“You have no leader!” he said. “Clayton Nash and the rest of the agitators who organized this upcoming strike are now in prison. They are members of the Molly Maguires, an illegal, secret society, and will be tried and hanged first thing in the morning!”
Emma gasped and put a hand over her mouth. Mr. Flint had no proof; how could he? And to hold a trial and hanging by morning? It seemed impossible. He had to be bluffing, trying to scare the strikers into standing down. The alternative was unthinkable. And yet Emma couldn’t stop the trembling that worked its way up and down her limbs.
“Anyone thinking about going on strike had better show up for their shift on time and ready to do the work I pay them to do,” Mr. Flint continued. “You have no union, and there’s no possible way your strike will succeed. If you defy my rules and regulations, you will be fired, arrested, and your families will be evicted and sent packing. We’ve got plenty of firepower, and we’re not afraid to use it. Men with repeating rifles will guard the mine and the breaker. To be clear, I have no quarrel with the honest, hardworking men of my company. The rights and interests of the laboring man will be protected and cared for, not by the labor agitators, but by the Christian men to whom God in His infinite wisdom has given control of these mines. It’s my duty to protect the man who wants to work, to protect his wife and children. A coal famine is an ugly thing, and every man here well knows the disaster and the terrible suffering if the mines shut down.”
The crowd of men and boys had been growing agitated through all this, and now Mr. Flint’s last arrogant comment brought angry cries.
“We don’t need a leader!” a miner shouted. “We’ll strike without one!” The miners around him roared in support, throwing their fists into the air.
“And we won’t go back to work until you give us what we want!” another man shouted.
Several of the miners from the other group shouted too, but Emma couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then one of the would-be strikers made it past a policeman and attacked another miner. A fistfight broke out. The line of police on the other side of the tracks rushed forward to break it up. Mr. Flint said something to Levi and Frank. Levi stepped back, and Frank took his pistol from its holster, raised his arm, and fired two shots in the air. In fits and starts, the men stopped fighting as the police dragged them apart and shoved them farther away from one another.
“I’ve said my piece!” Mr. Flint shouted. “Now you’ve all been warned! And in case you haven’t heard about the situation down in Virginia, thirty thousand miners and their families are out of their homes and living in tents, with no money to feed their hungry families. All because of agitators and criminals like the ones who’ve been stirring up trouble in Coal River. It’s a war zone down there, and people are dying! Nobody wants that here. Now go on home to your families and think about that. I expect, come tomorrow morning, you’ll all do the right thing. If not, I’ll be lowering your wages no matter which side you’re on.”
That final threat brought more yells and curses. The police lifted their rifles and pointed them into the crowd. Eventually the miners settled down and backed away. The crowd slowly dispersed. Aunt Ida snapped the reins and turned the wagon toward home, as if anxious to leave before Uncle Otis spotted them.
Emma gripped the edge of the wagon seat and tried to breath normally, thinking about Clayton in jail. Did he assume they were going to let him go again, or did he know they meant to hang him? If they let him go, would he give up, or did he still think he could get the better of Hazard Flint? And what had she been thinking? What gave her the idea that she could ever stand up to that kind of power? Maybe she should leave. If they were going to hang Clayton, she didn’t want to know about it. Her already shattered heart couldn’t bear it. Maybe she could steal enough money from Percy’s dresser to buy a train ticket out of Coal River. Maybe she could get away and stop thinking about the breaker boys. She could stop thinking about Jack and Sawyer and Pearl and Francesca’s dead sons. Stop thinking about Clayton and Albert. Put them all in a room inside her head, lock the door, and throw away the key. She wanted to believe it was possible. With all her heart. But she wasn’t good at telling herself lies.
The wagon rounded a bend and merged onto the main road that led up to the miners’ village in one direction and down the hill toward town in the other. A group of miners and breaker boys moved off the road to let them pass, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Several looked up at Ida and Emma. A few glared at them with contempt—the privileged women in the wagon who lived lavish lives because of their hard work. Amongst those who stopped was a breaker boy on crutches, his pant leg empty. It was Michael. Again. Staring at Emma with haunted eyes. Begging eyes. Emma searched his pale face, hoping for answers. It held her rapt. Staring into those eyes she knew only one thing: There was no getting away from Coal River.
CHAPTER 18
At half past midnight, in the shadow-filled kitchen of his shanty, Clayton was sitting on a wooden stool holding a basin full of blood-tinted water. Emma rinsed a rag in the basin and dabbed clotted blood from his hairline, careful to avoid the open gash in his forehead. Weak lantern light flickered along the shelves, glinting off mason jars and battered cooking utensils. She pressed too hard and he flinched.
“You need stitches,” she said.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “It will heal on its own.”
She rinsed the rag again and examined the rest of his face. Along with the gash on his forehead, his upper lip was split in two places, and one eye was swelled shut, the surrounding skin colored black and purple. Earlier, she’d snuck up to check on the orphans and was shocked to find him there. “Why did they let you go?”
“I said I’d call off the strike,” he said.
She wiped a smear of dried blood from his temple. “I thought you weren’t striking yet?”
“We’re not,” he said. “But they don’t know that. Like I said before, we need to keep them guessing while I get a few other things in place. That’s why I told you to play along with Mr. Flint. I just never thought he would move that fast.”
Emma stopped wiping. “I haven’t told Mr. Flint anything. I thought he had you arrested because of the coffin notices you put on his door.”
He looked at her, confusion furrowing his brow. “We didn’t put coffin notices on anyone’s door. That’s not how I operate.”
“Well, somebody did. This morning there were three notices on Uncle Otis’s door, warning him to leave town or he was a dead man. There were notices on Mr. Flint’s door too.”
“Shit,” Clayton said. Alarmed, he stood. “We didn’t have anything to do with that. Someone else must be stirring up trouble.” He took the rag from her and put it in the basin. “You better leave. I don’t want you to get caught up in this.”
Outside, a dog started barking. Clayton set the basin on the floor and went to a side window. He stood stock-still, listening, then rushed toward the front of the house. She picked up the lantern and followed.
“Blow that out!” Clayton said. He pulled the front curtains closed and moved to one side, peering out between the drapes. In the distance, galloping horses thundered along the slag road, drawing closer and closer.
Emma blew out the lantern and set it on the table, standing motionless and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Moonlight seeped in through the faded ruby curtains, giving the air a strange, reddish glow. She strained to make out Clayton on the other side of the room, a dark, motionless shape next to the window. Outside, a horse whinnied, and a cacophony of hoofbeats rumbled past, pounding along the dirt path like a stampede. Then the horses slowed and stopped.
On the davenport, the youngest girl, Violet, stirred and started crying. Emma felt her way over to the couch and took the warm, sleepy child in her arms.
“Shhh,” she whispered, rubbing Violet’s thin back. “Go back to sleep.”
Noises came from outside the shanty next door—horses snorting, saddles creaking, boots hitting th
e ground. Footsteps ran up wooden steps, a door splintered, and furniture crashed into walls. A woman screamed and children started crying. Two gunshots rang out. A child shrieked. Emma gasped and hugged Violet to her chest. Then footsteps pounded across the neighbor’s porch and down the steps. Reins cracked, male voices urged horses forward, and a stampede of hoofbeats galloped away.
“Stay here and take care of the children!” Clayton hissed over his shoulder. Before she could protest, he opened the front door and slipped out.
Emma didn’t know what to do. Violet was still upset, so she rocked the child back and forth to calm her while she gathered her own racing thoughts. What if Clayton didn’t return? What if the men came back and broke into this house? When Violet finally grew quiet, Emma laid her down, tiptoed to the window, and drew back the edge of one curtain. Across the way, a gang of men on horseback dismounted in front of a two-story shack. Some of the men wore gunnysacks with dark eyeholes; others wore bandannas over their noses and mouths. The men drew pistols, broke down the door, and rushed into the house. A woman screamed, and three gunshots pierced the air. Emma let go of the curtain and leaned against the wall, her knees shaking to the point of near collapse.
“Clayton?” one of the children called out. It was Sawyer. He sat up in his bed.
Emma went over to the couch and scooped Violet into her arms. “Sawyer,” she said as loudly as she dared. “Help me get everyone up. We’ve got to get out of here!”
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Just do as I say!” Emma shook the other orphans awake, and Violet started whimpering again. Emma patted her back. “Get up but be quiet,” she told the children. “Go into the storage room and wait for me!”
“I can’t see,” Edith said.
“Hang on to each other’s hands,” Emma said. “Sawyer will lead the way.”
The children did as they were told, and Emma followed, Violet in her arms. In the storage room, grainy moonlight filtered in through a small window near the ceiling, illuminating the pale faces of the orphans but leaving the rest of the room in inky shadows. The children stood with their bare toes curling on the roughhewn floor, looking up at Emma with sleepy, confused eyes. She grabbed the handle to the back entrance, her heart booming in her chest.
“What’s outside this door?” she asked Sawyer.
“Our backyard,” he said. “And our backdoor neighbor’s backyard.”
“And Henny and Gus,” Sadie whispered.
“Henny and Gus?” Emma said.
“Our chicken and mule,” Sawyer said. “The stable boss was going to shoot Gus on account of he was sick, but Clayton brought him home. The stable boss thinks Gus got out and ran away. We’re not supposed to tell anyone he’s back there!”
“Is the backyard fenced in?” Emma said.
“Yeah, but there’s a gate,” Sawyer said. “Why? Are we leaving?”
“Just trust me, all right?” Emma directed her attention to the rest of the children, trying to keep her voice steady. “We’re going to play a game of follow the leader. Sawyer is going out this door, and you’re going to follow him, single file. But we can’t make any noise, so you have to be really, really quiet. I’ll come out last and close the door behind me.”
Just then, the front entrance to the shanty opened and closed. Emma yanked open the back door and motioned the orphans outside. Sawyer went first and Jack followed.
“Emma?” Clayton called from inside the house.
“Wait!” she said. She gestured the confused children back up the steps and into the storage room again. “Stay right here!” With Violet on her hip, she hurried toward the kitchen. Clayton appeared in the doorway, breathing hard, with two young girls at his side. The girls’ eyes were puffy and bloodshot, their cheeks wet with tears. Emma drew in a sharp breath. Drops of blood splattered their thin nightgowns and bare feet.
“My God!” she said. “What happened?”
Clayton herded the girls into the storage room. “Everyone, stay here until I tell you to come out. I’ll be right back!”
“Where are you going?” Emma said louder than she intended.
“Just stay here and be quiet!” he said. Before Emma could protest, he turned and left again.
In the storage room, Emma put Violet down and coaxed everyone to sit on the floor. Then she sat too, pulling Violet into her lap, and tried to think of a way to keep the children still. The girls in the bloody nightgowns moved closer to her, sniffing and whimpering. The younger one clutched the older one’s arm with both hands, her pinched face crumpled against her sister’s blood-spotted sleeve.
Emma stroked the older girl’s hand in a gentle, calming rhythm. “Everyone, be really quiet, and I’ll sing a song for you,” she whispered. “Clayton will be back before you know it.”
“But we’re not supposed to make any noise,” Jack said.
“I’ll sing very softly,” Emma said. “I promise.”
“Do you know ‘Oh My Darling, Clementine’?” Sadie said.
“Yes,” Emma said. Then she started singing, her voice just above a whisper, one hand petting Violet’s head, the other stroking the older girl’s hand. The children settled down, their frightened eyes locked on her face. When Emma finished the third round of the final verse, she heard men shouting outside. She stopped singing and told the children to stay silent. A few minutes later, the front door opened and closed. Emma put a finger to her lips, reminding the children not to make a sound. Then Clayton appeared in the hallway outside the storage room.
“They’re gone,” he said. “I saw them riding back down the hill into town. Emma, come with me.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Emma handed Violet to Sawyer. She stood and told the children to stay put.
“Don’t leave us,” the younger girl in a bloody nightgown cried. “It’s too dark!”
“Hold on,” Clayton said.
Emma stayed while Clayton disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a candle in a pewter holder. He lit the wick and set it on the floor in the short hallway between the kitchen and storage room. The flickering flame cast a yellow glow over the cluster of young anxious faces in the doorway.
“Is that better?” Clayton asked.
The girl nodded, pressing her lips together and trying not to cry.
Emma followed Clayton into the kitchen, where they moved to the far side of the room so the children couldn’t hear. She could barely see his face, his familiar features obscured by shadows. The candlelit doorway flickered in his somber eyes.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Hazard Flint’s henchmen shot the people next door.”
She gasped. “The girls’ parents?”
He nodded. “There was nothing I could do.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To prove Hazard Flint can get rid of us if we mess with him. And I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling those murdering bastards went to the wrong house.”
“What do you mean?”
“Either those bullets were meant for me, or they went to the wrong place on purpose to scare the miners and turn them against me.”
She twisted a handful of her skirt in one fist, trying to stay calm. “They shot someone else across the way.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do if they come back?”
He shrugged. “I’ll stay and fight.”
In the storage room, one of the newly orphaned girls began to sob, her wails like a siren in the close-walled shanty. Emma started down the hall to comfort her.
“Find those two something else to wear,” Clayton called after her. “My wife’s old clothes are in the bottom of the dresser in my room. I’ll put the water on so you can get them cleaned up.”
She stopped and looked him. “Are you going somewhere?”
“I’ve got to go get everyone settled down. They’re all riled up. Can you stay for a while?”
She nodded and went to take care of the orphans.
CHAPTER 19
Two 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.
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