Coal River (10 page)

From down in town, the houses looked square and true, lined up in neat columns like the outlying neighborhoods of a large city. Up close, they were nothing but shacks and shanties, cobbled together with raw scraps of lumber and rusted tin, with porches and railings and steps that looked ready to collapse. Thin, grimy curtains hung in open windows with broken or wood-covered panes. Gray smoke rose from crumbling, soot-covered chimneys to mix with the acidic smell of burning culm and the sour tang of human waste. A string of outhouses ran up the center of each row of shanties, the ground around them black and moist. At the far end of the outhouses, a rusty water pump stood surrounded by mud.

Chickens, pigs, goats, and the occasional dog ran loose in the roads and yards, their faces and feet stained black. Children in torn, dirty clothing played on lawns filled with washtubs, broken bicycles, struggling gardens, and sparse grass. An elderly woman sat in a rocker, a naked infant on one knee, silently watching the Black Maria pass. Some porches held twenty people or more: elderly men and women, adolescent girls, weary mothers, and children of all ages. Coal dust covered everything—the walls and roofs and gardens, the steps, the fences—even the leaves on the trees.

Emma blinked back tears and, at the same time, felt anger burning in her feet, as if it came from the very earth she was walking on. It rose through her legs and torso, traveled up to her neck and to her head where it burned like fire. She pictured Hazard Flint in his expensive clothes, counting his money at a rolltop desk inside the Flint Mansion, while up in the miners’ village, children cried with hunger and babies shivered beneath threadbare blankets. She thought about Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida, their fancy clothes and china-filled cabinets, their sideboard piled high with shepherd’s pie and beef stew, lamb chops and deviled eggs, bread pudding and cherry tarts, tea rolls and scones with orange marmalade. How could they live with themselves, knowing they were living high on the hog while the families of the men who dug the coal from the earth lived in poverty? Then her stomach turned over and she nearly gagged, realizing she’d been wearing the same clothes and eating the same lavish cuisine, bought with money made off the backs of miners who could barely afford to feed their own children.

Michael’s words rang in her ears:
You have to help.
Was that what Michael was trying to tell her? That she had to help the miners and their children? But how? What in the world could she do? And what did Albert have to do with any of this?

Trying to shake the sensation that dark shadows were brushing up against her, even in the light of the day, Emma followed the hearse as it passed Scotch Road, Dago Street, and Welsh Hill, then turned into a narrow dirt path called Murphy’s Patch. The wagon mules were foaming at the mouth, their hooves kicking up clouds of black dust.

Someone shouted, “It’s the Black Maria!” and women erupted from their shanties to stand on their front stoops. They wrung their hands and clutched their stained aprons, waiting to see where the hearse would stop. Young children appeared beside their mothers’ long skirts and looked toward the road with curious eyes. One by one, as the death wagon passed each house, the women bowed their heads in relief, as if saying a silent prayer of thanks that their husbands or sons hadn’t been killed that day.

Finally, the driver of the Black Maria pulled back on the reins and stopped at the second-to-last shack at the end of the lane. The woman on the porch went white and fell to her knees. Then she started screaming. Two young children ran out the door and clutched the splintered porch railings with dirty hands, staring at their mother, their faces filled with terror. The rest of the women moved down their steps and silently walked toward the new widow’s house. The driver and his helper climbed down from the Black Maria, pulled a covered body from the wagon bed, and carried the stretcher toward the shanty, only stopping long enough to replace a dangling foot beneath the bloodstained sheet. A neighbor woman helped the new widow to her feet, then moved her and her children out of the way so the men could take the body inside.

A big-bosomed blonde left her porch and strode toward Emma, her long, faded skirt twisting around her legs as she marched in her direction. Emma recognized the woman from the store. Her name was Fern, and she’d been charged for two pair of long johns she claimed she didn’t buy. Percy had warned the woman to be quiet and pay or else her husband would be looking for another job. Emma remembered feeling frightened when Fern glared at them for a full minute before leaving the store. Now Emma clenched her teeth, hoping Fern didn’t recognize her.

“You best be going back down to the rich folk where you belong!” Fern shouted before she reached her. “The likes of you aren’t welcome here. Especially since you’re working at the pluck me store.”

“I only wanted to see—”

“See what?” Fern said. She stopped and stood, her fists on her hips, scowling. “Some poor miner’s dead body? His crying widow? His hungry children?”

“No,” Emma said. “I . . . Is there anything I can do to help?”

“There’s nothing you can do ’cept go back where you came from. Now git!”

“I wish I could,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

The woman crossed her arms. Her elbows and lower arms were scaly and red. “Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m here in Coal River because my parents died in a fire,” Emma said. She directed her attention back to the new widow’s shanty, hoping Fern would take pity on her and leave her alone.

Fern harrumphed, and Emma turned to look at her, surprised to see that her features had gone soft, the hostility gone. The woman was shaking her head, her eyes sad.

“I’m only working at the Company Store because my aunt and uncle expect me to earn my keep,” Emma added. “I’m not getting paid.”

Fresh sympathy crossed Fern’s face. “When I was a little girl,” she began, “we used to wait on the front porch for Pa to come home. When we saw him walking up the dirt path, his hands and face black with coal, we’d all run into him, never mind that we’d get dirty when he picked us up to hug him. We were just happy to see him come home alive, his hands and feet and arms and legs all still attached. He was one of the lucky ones who died of old age. Can’t imagine what it felt like to lose your ma and pa at the same time. Sorry I was so hard on you.”

Emma nodded once to show she’d accepted Fern’s apology. “What’s going to happen to the new widow and her children?”

“Hard to say,” Fern said. “Company might send her to Widow’s Row, where she’ll earn rent by taking in new immigrants and single miners. Supposin’ there’s room, that is.”

“And if there’s not?”

“She’ll be evicted.”

Emma shook her head, unable to find words.

“You seem like a nice girl,” Fern said. “Why don’t you take my advice and go on back home? There’s nothing you can do here.”

She patted Emma’s arm, then made her way to the new widow’s house with the rest of the women. Emma’s eyes filled as she looked around at the thin children on the porches and in the yards. Maybe Fern was right. How in the world could anyone stand up to the Bleak Mountain Mining Company and put a stop to Hazard Flint? How could anyone put an end to this tragedy, least of all, someone like her? When Michael said she should help, he must have been talking about something else.

She searched the young faces for Jack, hoping she could figure out where Clayton Nash lived, but she didn’t see the boy anywhere. She looked for Michael’s grandmother, thinking a woman with long white braids would be easy to spot. Maybe Tala would understand how and why Michael had spoken to her, and how he knew about Albert.

Just then, a group of miners appeared at the end of the dirt lane, their clothes and hats and gumshoes covered in coal dust, their sleeves and pants heavy and wet. Their canteens and dinner pails clanged together as they walked, echoing like cowbells in the hollow. They carried metal bars, shovels, picks, tamping rods, safety lamps, and cans of blasting powder. Their faces were black beneath caps with attached oil wick lanterns, their swollen, bloodshot eyes like bleeding holes in their heads.

Emma scanned the crowd for Clayton but couldn’t see him. Except for Nally, who was heads and shoulders above the others, it was impossible to tell one coal-covered face from another. Every brow was furrowed, every mouth in a thin, hard line. Nally and several others broke away and headed toward the next row of shanties. She turned her attention back to the new widow’s house. A few seconds later, someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Clayton, his dust-caked lips clamped around the end of a clay pipe. With a black hand, he took the pipe out of his mouth.

“What are you doing up here?” he said.

“I followed the Black Maria. Do you know what happened?”

“Cave-in.”

“Does that happen often?”

He sniffed as if it were the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. “It’s a coal mine,” he said. “We work hundreds of feet underground. What do you think?”

She stiffened, surprised by his hostile demeanor. Was he blaming her for getting him arrested? “How would I know?” she said. “I didn’t grow up in a mining town. I spent a few months here when I was ten, that’s all. And it was a long time ago.”

“Lucky you,” he said.

“Yeah, lucky me.”

“It’s worse when there’s an explosion,” he said. “Then we have to pick up the pieces, an arm here, a leg there, a man with no head, his brains splashed against the walls, mules blown to bits. Can’t even eat after that.”

“Please,” she said. She put a hand over her stomach. “Why do you insist on torturing me with such horrible stories?”

“I want you to see,” he said. “I want you to see that your uncle and the man he works for need to change the way this colliery is run before disaster strikes. Simple decency is all we ask. Emergency exits, proper ventilation. Better pumps to keep it dry and safe. The richest vein lies right next to the riverbed. Part of that could cave in at any second and drown us all. Instead Hazard Flint cuts corners and takes risks, digging columns too narrow, going back into partially collapsed shafts because there’s too much coal to ignore.”

“What does that have to do with me?” she said. “The last time I checked, you worked for Hazard Flint too!”

He said nothing for a long moment, then met her gaze. “Fair enough. But are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with you? Who’s paying for those fancy clothes you’re wearing? And I suppose you’re growing your own food, milking your own cow, butchering your own pig?” He took off his hat, revealing a white forehead smudged with coal dust. “I’m sorry. I just found out you’re working at the Company Store. And I get angry when a good man gets killed.”

Behind him, a group of policemen crested the hill on horseback, their rifles resting on their thighs, a cloud of dust rising up behind them.

“You better leave,” Clayton said. He put his cap back on and sprinted, his head down, to catch up with the other miners.

The women and children went back inside their shanties, and Emma started toward home, her eyes on the road, her head swimming. No wonder the miners were talking about a strike. If they refused to dig coal from the earth, Mr. Flint would have to listen to them, wouldn’t he? What were they waiting for? The herd of horses trotted past, their hooves throwing dirt and slag in the air. A horse stopped beside her and snorted, its brown hide covered in foamy sweat. She looked up at the rider. It was the police captain, Frank Bannister.

“What are you doing up here?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said, continuing on.

He turned his horse and followed her. “Who were you talking to?” he said. “Was that Clayton Nash?”

She stopped and glared up at him. “Who I talk to is none of your business.”

“I’m trying to protect you, Emma,” he said. “Can’t you see that?”

“I don’t need anyone to protect me, least of all you.”

“Let me give you a lift back to town. The other men can handle this.”

“Why are you even here?” she said. “These people don’t need the police. Someone’s already been killed. They need food and clothing and fair wages.”

Frank scowled. “Well, I guess I’ve got my answer. Sounds like you’ve been talking to Nash after all.”

“I’m not a fool,” she said. “I don’t need anyone to tell me that these people aren’t being treated fairly. All I have to do is look around. So unless you’re here to help them, we don’t have anything to discuss.”

“I’m here on official business.”

She looked back at the miners’ village. The rest of the policemen were making their way toward a two-story shanty with boarded-up windows. Three of them stopped and waited on horseback near the front porch while two others dismounted and climbed the steps, rifles in hand. One knocked on the door while the other stood off to the side, waiting. A pregnant woman opened the door. She wore a thin housedress with a fraying hem, and held a toddler in her arms. The first policeman showed her a piece of paper and pointed toward the road. The woman blanched and clutched her throat, her face contorted with fear and anguish. She pleaded with the officers.

The bitter tang of contempt filled Emma’s mouth. She stared angrily up at Frank. “Are you throwing her out of her house?” she said.

His face hardened. “It’s not hers,” he said. “Hazard Flint owns it. He owns all these shacks.”

“But why are you evicting her?” she said. “What did she do?”

“Your cousin, Percy, says they haven’t paid their bill at the Company Store in a month,” he said. “And her husband just got injured and can’t work. Right now he’s down at the saloon, drinking the last of his money.”

“But they have a toddler and a baby on the way! Can’t you let them stay until her husband goes back to work?”

“We’re just doing what Mr. Flint pays us to do.” He reached down for her. “Give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”