her.

“Get up!” the man growled.

Emma scrambled out of bed and wrapped the bedspread around her shoulders. Her hands were shaking so bad, she nearly dropped it. The gunman motioned her and Percy out of the room and into the hall. She gaped at Percy, eyes wide, silently pleading with him not to let this happen, even though she knew there was nothing he could do. Percy shook his head, and they did as they were told, the gunman prodding them forward with his pistol. When they reached the stairs, Emma held on to the railing, certain she would trip or faint. Her heart was pounding so hard and fast that it seemed about to burst. Downstairs, the gunman forced them through the halls toward the front of the house.

Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida were in the dining room, still in their nightclothes, sitting back to back in chairs, their wrists tied to the armrests. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark except for a set of flickering hurricane lamps on the fireplace mantel. Two more gunmen stood near the sideboard, both with sacks over their heads. One of the sacks read
POTATOES
in blue letters. The gunman behind Percy and Emma joined the others. Two of the men were wearing hobnail boots, dark overcoats, and black trousers. The third wore cowboy boots and a deerskin jacket with a giant black cross on the back. The hair on Emma’s arms stood up.

It was the shooter from the river. The man who’d murdered someone at Hazard Flint’s command.

He slid Uncle Otis’s whiskey bottle beneath the sack that hid his face and took a sip, while the other man pointed his gun at Uncle Otis’s head. Aunt Ida stared at Emma and Percy with bulging eyes, her cheeks shiny with tears. Uncle Otis glared at the gunmen, his face red, his mouth contorted with fury. The whiskey-drinker set down the bottle and sauntered around Uncle Otis toward Emma and Percy. He drew his gun and pulled back the trigger with one thumb.

“Go stand by the wall,” he said to Percy. With terror-filled eyes, Percy put his hands in the air, backed up until he ran into the fireplace mantel, then stepped sideways, wedging himself into a corner. The man in the potato sack kept his gun on him, while the one in burlap kept his pistol on Aunt Ida, who sat blubbering in her chair.

The whiskey-drinker yanked a dining room chair from beneath the table and ordered Emma to sit in it. She did as she was told, pulling the bedspread tighter around her shoulders. He stood in front of her.

“Do you know why we’re here?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Ida and I don’t have anything to do with this!” Uncle Otis said.

“Shut up, Otis!” the man in the potato sack said.

Emma couldn’t be sure, but he sounded like Frank. She looked in his direction. Every time she had seen Frank, he was in his police uniform, so the man’s clothing gave no clue to his true identity. And like the others, he wore leather gloves, so she couldn’t tell by his hands. The whiskey-drinker kicked the chair she was sitting in.

“Hey!” he said. “I’m talking to you!” He pushed the pistol against her neck.

She grimaced, her pulse throbbing in her temples. The barrel of the gun felt like ice against her skin. Despite her fear, she strained to see the gunman’s eyes behind the mask. “What do you want?”

“Somebody’s been cooking the books at the Company Store,” he said.

Acid rose in the back of her throat and sweat broke out on her forehead. In a voice she hoped sounded bewildered, she said, “What does that have to do with me?”

“You been stealing from Hazard Flint?” he snarled.

“No!”

“So you don’t know nothing about it?”

“I don’t.”

The whiskey-drinker straightened and withdrew his pistol. He strolled over to Percy. “Must be Percy messin’ with the books then.” He put the gun beneath Percy’s jaw and pushed up his chin. “How about it, Percy? You been marking bills paid when they ain’t? You been taking food and giving it to the miners?”

“Leave him alone!” Aunt Ida shrieked. “My boy would never steal from anybody!”

“She’s right,” Uncle Otis said. “He wouldn’t steal from Mr. Flint because I’d kill him!”

The gunman in burlap put his pistol to Otis’s temple. “Maybe it’s you then!”

Uncle Otis winced, shrinking away from the barrel.

“You’d think a man with a nice house like this and a good job would be more grateful, wouldn’t you?” the whiskey-drinker said.

“I sure would be,” the gunman in burlap said. “I’d like a nice house like this.”

“Come on now,” Uncle Otis said. His voice was shaky. “It isn’t me and you know it.”

“Who is it then?” the whiskey-drinker said angrily. He grabbed Percy by the collar and pushed the pistol into his face, putting a dent in his cheek. “You better tell us who’s been stealing from the Company Store or else you’ll be bleeding all over this nice rug, and your old pa here will be out of a job by sunup.”

“It’s Emma!” Percy shouted, his voice breaking. “She knows how to mark the bills paid! She knows where I keep the books!”

“That’s right!” Aunt Ida said. “She’s the one causing all the trouble around here. She’s been—”

Moving fast, the man in the potato sack tied a gag around Aunt Ida’s mouth, stretching the corners of her lips toward her molars. She stomped her feet on the floor and shook her head back and forth in an attempt to break free.

“It’s not true!” Emma cried.

“Half those miners never pay their bills on time,” Percy said. “I knew something was up these past few weeks. I was just waiting to catch her!”

Emma shot him a withering look, fighting the urge to get out of her chair and punch him in the face.

The whiskey-drinker pulled the gun away from Percy’s cheek and let go of his collar. “You don’t say,” he said.

Relieved, Percy sagged against the wall, his face running with sweat. Then he lurched forward and vomited on the floor.

The whiskey-drinker jumped out of the way just in time. “Jesus Christ!” he hollered. With a disgusted look on his face, he checked his boots. The other gunmen chuckled. The whiskey-drinker spun around and kicked Percy in the ribs, knocking him to the floor, then walked away. Percy grabbed his side and moaned.

“Well, Otis,” the whiskey-drinker said. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of a problem on your hands. Hazard Flint isn’t going to take kindly to your niece stealing from him. And those miners who accepted her help? I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes either, especially when they find out why they were fired. Looks like everyone might be right after all. Your niece is bad luck all around. And you brought her here.”

“Now just a minute,” Uncle Otis said. “Let’s talk about this. There’s no need for the miners to find out why they were fired. You figure out how much Emma stole, Percy and I will pay the bill, and we’ll fire her. I’m sure Mr. Flint will go along with that. No one else has to know anything about it.”

Aunt Ida stomped her feet again, grunting and trying to get someone to pay attention. The gunman in burlap went over to her and pushed his mask in her face. “You got something to say, fatso?”

Aunt Ida mumbled behind the gag.

“No more screaming?” he said.

She nodded again and he untied the gag.

“Emma will never step foot in that store again,” Aunt Ida said, breathing hard. “Please, we’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt us. We had no idea what she was up to, but now we do. From now on, I’ll keep her here, working for me. I swear, I’ll lock her in her room, and we won’t let her out of our sight! What else do you want? Money? We’ll pay you. Just let us go!”

“My wife is right,” Uncle Otis said. “We’ll take care of Emma, I swear. And I’ve got a tidy sum of money tucked away in my dresser upstairs. It’s yours if you leave us be. There’s no need to get anyone else involved. What with the threat of a strike and all, Mr. Flint doesn’t need another headache.”

“There isn’t going to be any strike,” the gunman in the potato sack said. “We’re making sure of that.”

Hearing his voice a second time, Emma knew it was Frank. An image of the girls in blood-splattered nightgowns flashed in her mind, and anger shot through her like a lightning bolt. Suddenly, she forgot all about being terrified.

“How are you going to do that?” she said. “By breaking into miners’ houses in the middle of the night and murdering them in their beds? By leaving behind a bunch of orphaned children? I thought the police captain was supposed to protect people?”

His head snapped in her direction.

“You’re nothing but a bully, Frank Bannister,” she said. “Always have been and always will be. The only difference between now and when you were young is now you’re hiding behind a gun and a mask. I guess that makes you a coward too.”

The man in the potato sack stormed across the room, put his gun against her forehead, and pulled back the hammer. “I’ll show you a coward,” he said.

She glared up at him, hate searing a hole through her chest. “I saw you shoot those men down by the river. You and Mr. Flint, and that one over there.” She jerked her chin toward the whiskey-drinker. “What’s one more murder? Go ahead and pull the trigger.”

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to,” he said, his voice filled with anger, “but you’ve got the wrong man.”

“Let her be,” the whiskey-drinker demanded. “It won’t do us any good to have the supervisor’s niece show up dead. We got what we wanted. Mr. Flint will decide what to do next.”

Frank stayed where he was, his breath coming fast and heavy, the burlap over his mouth billowing in and out. Emma gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, waiting for him to pull the trigger. Finally, he lowered the pistol and stepped back.

“Let’s get out of here,” the whiskey-drinker said.

“What about the money?” the man in burlap said.

“That’s not what we came here for,” the whiskey-drinker said. “We ain’t crooks.”

Taking their time, the gunmen holstered their weapons, then turned their backs and left the room. The whiskey-drinker glanced over his shoulder to look at Percy one more time, as if daring him to try something. Then, finally, the three men disappeared into the foyer. The front door opened and closed. Footsteps crossed the porch and pounded down the steps. Percy pushed himself up and stumbled over to untie his parents. Outside, horses galloped away. Emma stood and pulled the bedspread around her shoulders, trying to decide if she should help Percy, who was fumbling with the rope around his mother’s wrists. Uncle Otis struggled to break free, his crimson face covered in sweat. Then he caught sight of Emma and stopped.

“That’s right,” he growled. “Just stand there and watch, you ungrateful little wench!”

Emma hesitated, then bit her lip and went over to lend a hand. Percy had untied one of his mother’s wrists but was having a hard time with the other.

“Go help your father,” Emma said. “I’ll get this.” She tugged on the rope around her aunt’s wrist, releasing the tight knot.

“Get away from me!” Aunt Ida screeched. “I can’t stand the sight of you!” Emma let go and took a step back.

“I was just trying to untie you,” she said.

Aunt Ida leapt out of the chair and slapped Emma across the face. “You, shut up! We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, and this is how you repay us? By almost getting us killed and nearly getting your uncle fired? Everyone is right. You
are
cursed. And I don’t want you anywhere near me!”

Emma put a hand to her cheek, her eyes burning. “Keep telling yourself you took me in out of the goodness of your heart if it helps you sleep at night,” she said. “But we both know that’s not the truth. You wanted free help, and that’s the
only
reason I’m here.”

Aunt Ida gasped, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Uncle Otis ripped his arm from the rope before Percy finished untying it, then stood and spun around to face Emma.

“I’ll give you five minutes to pack your bags and get the hell out of my house!” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “We’re done with you!”

“He’s right,” Aunt Ida said. “We’ve done all we can for you, but it was never enough. This will be the first time in my life that I’ve ever put myself first, but I need to take care of my family and myself. I can’t do that with you around here, causing trouble every time we turn around.”

A ripple of anger and fear quickened Emma’s heart.
Where would she go?
Despite her apprehension, she squared her shoulders and looked her aunt in the eyes. “I’ll be more than happy to leave,” she said. “But if that’s what you want, I’ll need money for the train.”

“You’re not getting one more cent from us,” Aunt Ida said, her voice quaking.

Emma turned her attention to Uncle Otis. “Well, if that’s the case, perhaps I should leave you both with something to remember me by. I’m sure you remember the Fourth of July dance when—”

“We’ll give you money for a ticket,” her uncle interrupted. “After that, I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”

CHAPTER 20

A
t four o’clock the next morning, Emma sat on a peeling bench outside the train station, trying to figure out what to do. The ticket window wasn’t set to open for another two hours, so she had plenty of time to think. Finally, she had money for a ticket out of Coal River. Her uncle and aunt had kicked her out, and she had nowhere to live. The decision had been made for her. Now she had to leave, and somehow she would need to find a way to survive. This was her chance to put this place behind her once and for all. And yet she didn’t know if it was possible.

An image of Nicolas flashed in her mind. Then Francesca’s beautiful twins, Pearl’s son, the red tips, the boys with missing arms and legs, the line of small coffins. How could she just get up and leave when young boys were suffering and dying to make other men rich? Was she going to let the breaker boys down the same way she’d let Albert down?

But what if there was nothing she could do? It was terrifying to think of starting over somewhere new with no money or clear-cut plan, but the thought of staying in a place with so little regard for human beings that they put young boys to work in one of the most dangerous industries known to man was agonizing. Her life had already been filled with so much tragedy; why would she want to subject herself to any more? Maybe this time, she should give up. She was too tired to fight. Maybe it was time to admit that Hazard Flint held all the cards. He had won.

Not to mention the fact that, if she stayed, along with being homeless, she might get herself killed. Now that Mr. Flint and his henchmen knew she was stealing from the mining company, they might decide to do away with her. Even if her aunt and uncle had locked her up in their house, she never would have been safe. She had seen firsthand what Hazard Flint could do. She had to leave to protect herself, didn’t she? And leaving was what she’d wanted since the day she’d stepped foot back in Coal River, wasn’t it?

If she left, she could go back to Manhattan. Maybe the former theater owner would take pity on her. Maybe he had purchased a new building and would give her a job. Maybe her luck would change.

Of course the thought of never seeing Clayton again twisted in her chest like a knife, but she was used to misery. It was part of her now, just like her unruly hair and too-small fingernails. She would learn to live with it, wouldn’t she? She would tuck it away, along with her grief for her parents and Albert, and all the children who were dead and dying in Coal River, and eventually it would turn to ice, making her heart beat a little slower, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Making it feel like I’m drowning
.

She hung her head, her face growing red with shame. How could she be so selfish? Even if Mr. Flint’s men shot her dead in the middle of the night, at least she would die standing up for what was right and true. It would be better than running away. She had already done so much for the miners’ children, bringing them extra food and teaching some of them to read and write. She couldn’t abandon them now. She looked at the dark edges of the woods, scanning the long shadows beside the train depot. For once, she wanted Michael to be there, watching her with his dark, haunted eyes. If she saw him, she would beckon him over and ask him what to do. And if what Simone said was true, and Albert really was trying to communicate with her, maybe he would have the answer. But then again, Emma didn’t need a message from Michael or her dead brother to tell her anything. There really was no other choice. She had to stay.

 

By the time early dawn arrived in a faint, gray smear behind the hills east of town, Emma was trudging up the steep road leading to the miners’ village, suitcase in hand. She stared up at the dark, hulking silhouette of the breaker. Devourer of children. The waning moon was coming and going among the clouds, blinking off the breaker windows as if someone were inside, sending her a coded message. A low white mist hung in steep angles above the pine forest that ran along the highest peak of the mountain, suspended in the air like frozen snowfall.

Cresting the last knoll, Emma rehearsed what she was going to say to Clayton. She had to convince him to take her in, to make him understand that she wanted to stay and help, no matter what. If he refused, she’d knock on other miners’ doors and offer her uncle’s money for room and board. Someone was bound to let her in. And yet, somehow, she knew Clayton wouldn’t send her away. If nothing else, he needed a hand with the orphans. And God knew his house needed a woman’s touch. The thought of moving in with a widower weighed heavy on her mind, but she would do it anyway, if he’d let her. Maybe she ought to start the conversation by showing him the money she had tucked into her brassiere instead of saying anything about the breaker boys. Maybe she should tell him how she felt about him. No. Admitting that she thought she was falling in love with him would only complicate things. Besides, that wasn’t important right now.

She thought back to when she first saw Clayton at the Fourth of July celebration, how he had taken command of the situation between Frank and Nally, how he had looked rugged and handsome in his Sunday best. At the time, she only knew him as the troublemaker Percy and her uncle had talked about, but now she wondered if somehow, deep inside, she had known there was something special about him. Then he came to her rescue at the dance, made her feel safe on the Ferris wheel, and had enthralled a roomful of desperate miners. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly when her feelings toward him had started to change, or when she stopped ignoring them; she only knew that they had. He wasn’t anything like the boys in New York, the pale-faced actors in the theater who only cared about their careers, the dockworkers who drank beer and played poker next to the fish market, or the rich young men in fancy suits who never gave her a second glance. Clayton was a hard worker who took in orphans and believed in equality for all. She had never met anyone so sure of what he believed in and where he belonged. But that was another reason not to tell him how she felt. He would never leave Coal River, and she couldn’t stay forever.

As she drew closer to the last bend in the road before the village, a cluster of yellow lights near the culm banks caught her eye. At first she thought they were fireflies, floating between the mounds of shale and clay and rock. Then she drew nearer and realized they were oil lanterns.

Emma put her head down, moved to the far side of the road, and walked faster, trying to stay on the compressed shoulder to lessen the crunching beneath her shoes. Then the rising sun bloomed behind the peak of Bleak Mountain, and in the thin light, she spotted a group of women and children picking through the mine waste. They were filling their buckets and wheelbarrows with bits and pieces of coal. Three women hunched over the tallest pile halfway up, their hands and shoes slipping on the rubble. They worked with their sleeves pushed up to their elbows, their long aprons stained black with coal dust. A boy of about eight was searching through the freshest culm near the crest of the bank, over fifty feet in the air. On the ground, a toddler in a filthy bonnet and torn tights sat on a burlap sack in one of the wheelbarrows, her sleepy face smeared with soot. A blond girl in a one-piece dress carried two buckets over to another wheelbarrow, her clothes and arms sullied up to her armpits, as if she’d been dunked in black mud. As if by signal, the women turned off their lanterns, took children, sacks, and wheelbarrows in hand, and began to disperse with the arrival of day.

Then one of the women saw Emma and froze, her face filled with fear. When she realized who Emma was, her shoulders dropped in relief. It was Pearl. She came out to the road.

“You makin’ another food run?” she said, eyeing Emma’s suitcase.

“No,” Emma said.

“Runnin’ away?”

“Something like that. I can’t stay at my uncle’s anymore.” She set down her suitcase to rub her aching hand.

“I’d offer you a bed,” Pearl said. “But we barely got enough to make ends meet as it is, ’specially without Tanner’s pay.” Her eyes filled, and she put a hand on her lower abdomen, rubbing her soot-covered fingers in small circles. “We can’t take in another mouth to feed, what with me expecting and all.”

“That’s all right,” Emma said. Then she hugged Pearl, a sudden flood of tears burning her eyes. “I’m so sorry about your son.”

Pearl hugged her back, then drew away and ran a black hand beneath her nose. “Guess it was the good Lord’s will to take my boy away,” she said, sniffing. “And now He’s blessed us with another child to heal our broken hearts.”

Forcing a smile, Emma tried not to think about the poverty Pearl’s new baby would be born into. “How are you feeling?” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I’m getting along all right,” Pearl said. “You want me to ask one of the widows to take you in?”

“No, no,” Emma said. “I got myself in trouble. I’ll get myself out.”

“Your uncle find out you been helping us?”

Emma nodded, then looked over Pearl’s shoulder at the women and children still near the culm banks. “What are you doing out here?”

Pearl followed her gaze, her forehead furrowed. “We’re cullin’ coal,” she said. “There’s good pieces of anthracite mixed in with all that gravel and rock. Mr. Flint says we’re supposed to buy our coal from the pluck me store, but it ain’t right us having to pay for coal when our husbands are the ones who dug it from the earth. And some of us can’t afford to anyway, even if it was right.”

“Makes sense to me,” Emma said.

“You won’t tell?”

“Of course not. Haven’t I proved myself to you yet?”

Pearl nodded. “I s’pose you have.”

“But why are you out here so early?” Emma said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to wait for more daylight?”

“Uh-uh,” Pearl said. “Used to be the Coal and Iron Police would look the other way when they saw us cullin’ for slag coal. But as of late they been patrolling this area, smashing our baskets and wheelbarrows if they caught us. Last time they said if they seen us again, they’d search our houses and charge us double for all the coal we had on hand, no matter if we bought it from the pluck me store or not.”

Emma shook her head in disgust. How could anyone as rich as Hazard Flint be so greedy?

Just then, the thunder of galloping hooves traveled up the mountain road. Pearl didn’t wait to see who it was. She raced over to the culm piles, gathered up the toddler from the burlap sack, and disappeared into a stand of scraggly pines. The rest of the women and children followed, leaving buckets and wheelbarrows behind. On the peak of the highest bank, a young boy started down, sliding on the loose culm. His mother waited at the bottom of the incline, urging him to hurry, her arms outstretched as if to catch him.

Four policemen rode up the hill behind Emma, floating like phantoms in a gray cloud of dust. Emma picked up her suitcase and ran toward the woods, her shoulders hunched. Then someone screamed, and she stopped and spun around. It was the mother waiting at the bottom of the culm pile. Her boy had slipped and fallen, starting an avalanche of shale and rubble. The culm was collapsing around him, swallowing him alive. It was already above his knees. Emma’s blood went cold. She ran over, dropped her suitcase at the bottom of the pile, emptied one of the buckets, and lurched up the side of the bank with it. Trying to avoid the collapsing rubble, she climbed parallel to where the boy was disappearing. The culm shifted and rolled beneath her feet, and she was forced to get on her hands and knees. She had no idea what she was going to do, but she couldn’t just stand by and watch the boy die. The mother screamed over and over, crying for someone to please save her son.

The boy was panicking and digging himself deeper with every movement, clawing at the culm with bare hands. He twisted onto his side and reached toward the peak of the bank as if swimming in black quicksand, his fingers scratched and bloody.

“Stop moving!” Emma shouted. The boy did as he was told, his eyes wild and staring at her, his thin face ashen. Still, the culm kept shifting, slowly swallowing his waist, inching toward his narrow chest like a downward conveyor belt of rocks and dust. For a second, Emma froze. The mine waste had turned white, and she saw Albert falling through the ice. She shook her head to clear it, then lay down and stretched across the rubble, parallel to the ground and slightly above and to one side of the boy. The sharp shale stabbed her stomach and chest. She edged closer and closer, her legs splayed out behind her, and tossed the bucket toward the boy, keeping a grip on the handle.

“Grab hold!” she yelled.

The boy threw himself sideways and reached out, clamping onto the bucket for dear life. She pulled, but it was no use. He was in too deep. She edged closer, testing the firmness of the rubble as she went. When she thought she was close enough, she threw her body across the culm and latched on to the boy’s elbows, pulling with every ounce of strength she could find. It wasn’t enough. She let go and started digging around him with the bucket, hoping to free him enough so he could pull himself out. But the slag and gravel filled in faster and faster, and the boy kept sinking deeper and deeper. She tried to think, her pulse thrashing in her ears.

At the bottom of the culm pile, two policemen grabbed the screaming mother by the arms and started dragging her away while the other two kicked her wheelbarrow over and emptied her bucket on the ground. Then one of them stopped and looked up, as if noticing Emma and the boy for the first time. It was Frank.

“Hold on!” he shouted, and ambled up the side of the bank in wide, powerful strides.

He reached the boy within seconds and pulled on his arms, grimacing with the effort. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Emma tried to help. It was no use. They couldn’t get enough leverage. While she held on to the boy, Frank took a step sideways, trying to get closer. Then the culm shifted beneath Frank’s boots, and rock and clay and shale started sliding down the bank like a black river. Frank stumbled and fell. The culm gave way and swallowed his legs up to his knees, as if a sinkhole had opened up beneath him. He slid several feet down the pile, away from the boy. Then the ground shook and rumbled, as if the earth was caving in. And Frank started to sink. Fast.