Coal River (31 page)

CHAPTER 31

W
hen Emma looked up from the witness stand, Clayton was on his feet, making his way toward her. The lawyers were discussing what had just happened, hands gesturing wildly, heads shaking in disbelief. Frank was helping Mr. Flint out of his seat and trying to protect him from one of the reporters. The other reporter was asking Lewis Hine and the state constable questions, quickly scribbling notes and keeping an eye on Clayton. Clearly, he planned on questioning him next. Some of the audience members had gotten up and moved closer to the main floor to hear what was being said, while others watched from the gallery. Emma stood on trembling legs and stepped down from the stand. Not wanting to draw any further attention to herself, she fought the urge to run into Clayton’s arms. In what seemed like slow motion, he drew nearer until, finally, they were face-to-face. For several seconds they stared at each other, and neither spoke. His eyes were still glassy with fever and something that looked like shock.

Finally he said, “Are you all right?”

She nodded and took his hand. “Are you?”

Before he could answer, Emma saw the second reporter making his way toward them. More journalists were filing in through the main entrance and hurrying down the aisle. She scanned the room, looking for an escape. The judge was disappearing through the door behind the bench. A few feet away another door had a sign that read: Witness Holding Room. She pulled Clayton toward it.

“No, come this way,” someone said, tugging on Emma’s arm. She turned, ready for a struggle. It was Percy. “Use the exit beside the jury box,” he said. “Follow the hall to the end and you’ll find a door that leads outside.”

Emma gave Percy a quick smile of gratitude and rushed toward the exit with Clayton. Together they raced down the hall and slipped outside, where they stopped on the landing to get their bearings. To their right, a set of flagstone steps led down to a walkway that followed along the side of the building, then turned right across the front of the courthouse. Beside the walkway, the land gradually sloped downhill to a slow-moving brook, then climbed back up to a granite cliff. From the top of the cliff, a waterfall cascaded down the rocks, filling the air with the soothing sound of falling water. Above the waterfall, a pine-covered swath of Bleak Mountain soared into the blue sky. A breeze had come up, temporarily clearing the smog from the valley. Emma felt as if she were seeing the natural beauty of Coal River for the first time. Her breathing slowed, and she turned toward Clayton, who looked like he was waking from a nightmare.

“I can’t believe what just happened,” she said. “I thought we were both going to . . .”

He wrapped his good arm around her, crushing her to his chest. “Shhh, I know. But it’s over now. We’re going to be all right.” Afraid she was dreaming, she pressed herself into him, to feel his heart pounding against hers. He kissed the top of her head. At last, the long days of fear and grief melted away beneath his strong embrace. He held her tighter. She smiled up at him, tears in her eyes, and then his lips were on hers, kissing her long and hard. After a few moments, she pulled back and gazed up at him.

“I’m so sorry Nally shot you,” she said. “Are you still in a lot of pain?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Getting better every day.”

“Thank God.”

“What about you?” he said. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s practically healed.” She reached up to caress his face. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I never would have forgiven myself if something had happened to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But if I hadn’t insisted on going inside the mine. If I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t insisted, Hazard Flint would still be in charge, and everything would have stayed the same.”

“But the other miners would still be alive if . . .”

He put a finger over her lips to quiet her. “There was a cave-in,” he said. “That wasn’t your fault either. Things are going to get better around here, and it’s because of what you did. If you hadn’t sent those pictures to the
Times,
Hazard Flint never would have confessed to anything. He knew he was cornered. Every man who died would be grateful to you for that.”

She laid her head against his chest, her throat tight, praying what he said was true. After a long moment, she straightened and searched his face. “Did you have any idea you were Viviane Flint’s son?”

He shook his head. “No. I thought my mother and father were . . . my parents.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. But the people who raised you
were
your parents. They’re the ones who loved you and taught you right from wrong. They’re the ones who made you the man you are today. That’s all that matters, and nothing will ever change that.”

He smiled and put a gentle hand on her cheek, his eyes filled with love and gratitude. “I love you, Emma Malloy.”

With gentle fingers, she combed his hair back from his forehead. He was by far the most striking man she had ever known. Even now, pale and feverish, he was beautiful to her. While every contour of muscle and bone was purely masculine, his face was so sensitive, his eyes so caring. “I love you too.”

“I just have one question,” he said. “Are you going to stay in Coal River and finish what you started?”

She gazed up at him, pondering her previous determination to leave after helping the breaker boys. So much had happened since then, and so much was about to change. Maybe she should stay and see how things turned out. Clayton might need her help. Besides, how could she leave the man she loved? She nodded and he grinned.

But the moment was ruined when a group of journalists came around the corner of the courthouse and sprinted toward them.

“What does it feel like to find out you’re Viviane Flint’s missing son?” one of them shouted.

“How soon will you take over the Bleak Mountain Mining Company?” another one said.

Clayton and Emma kissed again, then sighed and turned to face the questions.

CHAPTER 32

E
mma stood at the ballroom window of Nash Mansion, formerly known as the Flint Mansion, holding back the red velvet curtain. It was early May, nearly a year since her return to Coal River, and the snow in the high forests was finally gone. From here, she could see the river, a silvery gray ribbon cutting through the land between the surrounding mountains and the east edge of town. Now when she looked at the roiling water, she was no longer overwhelmed by a sense of grief and dread. The river was nothing more than a powerful waterway, surrounded by rocks and wildlife and trees, their branches filling with buds. It was just part of the earth, as vulnerable to the will of man as any human. Coal River wasn’t to blame for the death of her brother, any more than the surrounding mountains or this village. It was the people who lived and worked here who were the forces behind what had happened in the past, and they would be responsible for what would happen in the future.

After Mr. Flint’s confession at the trial, the state constable had arrested him and his henchmen, including Frank, and taken them to a Scranton jail. The honest mine bosses and miners had run Uncle Otis, Aunt Ida, and the other crooked bosses out of town.

Clayton had taken over the Bleak Mountain Mining Company, and after a few months of repairs, the mine opened up again. The majority of Hazard Flint’s money was in the company’s name, so Clayton used it to replace dangerous equipment, build emergency exits, and install proper ventilation systems. He handpicked the new supervisors and foremen, gave all the miners a fair wage, and replaced the breaker boys with men. He gave money to the miners to raise barns, and brought in livestock to help them become more self-sufficient. He renamed the Company Store Albert & Michael’s General Store, lowered the prices, and gave the miners the choice to shop where they wanted.

Before moving into the mansion, Clayton sold the paintings, rugs, and furniture at a Scranton auction to raise money for the miners’ families and the orphans of Coal River. Now simple furniture and handmade rugs—purchased from the miners’ wives and other poor Pennsylvania craftsmen—filled the house. Everything was going better than Emma could have dreamed.

She let the curtain drop, her stomach filled with nervous butterflies. What if today didn’t work out the way she’d hoped?

The double ballroom doors opened, and Clayton entered, wringing his hands.

“Do we have enough desks?” he said.

She made her way toward him, moving between the rows of wooden benches and desks. “I hope so!”

“What about the chalkboard?” he said. “Is it big enough?”

She turned to look at the freestanding chalkboard he had ordered. “Yes, it’s perfect.”

“Is there anything else you need?” he said. “Do you have enough chalk? Enough books? Enough rulers?”

“Yes!” she said. “Yes! Stop worrying, will you? You’ve gotten more than enough supplies for us.” She bit the edge of her lip. “I just wonder how many will show up. I mean, I know Sawyer, Jack, Edith, Sadie, and Violet will be here. After all, they live right upstairs, but . . .”

Clayton took her in his arms. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Nash. You’ve earned the trust of so many of the miners and their families. The rest will catch on when they see the other children doing so well. Besides, how could all those boys not come to school when they’re going to have such a beautiful teacher?” He kissed her long and hard on the mouth.

Someone knocked on the open door. It was her cousin, Percy.

“Emma?” he said. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Oh,” she said. She lifted the hem of her skirt and made her way toward him.

“No,” Percy said. He pointed to the doors that led out to the balcony. “They’re waiting for you out there.”

Puzzled, she turned toward the balcony. Her mind raced, going over the speech she had prepared to welcome the students to their new school. She rehearsed the rules and how she was going to get the kids excited about learning. She hadn’t decided if she should begin by reading a story or asking everyone to stand and introduce themselves. More than anything, she wanted the students to like her so they would come back. She grabbed the balcony door handles and hesitated, suddenly afraid the miners’ wives had come to tell her they didn’t want their children attending school when they could be helping out at home.

Taking a deep breath, Emma swung open the double doors and stepped out onto the sun-filled terrace. She stopped short and put her fingers over her trembling lips. Her eyes grew misty. Clayton came out and stood beside her, grinning as he looked out over the railing. Before them, filling the manicured lawn, stood dozens of young girls and former breaker boys, waiting to attend their first day of school in Coal River. Behind the children, near the wading pool in the center of the front lawn, Michael stood with one hand raised. For the first time ever, he was smiling. Emma never found out how he knew about Albert, or if her brother really was trying to communicate from beyond the grave. But for now she would have to accept that maybe there was no answer. Today, she was looking toward the future.

During the writing of
Coal River
I relied on the following books:
Early Coal Mining in the Anthracite Region,
by John Stuart Richards;
Growing Up in Coal Country,
by Susan Campbell Bartoletti; and
Historical Account of the Mollie Maguires,
by A. Monroe Aurand Jr. It is important to note that for the purpose of plot, the date of the article in the
Scranton Times
was changed from 1902 to 1912. By the time of my story, Johnny Mitchell had retired as president of the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA). It is also important to note that Lewis Hines was a real person who, through his photography, exposed child labor in coal mines, cotton mills, factories, the newspaper industry, seafood ports, agriculture, and retail sales. The town of Coal River, Pennsylvania, is fictitious, and should not be confused with any actual place.

Please turn the page
for a very special Q&A
with Ellen Marie Wiseman!

I’ve always been fascinated by coal mining, and the fact that men risked their lives every day to make a living by going deep in the earth despite the danger of cave-ins and explosions. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been. When I found out young boys were used to sort coal until their fingers bled, and realized other people hadn’t heard of the breaker boys either, I knew it was a story that needed to be told. I also wanted to write about the boys who worked as nippers, spraggers, and mule drivers.

 

It was heartbreaking to read about young boys working ten hours a day in extremely dangerous conditions, knowing they never really had a childhood, and that there were so many injured and killed. Although public disapproval of the employment of children as breaker boys existed by the mid-1880s, the practice did not end until the 1920s. For ten hours a day, six days a week, breaker boys sat on wooden seats, perched over the chutes and conveyor belts, picking slate and other impurities out of the coal. They would stop the coal by pushing their boots into the stream of coal flowing beneath them, pick out the impurities, and then let the coal pass on to the next breaker boy for further processing.

As if sorting coal wasn’t hard enough, the breaker boys were forced to work without gloves so that they could better handle the slick coal. The slate, however, was sharp, and boys would often leave work with their fingers cut and bleeding. Not only that, but coal was often washed to remove impurities, which created sulfuric acid and burned the breaker boys’ hands. Sometimes they had their fingers amputated by the rapidly moving conveyor belts. Others lost feet, hands, arms, and legs as they moved among the equipment and became caught under conveyor belts or in gears. Many were crushed to death, their bodies retrieved from the machinery only at the end of the working day. Others were caught in the rush of coal, and crushed or smothered. Dry coal would kick up so much dust that breaker boys sometimes wore lamps on their heads to see, and asthma and black lung disease were common.

 

Yes, I went inside the Pioneer Tunnel Coal Mine in Ashland, Pennsylvania, and visited Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania, to see the Asa Packer Mansion Museum and the Old Jail Museum, where seven accused Molly Maguires met their death on the gallows inside the cellblock. Ironically, being deep inside the mine didn’t bother me, but being inside the jail was very disturbing. I couldn’t wait to leave!

 

Probably because I’d like to think that I would strive to do the right thing in those kinds of situations too. I think most people can relate to that.

 

I wish! For me, it seems to get harder every time. Partially because I’m not clever enough to come up with new ways of saying things, and partially because every story comes out differently, meaning bits and pieces come to you as you write, and you’re not sure if it’s making sense, if it’s in order, or if what you’re writing is even important to the book. When that happens, it can be scary because it feels like you have no idea what you’re doing! Hopefully, by around the third draft, you find your way and finally see that, thank goodness, there really is a story there. A wise author friend once told me that one thing to remember and accept is that we’re all learning, and that each novel we write will teach us something. I try to remember that, but sometimes it can be hard. The other thing that makes it difficult for me is that I wish I had more time to polish my prose. It’s what I’d like most to improve on.