Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “What the hell happened?” Mr. Flint shouted.

  “Damn if I know!” Uncle Otis said. “Near as I can tell, it was in shaft number six.”

  “The new one?” Mr. Flint said.

  Uncle Otis nodded.

  “Did everyone get out?” Levi said. While his father and Otis looked angry, Levi’s face was filled with worry and dread.

  Uncle Otis shook his head.

  “Are the mules safe?” Mr. Flint asked him.

  “Half of them were already in the mine,” Uncle Otis said. “So I’m not sure.”

  “Damn it all to hell!” Mr. Flint said. His jowls trembled with fury.

  The top half of the breaker was on fire now, and the roof was starting to collapse.

  “You, there,” Levi yelled to a group of miners. He pointed at the breaker. “Get over there and put that fire out! Form a bucket brigade at the pumping station!”

  “Get the coal car and engines away from it first!” Mr. Flint said. Several of the men followed Mr. Flint’s orders while the rest went over to the pumping station to get buckets.

  “They need to put the fire out first,” Levi said. “There are still boys inside!”

  “We can rebuild the breaker,” Mr. Flint said.

  From the direction of the miners’ village, groups of women came running up the road, their long skirts bunched in their fists, their faces contorted with terror. They ran as fast as they could, as if being chased by a monstrous beast. Some held toddlers or babies in their arms, while others ran ahead of crying children. One woman was in nothing but a nightgown and bare feet. Several others still had dishcloths hanging over their shoulders, or flour on their faces and hands.

  Within seconds, a crowd of frantic miners’ wives surrounded Otis, Mr. Flint, and Levi, clamoring with questions about the fate of their men. They gathered in swarms, crying hysterically and asking about their husbands and sons in English, Polish, German, and Italian. When Uncle Otis shook his head and shooed them away, they moaned in anguish or screamed. Some stood rigid and stared at the smoking pit, while others covered their eyes and sank to their knees, sobbing and praying. Frank herded the women away from Mr. Flint, beating them back with his truncheon at times.

  Unlike the other men, Levi seemed to understand the women’s anguish. “I’m sorry,” he said over and over, trying to comfort them. “I’m so sorry. We’ll do everything we can to save your husbands and sons.”

  “Go home!” Mr. Flint shouted. “There’s nothing you can do! There’s nothing anybody can do! Now go away!”

  “There’s something I can do!” someone shouted above the fray.

  All of a sudden, Nally appeared in the midst of the women, a pistol in his hand. A woman screamed, and the rest retreated. Everyone’s eyes went wide, and they moved out of the way. In what seemed like slow motion, Nally cocked the hammer and pointed the gun at Mr. Flint.

  “Now ye’ll die, ye son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  Unable to move fast, Mr. Flint turned and tried to run, ducking behind his son and Uncle Otis. Nally pulled the trigger, and the bullet hit Levi instead. It entered his chest, kicking him off his feet and spraying blood over the left side of his face. Levi collapsed backward, head down and arms thrust out, and hit the dirt hard. The women screamed. Emma recoiled in shock, her hands over her open mouth. Mr. Flint rushed to his son’s side, his face ravaged with horror. He fell to his knees and took Levi’s head in his hands, shouting his name over and over. One of the foremen and Uncle Otis tried pulling Mr. Flint to his feet to get him away from Nally, but Mr. Flint refused, thrashing like a trapped animal to free himself from their grasp.

  The rest of the miners moved farther away, except a few who looked like they were either going to jump Nally or try to reason with him. Nally stood in place, seemingly stunned by the violence, as if he couldn’t believe he had pulled the trigger. He looked uncertain of what to do next. Then, in the next instant, he seemed to regain his senses. He fired again, shooting Mr. Flint in the upper arm. Mr. Flint fell sideways, kicking up a cloud of black dust. As if suddenly hypnotized by the power of bullets, Nally shot one of the foremen in the head. Then he aimed the gun at Uncle Otis. Behind him, Frank drew his pistol and pointed it at Nally.

  “Drop your weapon!” Frank shouted.

  Nally spun around and aimed his pistol at Frank.

  Emma shoved her way through the retreating crowd, her heart hammering in her chest. She broke into the clearing and stepped between Nally and Frank, facing Nally. “What are you doing?” she cried. “Put that gun away!”

  “Move, Emma,” Nally said. “This isn’t yer fight.”

  She shook her head. “No!” she said. “This wasn’t part of the plan! You’re not shooting anyone else!”

  “Guess I’ll just have to shoot around ye then,” Nally said. He closed one eye and pulled the trigger.

  A bullet ripped through Emma’s bicep like a hot poker through butter. At first it felt like she had been hit hard with a board. Then her arm started to burn, as if someone had set her muscle on fire. She crumpled to her knees and grabbed the wound, her hand filling with sticky blood. Two more shots rang out in quick succession, and she cringed, waiting to feel a bullet shatter her skull. When nothing happened, she looked up. Nally was on the ground, his lips slack, his stomach bleeding. She turned to look at Frank, who stood with his gun still aimed at Nally, the barrel smoking. A few feet behind Frank, Clayton lay on his back, his eyes closed, blood trickling out of his mouth. Emma cried out and crawled over to Clayton, the slag stabbing her knees and hands, her body vibrating. A black, jagged hole darkened his jacket just below his collarbone, and blood oozed from its center. Emma put a trembling hand on Clayton’s face. He felt cold and clammy. She put an ear to his chest, holding her breath to hear a heartbeat. The only thing she could hear was Hazard Flint, howling in agony.

  She shook Clayton by the shoulders. “Say something!” she screamed. “Please, Clayton! Say something!”

  He didn’t respond.

  “We need a doctor!” she shouted, a sob bursting from her throat. “Please, somebody help!”

  All around her, more members of the Coal and Iron Police appeared, trying to get the crowd under control. One held a gun on Nally, who was lying motionless on the ground, while two others knelt over Mr. Flint and Levi. Frank moved toward Emma, aiming his pistol at her with both hands, his face twisted in anger and confusion.

  “What the hell is going on, Emma?” he said.

  “I don’t know!” she said.

  “You were in cahoots with Clayton and Nally!”

  “No,” she said. “That’s not what—”

  “I told you Clayton was trouble!”

  “Clayton? Nally just shot him!” She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I have no idea what just happened, but it’s my fault, not Clayton’s. We didn’t know Nally was going to shoot anyone!” All of sudden she felt dizzy and weak. She swayed and closed her eyes.

  “Arrest her!” Frank shouted.

  Two policemen hurried over, yanked Emma up, and handcuffed her wrists behind her back. A jolt of pain shot up her shoulder and into her chest, like someone was ripping off her arm.

  “I just took a bullet for you,” she said to Frank. “And now you’re going to arrest me?” Then she felt herself falling. And the world went black.

  CHAPTER 27

  Beneath a coal black sky, Emma stood on a frozen river surrounded by a circle of boys—Albert, Michael, Nicolas and his twin brothers, and Pearl’s son, Tanner. For reasons she didn’t understand, they were shouting at her, telling her to run. Then a shot rang out and the boys broke through the ice, screaming her name. She fell to her knees and spun around, reaching for them, but it was too late. One by one, they disappeared beneath the dark water. The only thing that remained was one of Michael’s small crutches, splintered and lying at her feet. She was alone. All around her, the ice thumped and groaned, echoing like the bottomless moans of a subterranean creature. She put her
face in her hands and wept. Then she heard Clayton calling her name. She looked up and saw him on a train trestle, high above her head. Then the ice cracked and splintered beneath her, and she dropped into the icy river.

  Emma jumped, jerking herself awake. Slowly, she became aware of two things: a stabbing ache in her upper arm, and the acidic stench of old urine. Then she realized she was shivering, despite the fact that she was fully dressed. She was lying on something hard, on top of what felt like a scratchy blanket, and her chest felt heavy. Her head felt full of molasses. She blinked and opened her eyes. The high, curved ceiling above her was the color of stone, pockmarked and river gray. She looked down and saw she was wearing dirty trousers, boots, and a shirt with one sleeve ripped off. A cluster of flies buzzed around a cloth bandage on her arm, gathering at the dark smudges of blood seeping through the white material. Wincing, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of a metal cot. Then she started to cough, a dry, burning bark, deep in her chest. At first she couldn’t catch her breath, and she wondered if her lungs were full of water. Maybe she had nearly drowned. But that didn’t explain the wound on her arm, or the black, sooty stains on her hands. When she could finally inhale without coughing, she looked around, trying to remember where she was and what happened.

  The room was about the size of a root cellar, with stone walls and a plank floor stained black by mold. Thin sunlight filtered in through two tiny, recessed windows several feet above her head, just below the arch of the ceiling. The only exit was a narrow door covered with thick iron mesh. Then it all came back to her, and she knew where she was. She was in a cell inside the stone jailhouse, and there had been an explosion at the mine. Then Nally started shooting people.

  A rush of panic ignited her chest. Clayton. Emma stood too fast, nearly fell, and sat back down. She gripped the edge of the cot and took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Then she put a hand to her waist, feeling for the pocket camera. It was gone. When she thought she could trust herself to stand, she staggered over to the door and hooked her fingers through the mesh. Just outside the door, thick stone walls blocked her line of vision, making it impossible to look left or right. The only thing she could see was another cell across a wide hall.

  “Is there anyone out there?” she called. She rattled the iron mesh. “Please! You have to let me out of here!” Her voice was raspy and hoarse, and her wounded arm began to throb in time with her rapid pulse.

  “Sorry, lass,” a voice said from somewhere nearby, echoing in the stone building. “No one is going to listen to ye.”

  “Nally?” she said. “What the hell did you do? And where is Clayton? Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Why did you shoot him?” she cried.

  “Sorry. I was aiming for Frank.”

  Her legs went weak, and the floor rolled beneath her. She leaned against the door, waiting for the dizziness to pass. If Clayton was dead because she had insisted on going inside the mine, she’d never forgive herself. The orphans’ faces flashed in her mind: Sawyer, Jack, Sadie, Violet, and Edith. Would she be responsible for destroying their lives too? She swallowed the burning lump in her throat and tried to find her voice.

  “Why did you have a gun?” she said. “Shooting people wasn’t part of the plan!”

  “Ye won’t get anywhere in Coal River with strikes and taking pictures,” Nally said. “The only thing a man like Hazard Flint understands is violence.”

  “Well, we won’t get anywhere from in here!” she said, her words rattled by fury.

  Nally didn’t reply.

  She kicked the wall, anger and frustration and fear churning in her mind. She had to get out of there, had to find out if Clayton was dead or alive. And she had to find the camera. She rattled the door again.

  “Hello?” she shouted. “Is anyone out there?” Then she had another thought and froze, afraid to ask Nally what he knew. “What’s happening at the mine? Did everyone get out?”

  “I don’t know,” Nally said. “It’s not likely.”

  She clutched the mesh with her fingers, pressing her forehead against the cold iron. “Damn it all!”

  It wasn’t enough to take pictures of the breaker boys; she had to insist on getting pictures of the nippers and spraggers too. Not to mention she had trusted Nally, a man she barely knew. The cave-in wasn’t her fault, but she and Nally were the ones who had brought in the torches that started the fire. For the second time in her life, someone might be dead because she’d felt the need to make things right. It had been her decision to chase Percy and his friends down to the river the day Albert drowned, and it had been her decision to go inside the mine. Who did she think she was anyway? She blinked back tears, hating herself for messing up everything. “Do you know where the camera is?”

  “Frank took it.”

  She groaned and hung her head. How would she ever get the camera back now? And what if Frank had the film developed, or worse, destroyed it? Somewhere on the block, a heavy door creaked open on rusty hinges, then slammed, echoing like a shot in the stone hall. Footsteps banged along the floor. Keys jangled. Frank came into view and stopped in front of her cell.

  “Frank!” she cried. “Where’s Clayton? Is he all right?”

  Frank jerked his chin to one side, indicating the next cell over. “They patched him up as best they could,” he said. “Which don’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense to me since he’ll be hanging from a noose by the end of the week.”

  Ice-cold terror seized Emma’s heart. “What are you talking about?”

  “Clayton has been charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “But he didn’t have anything to do with that!” she said. “He was shot too, for Christ’s sake!”

  “That bullet was meant for me, and you know it,” Frank said

  “ ’Tis true,” Nally said. “I’m a lousy shot.”

  “We didn’t know Nally had a gun!” Emma said.

  “I only fired in self-defense,” Nally said.

  “Shut your pie hole, you Irish thug!” Frank barked. He raised his arm, signaling someone for help. “Move this prisoner to the other end of the block!”

  From somewhere above, footsteps marched along a stone floor and rattled down iron steps. Frank pulled a key from a metal ring on his belt and disappeared from Emma’s view. The door to Nally’s cell screeched open, and the corridor filled with the sounds of men wrestling—heavy breathing, grunting, the smack of fists meeting muscle and bone. For a hopeful second she thought Nally had managed to overpower the police and would appear at her door, panting and disheveled, to let her out. Yes, he was a criminal, and he had shot Clayton, but unless she got out of this cell, she couldn’t help anyone. Then a policeman appeared, gripping Nally by the arm, his mouth knotted in anger. Nally’s face was bruised and bloody, his hands cuffed behind him. The policeman dragged him away. Frank reappeared in front of her cell. He put his hat back on, straightened his jacket, and watched Nally being taken across the block.

  “Whatever happens, Emma,” Nally shouted, “don’t forget, they’re wrong and we’re right!”

  Frank glared at her.

  Emma shook her head. “No, he doesn’t mean—”

  “Save it for the trial,” Frank said, and started to walk away.

  She rattled the door. “Wait!”

  He came back and crossed his arms over his chest, his brows knitted.

  “Please, just tell me,” she said. “What happened at the mine? Was anyone killed?”

  “Over forty men and boys are missing. And they’re still trying to put the fire out. Won’t know anything until they can do that.”

  “Oh no,” she said, her eyes filling. “What about the breaker boys? Are they all safe?”

  “As far as we know. Yes.”

  “Do you think the men and boys inside the mine are all right?”

  “No one knows how many were killed by the explosion, or how many were trapped behind the cave-in. If any were tr
apped, they’ve probably suffocated in the afterdamp by now. More than likely, a good number will be going home in the Black Maria.”

  “Oh my God.” Emma put a hand over her mouth and sagged to the floor, leaning against the stone doorframe.

  “What were you doing in the mine, Emma?” Frank said. His voice was hard. He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer. “And why were you with Nally? Did he and Clayton talk you into something? Did they make you cut your hair?”

  She swallowed and looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. “I . . .” she said. Then she hesitated, her shoulders dropping. Was it possible that Clayton had known all along what Nally was going to do? It was one thing to plan secret meetings and fight for the rights of miners; it was quite another to commit murder. Then she shook her head to clear it. No. Clayton wasn’t like that. He was working toward peaceful opposition. It was her idea to go inside the breaker and the mine, not his. She’d practically had to beg him to let her be Nally’s butty. Then, when Nally came face-to-face with Mr. Flint, he took the opportunity to carry out his own plan. Maybe Nally thought he’d get away with it during the chaos.

  Emma pulled herself to her feet and locked eyes with Frank. “I wasn’t with Nally. I went into the mine on my own.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? They’re ready to hang all three of you.”

  The blood drained from her face, and her stomach turned over. “Why?”

  “They said you caused the explosion. And you brought Nally to Coal River to shoot Mr. Flint and the others.”

  “That’s not true!” she said. “There was a cave-in, and the torches started a fire. After that I—”

  “Levi Flint is dead!” Frank said. “One of the foremen too!”

  Emma’s heart turned to lead. Why Levi and not his father? Levi would have changed things if given the chance. He was the one who wanted to replace old equipment because it was a danger to the miners. He was the one who worried about the boys inside the burning breaker. The only thing Mr. Flint worried about was money.