Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  She prayed for exhaustion to overtake her, to release her into sleep. But it was no use.

  Over the next few days, the pounding of hammers and the scraping of saws filled the stone jailhouse. Carpenters walked back and forth in front of Emma’s cell, carrying timber, tools, rope, and carriage bolts. They laughed and joked, milling about during dinner breaks, asking the guards if they’d be allowed to witness the executions. Frank stopped outside her cell door to tell her the carpenters were building a gallows in the center of the block, and to give her updates about the mine. Every day, she sat on her cot and leaned against the wall, hugging her knees and alternating between crushing sorrow, pulse-pounding fury, and panic. Every so often the wound on her arm started bleeding again, but any pain was eclipsed by terror.

  The news from the mine was horrific. Seventeen men and boys were still missing. Rescuers had found two dead mules in the shaft, and the overwhelming presence of lethal levels of black damp left little hope for any trapped miners. A fan powered by a steam donkey engine arrived a few hours after the accident to ventilate the tunnels, and they had sent a canvas hose into the mouth of the mine to pump down air and establish fresh air bases. But by late afternoon the day after the explosion, rescue crews had only succeeded in advancing seventy-five feet down the gangway, despite the ventilation. They found the ventilation furnace and an adjacent pile of coal blazing, which stalled efforts to circulate air deeper into the mine. Since debris in the shaft had blocked normal ventilation, black damp continued to be produced at lethal levels. Water piped from the surface finally extinguished the fire and, eventually, with the help of downcast fan ventilation, successive fresh air bases were established. By four a.m. the next day, workers were able to move down the shaft, several hundred feet inward. There, the first two victims were discovered, their bodies bloated, blood oozing from their mouths. It was the inside foreman and a young mule driver.

  By the fourth day, rescuers arrived at the east gangway, a crosscut off the passageway where the cave-in occurred. A hundred feet in, they encountered a makeshift barrier of coal, rock, scrap wood, mud, and canvas. The trapped miners had apparently constructed the barrier in an attempt to stop the infiltration of black damp. But when the rescuers pierced the barrier, they found the bodies of nine men and boys who appeared to be asleep. A father was found embracing his son, some men held hands in prayer, and others leaned against gangway walls. Some seemed to have struggled for a final breath, their faces buried in the coal dust of the floor or wrapped in shirts, their eyeballs protruding, blood dried around their mouths and noses. There was little hope that the remaining six missing miners would be found alive.

  With every report, Emma wished she had died in the mine. All those miners, all those boys, dead, in part because of her. Maybe she deserved to be hanged.

  When the carpenters finished building the gallows, guards set up chairs in the cellblock, lining them across the floor in straight rows. Watching through her cell door, Emma struggled against the writhing coil of panic that threatened to cut off her air. What about the trial? Frank would have told her if all three of them were going straight to the gallows, wouldn’t he? And if there wasn’t going to be a trial, who were they going to hang first? Nally? Or Clayton, before he died from his wounds? After all, he was the connection between her and Nally. Maybe they blamed him for everything. Or maybe they were going to hang her first because she had snuck into the mine, and obviously had something to hide. She went back to her cot and waited, trying not to be sick.

  Three hours later, the jailhouse was filled to standing-room only with men in suits, women dressed in their Sunday best, and the entire regiment of the Coal and Iron Police in full uniform. They talked and chattered and gossiped in rising and falling waves, filling the stone space with an electric current of tense expectation, nervous excitement, and a droning murmur, like a million bees buzzing inside a giant hive. Emma watched from her cell door, trembling in the grip of impending doom.

  Then Frank appeared in front of her cell, unlocked the door, and ordered her to step out. She did as she was told, every beat of her heart like an explosion beneath her rib cage. She was shocked to see Nally already on the gallows platform, high above the cellblock floor. They’d cuffed his hands behind his back and tied his feet together. His brow was bloody and bruised, his lip split, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Two Coal and Iron Police stood beside him looking out over the crowd, their faces void of emotion. Armed guards stood on either side of the scaffold.

  Two other guards dragged Clayton up the aisle toward the front row. His skin was gray, his face pinched in pain. He was wearing a shirt, but it was only buttoned at the collar, and the left sleeve was empty. His arm was bandaged tight to his body beneath the shirt, and his chest was wrapped in white cloth. He looked like he was struggling to stay awake. Emma’s bowels turned to water and she gasped for air, fighting the flood of terror rising in her throat. They’re going to hang us all!

  Frank handcuffed her and led her toward the gallows. She stumbled beside him on rubbery legs.

  “What about the trial?” she cried.

  “They held a quick trial this morning,” he said. “This is what Mr. Flint would have wanted.”

  “What do you mean, what he would have wanted? Where is he?” Emma scanned the crowd for Mr. Flint but didn’t see him.

  “Mr. Flint is unwell right now. The Coal and Iron Police, the mine supervisors, and the foremen made the final decision in his place.”

  “But you can’t let them do this! You can’t just . . .” Emma gagged on her words, unable to continue.

  “Be quiet,” Frank said, his voice hard.

  Above her, spectators filled the second-floor walkway, looking down with curious eyes. This can’t be happening, she thought. Maybe I’m having a nightmare. Maybe I’m asleep. She tried to think of something she could do, some action she could still take to save them. But she couldn’t think of anything. Frank pushed her into a wooden chair at the end of the first row and stood beside her, his face set, his arms behind his back. The other guards put Clayton in a seat on the other end of the row, propping him against the backrest as if he were a rag doll. Clayton’s head kept dropping to his chest. A guard stood beside him, nudging him to stay upright.

  The wooden gallows soared above the floor at the end of the cellblock. Two front beams of the scaffold formed a cross that faced the audience, and thick wooden stairs led up to the platform. Above it, three beams formed the hanging frame that reached above the second level of the jail, like a swing set built for giants. A thick brown rope hung from the horizontal crossbeam. At the end of the rope was a noose.

  Emma felt like she was going mad. Who are they going to hang after Nally? she thought. Clayton? Me? The crowd murmured and pointed at the gallows. At Clayton. At Emma.

  She looked up at Frank. “Clayton and I didn’t do anything,” she said, her teeth chattering.

  Frank ignored her.

  Standing in front of the gallows, a gray-bearded policeman read from an official-looking book, but Emma heard only phrases: “Guilty of murder in the first degree . . . inciting rebellion . . . fearful deeds . . . criminal organization . . . death by hanging.” When the man finished reading, one of the policemen on the platform put a black hood over Nally’s head, covering his face. A second policeman put the noose around Nally’s neck and pulled it tight below his left ear. They both stepped back and put their hands on a thick lever coming out of the floor.

  Emma got to her feet, ready to run, or yell in protest, but Frank pushed her back down. “I said, be quiet,” he hissed.

  The crowd grew silent. The gray-bearded policeman turned and gave a nod. The policemen on the platform pulled the lever and the trapdoor beneath Nally’s feet dropped open. Nally fell through. The trapdoor swung back on its hinges and hit him in the head, knocking him sideways. The hood over his head darkened with blood. Nally jerked to a halt at the end of the rope and immediately started flailing. Blood gushed from beneath th
e hood along his neck and torso, running down his trousers in red rivers and dripping onto the floor. He wheezed and whistled, trying to get air. Emma closed her eyes and dropped her chin, bile rising in the back of her throat. Women gasped. There was a heavy thump on the other side of the room, as if someone had fainted. Wood and rope creaked in protest against the heavy weight of Nally’s writhing body until, little by little, the only sounds were women softly crying and sniffing.

  Emma looked up, tears burning her eyes. Nally hung limp at the end of the noose, his blood-covered boots just inches from the stone floor. Frank put a hand beneath Emma’s arm and pulled her to her feet. She struggled to tear herself from his grasp, unwilling to go to her death without a fight.

  “We didn’t know he had a gun!” she cried. “Clayton and I don’t deserve to die!”

  Everyone looked at her and started talking at once. Men pointed and women turned to one another, putting gloved hands over their open mouths. Frank tightened his grip on Emma’s arm, yanking her closer.

  “Shut up,” he said. “You’re just here to bear witness.”

  Overcome with relief, Emma sagged halfway to the floor, every muscle and bone going loose. If it weren’t for Frank holding her up, she would have fallen. Her vision began to close in and, for a second, she thought she was going to pass out. For the last few days she hadn’t cared if she lived or died, would have almost welcomed her demise to ease her guilty mind. But then, when faced with the hangman’s noose, she fought against death with everything she had. Either she was coward, or she had an incredible will to live. Which one, she wasn’t sure.

  Frank pulled her upright and held her there, and the room swam back into focus. The crowd was beginning to disperse. The guards had pulled Clayton out of his seat and were dragging him out of the room. Emma watched him go, wondering helplessly if the next execution would be his.

  CHAPTER 29

  The exterior of the Carbon County Courthouse looked more like a castle or a church, with turrets, four-story walls built from sandstone quarried in the northern part of the county, and a corner bell tower with a four-sided clock surrounded by an ornamental iron frame. After Nally’s hanging, a dozen journalists had descended on Coal River to cover the mining accident and the shootings. Now they waited with the townspeople on the court steps, anxious to hear the results of the trial. Inside the courthouse, imported Minton tiles graced the imposing hallways, and oak wainscoting lined the courtroom walls. Gas chandeliers provided lighting, and a stained-glass portrait of the Goddess of Justice looked down from the vaulted ceiling.

  Emma sat in the witness box in the main courtroom, her hands clasped in her lap while she waited for the prosecution to ask the next question. Her defense attorney, Jacques Bonnet, a thin, gray-haired man with liver-spotted hands, watched from a narrow table in front of the audience. Since the mining accident nine days ago, a jury had been assembled of mostly Welsh and German miners who barely spoke English and didn’t get along with their native-born American and Irish neighbors. The judge, who happened to be an old family friend of Hazard Flint’s, had come in from Scranton. Now he sat hunched over the bench like an aged mountain man, heavy bags under his eyes, his long, white sideburns hanging past his double chin. He had allowed only two reporters inside the courtroom, and they sat in the front row, taking notes and making sketches.

  Next to the defense attorney, Clayton watched with his arm in a sling, his face the color of ash. His eyes were bleary and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to put his head on the table and go to sleep. On her way to the witness stand earlier, Emma had walked behind him. She brushed her fingers along the back of his shoulders, and felt the heat of fever burning through his shirt. She couldn’t believe they were making him stand trial. Clearly, he was unwell and in pain. Then again, why would they care? They only meant to hang him anyway.

  In the second row, Uncle Otis sat next to Aunt Ida, his expressionless gaze locked on the judge and jury, as if refusing to acknowledge Emma’s existence with so much as a glance. Aunt Ida fidgeted in her seat, fingering her brooch and chewing on her lip. Every now and then, she glanced down the row of spectators and scanned the audience behind her, no doubt worried what people were going to think. Beside her, Percy sat with a worried look on his face.

  With shaking fingers, Emma combed her short bangs away from her forehead, trying to ignore the burning stares of the dead foreman’s widow and a good number of miners and their families. She imagined Sawyer, Jack, Edith, Sadie, and Violet were somewhere in the crowd, but she couldn’t bring herself to search for their small, heartbroken faces. Her body felt limp as a dishrag, the sharp claws of guilt tearing at her insides. Not only were the orphans possibly on the verge of losing Clayton, but six miners were still missing.

  According to Frank, Mr. Flint had collapsed in his driveway the day after he attacked Emma in the jailhouse, and he had been confined to bed ever since. The doctor suspected a weak heart and a mental breakdown. Mr. Flint refused to eat or speak, but in his dreams, he cried out for Viviane and Levi. Over the last few days he had rallied somewhat, but the doctor had advised him not to attend the trial, claiming him too weak to relive the day his son was shot. But Mr. Flint had insisted on getting out of bed and being driven down to the courthouse. Now he sat in the front row, his gray hands gripping his cane as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. His face was thin, his skin the color of clotted cream. He looked like he had aged ten years. Every now and then he fixed his weary eyes on Clayton and frowned, as if trying to remember what was going on, or who he was. Then he dropped his gaze to the floor, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his forehead and cheeks.

  “On the morning of Friday, October twenty-fifth, 1912, were you aware that Nally O’Brian was carrying a firearm?” the prosecutor asked Emma.

  “No, sir,” Emma said.

  “Did you know he was a member of the Molly Maguires?”

  “Objection!” the defense attorney said. “There is no proof the Mollies exist. How would my client know if Nally was a member of a made-up, secret society?”

  “Overruled,” the judge said. “Answer the question, Miss Malloy.”

  “I’d never heard of the Molly Maguires until my uncle told me who they were,” she said. “Uncle Otis seemed to know a lot about them.” In truth, she couldn’t remember if it was Otis or Mr. Flint who told her about the Mollies. And right now, she didn’t care.

  Aunt Ida’s mouth dropped open, and she glared at Emma with withering eyes. Everyone directed their attention to Uncle Otis, who sat with his arms crossed, his face straight ahead, no change in his expression.

  “Your uncle is not the one on trial for causing an explosion at the mine, murdering Levi Flint, and conspiring to kill Hazard Flint,” the prosecutor said. He turned and strolled past the jury, his chin high, fingering the watch chain hanging from his vest.

  Emma took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Speaking of trials, Your Honor,” she said. “Did you know the Coal and Iron Police and the mine supervisors hanged Nally O’Brian without a proper hearing?”

  “Strike that last statement!” the judge bellowed. “Miss Malloy, refrain from speaking unless you’re asked a direct question by me or one of the lawyers present.”

  “But that’s not the way it’s supposed to work!” she said. “In this country—”

  The judge banged his gavel on the bench. “Miss Malloy!” he said. “You will either do as I say or be held in contempt of court! Now refrain from speaking and try to remember you’re on trial for your life!”

  She gritted her teeth. “Yes, Your Honor,” she said.

  “Miss Malloy,” the prosecutor continued, “please tell the jury where you were living before going into the mine on that fateful day.”

  “In the mining village.”

  The prosecutor turned. “Where in the mining village?” he said. “In whose house?”

  “Hazard Flint’s,” she said.

  The prosecutor furrowed his brow, looking c
onfused. “Hazard Flint’s?”

  “Hazard Flint owns all the houses in the miners’ village,” she said.

  A murmur passed through the audience. Just then, four men slipped into the courtroom and stood at the back wall. One was in a suit and tie, and the other was in a black uniform and bobby helmet. The other two wore state police uniforms. Emma had never seen any of them before. The judge noticed them too. He started to open his mouth as if to ask who they were. But the men stood quietly, and the judge said nothing.

  The prosecutor sighed and moved toward the witness box. “All right, but who was paying rent on the house you lived in, Miss Malloy?”

  Emma looked down at her hands. Telling the truth would only reinforce their theory that she and Clayton had planned the whole thing.

  “Please sit up and speak clearly,” the prosecutor said.

  She put her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and looked at Clayton. He gave her a weak smile, but his eyes were sad. “Clayton Nash,” she said.

  Aunt Ida put a lace hankie to her mouth, shaking her head.

  “Were you aware that Mr. Nash had brought in a member of the Molly Maguires to conspire against Hazard Flint and the Bleak Mountain Mining Company?”

  “That’s not what happened,” Emma said.

  “Isn’t it true that you and Nally O’Brian arrived in Coal River on the same day? Not only on the same day, but on the same train?”