The Miner's Lady

by Tracie Peterson

  “I’m not going to argue with you about religion. I’m not even going to challenge you on the whole concept of trying to be at peace in a world filled with warring people.” Dante took the seat opposite his brother while their grandmother scurried around to put supper on the table. “But you know how our father feels regarding family. Family is everything. For you to sneak around with her is like putting a knife in his back.”

  “That has never been my intention.” Orlando met Dante’s gaze. “You know that. I love my family, but I love Isabella, too.”

  “Ora ragazzi,” said their Nonna Barbato in her native Italian. Il papá sarà qui presto.”

  Dante squared his shoulders. She was right. Their father would be here any moment, and it wouldn’t serve either of them well to have him question their discussion.

  “I’m sorry, Orlando. I’m sorry that you love her, and I’m sorry that nothing can ever come of it.”

  Just then they could hear their father scraping his boots outside the back door. Both young men straightened in their chairs as if they were boys awaiting parental inspection. Nonna put the last of the food on the table and took her seat.

  Vittorio Calarco rubbed his hands together and entered the kitchen. “The wind has a bite to it. Hopefully we’ll get a hard freeze and that muck they call a road will harden up.”

  Dante couldn’t help but smile. His father stood bootless in his dirty socks. He took orders from the mining captain and no one else . . . except his mother-in-law. Nonna Barbato insisted the men take their boots off before entering the house, and even Vittorio Calarco was obedient. Of course, Dante knew his father had been dependent upon the older woman since losing his wife in childbirth. Nonna had been newly widowed, and the trip to America to care for her daughter’s newborn and eight-year-old sons gave her a new lease on life. Dante’s father had struggled to find the money for such a trip, but with the help of family he had managed to bring Nonna to America only weeks after he’d buried Dante and Orlando’s mother.

  Their father took a seat at the table and reached for his bowl of zuppa de zucca, his favorite pumpkin soup. Nonna waggled a finger and admonished him. “First we pray,” she said as she always did.

  His father gave a nod. When Nonna said they would pray first, they prayed.

  Nonna offered grace for the food, then poured her heart out in prayers for the family. She asked forgiveness for each of her men, pleading with God for their protection. Dante knew this never boded well with his father, but he found it somewhat comforting. Even if he wasn’t given to praying himself, it was nice to know that someone else was offering up prayers on his behalf.

  “Amen,” said Nonna.

  Dante and Orlando murmured the word in return, but their father only grunted and reached again for the soup.

  Supper was always a time for Nonna to share the latest information from family or the ongoing affairs of neighbors. Dante’s father would chime in on politics and matters of the town, while Dante and Orlando picked up the conversation when they had something to add. And always, it was in Italian. Nonna could speak English, though not well. She considered it a vulgar language. It was a rare occasion when Anna Teresa Barbato spoke what she called “that American garble.”

  Ely was a town of many nationalities, but the far east side was predominantly settled by Slavic-Austrians and Italians. Nonna knew every man, woman, and child in their neighborhood and thought it her duty to keep up on the details of their lives. Often the women washed clothes or sewed together, and while they did they told news from the old country or spoke of problems with their families. Nonna had become something of a matriarch among the women, and she held the position with the authority of a queen.

  “The Dicellos have a new baby,” Nonna announced. “A fat, healthy boy.” She extended a rose-colored glass serving bowl to Dante. “You should marry and have children, Dante. Goodness, but you are twenty-seven years old. Well past the time a man should settle down. You need children of your own to carry on the family name.”

  Orlando opened his mouth as if to comment on that, but Dante quickly silenced him. “Nonna, you always said that marriage was the hardest work a man and woman would ever do. Frankly, the mine exhausts me. I don’t have the energy to marry.”

  She laughed and motioned to the bowl he’d just taken. “Eat up and you’ll have energy aplenty. This is your favorite agnolotti.”

  Dante smiled and began to spoon himself a healthy portion of the ravioli. Each little pasta pocket was filled with tender roast beef and seasoned vegetables. His grandmother had such a way with the dish that he had to admit he’d rather eat extra helpings of this than have dessert.

  The table talk continued with Nonna telling of her visit to the meat market with several other women. She spoke of new families moving to the area to accommodate the growing mine industry. At this Dante’s father joined in.

  “Papers have already been drawn up to make Ely an incorporated town,” he told them. “Once this officially happens, we will see many more changes. There are plans to put in sewer and water lines, as well as better streets.”

  “That is good,” Nonna said, nodding. She tore off a piece of bread from a large round loaf. “The streets here are terrible.”

  Dante paid only a token interest to the conversation. His mind was focused on Orlando’s interest in Isabella Panetta. Dante had had suspicions for some time that his brother was sneaking off to meet with a young lady, but never could he have imagined it would be a Panetta.

  The boy was insane. He had to know the relationship would never be allowed, and if Orlando insisted, their father would simply disown him. And then what? Would the two marry and move in with her family? The shame of it would cause their father no end of grief, and that in turn would trickle down to affect Dante and Nonna.

  As he ate, Dante tried to reason how he might best deal with the situation. There was always the chance that Isabella’s family didn’t realize what was going on. Perhaps if Dante cornered one of her brothers at the mine, he could explain what was happening and get their help on the matter. Of course, it wasn’t likely that a Panetta would give him the time of day, much less listen to him.

  “They say the Pioneer Mine will deliver the same quality Bessemer ore that the Chandler has,” Dante heard his father declare. “And there are other mines opening, as well. If they’re all Bessemer quality, we’ll be making the owners quite wealthy.”

  Bessemer ore held the richest iron content. The problem with some iron ore was a high percentage of phosphorus. Henry Bessemer, an English iron master, had created a way to burn away the impurities from iron to make steel. Because of this wondrous contribution, the finest ore had been named after him.

  One benefit of the Chandler Mine and the rich Bessemer ore was that it didn’t require a great deal of processing in order to make it useful. Not only that, but the vein of ore had endured a massive folding during its creation. This resulted in the ore breaking naturally into pieces very nearly the right size for the mills, which eliminated the need to run it through a crusher first. This, along with the fact that the ore was readily available and not at all laborious to mine—at least not in the early pit mining years—proved very valuable to the stockholders. It was said that the mine paid out $100,000 a month net profit. Of course, Dante found that hard to believe, but if the growth of the city and digging of new mines was any indication, it must be true.

  “Dr. Shipman intends to see those terrible houses of ill repute closed,” Nonna declared. “He makes a good village president, even if he isn’t Italiano.”

  “He is a good man,” Father replied, “but if they close down the brothels, how will they fund the town?” He gave a laugh. “It’s only the fines brought in by the marshal that pay Ely’s bills.” It was a well-known fact that the marshal visited the brothels on a monthly basis to “arrest” the madams. They simply paid a large fine and returned to business. It served to give the pretense of law and order, make money for the town, and keep the miners h
appy.

  “Bah!” Nonna said, waving him away with her hand. “We will be a better city without them.”

  “Well, if they have their way and incorporate the mines into the city limits,” Father said, reaching for the bread, “they will have money enough. The state may receive a penny a ton on what is shipped out of the mines, but the city gets nothing. That will change soon enough if the incorporation goes through.”

  Dante tired of the politics and again found himself thinking about Orlando’s situation. His brother had crossed a line that would not easily be forgotten if their father learned the truth. So the trick would be to find a way to get Orlando back on the right side before he could be found out.

  I could just threaten him, Dante thought, then very nearly smiled. His brother was not easily intimidated. They had endured many a brawl in their younger days, and Orlando could put up quite a fight. He was strong and muscular like Dante, although he was shorter by two or three inches. If anything, that only served to give his brother an advantage in maneuvering around Dante’s attacks.

  I could bribe him to let her go. But Dante knew that wouldn’t work, either. He knew his brother couldn’t be bought off. Not when he fancied himself truly in love.

  He was still lost in thought well after Nonna had served dessert. When his brother and father got up from the table, Dante continued to pick at the pear tart his grandmother had put in front of him.

  “You no like?” she asked in English.

  Dante, surprised by her change of language, glanced around the room. Seeing his father and brother gone, he shook his head. “I’m just worried about Orlando.”

  Nonna waggled a finger at him. “You worry too much.” She switched back into Italian and began clearing the table. “Your brother will be fine.”

  Lowering his voice to a whisper, Dante replied, “Not if he keeps thinking with his heart instead of his head.”

  His grandmother straightened for a moment and shook her head. “Ah, Dante, the heart it cannot be controlled by anyone save God. It will choose whom it will choose. It’s amore.”

  “It’s dangerous,” Dante said, getting to his feet. “And it’s foolish.”

  At seven the next morning, Dante, Orlando, and their father were back to work at the mine. The shifts ran in ten-hour segments, two shifts a day, every day but Sunday. Vittorio Calarco and his sons were contract miners. They handled dynamite and nitroglycerin—blasting holes in the iron ore to sink shafts or create the horizontal drifts. This dangerous job allowed them additional pay, for it required steady hands and even stronger nerves. Vittorio Calarco preferred it this way. He answered only to the mine’s captain, as they called the big boss, but paid nominal heed to the instructions of the shift foreman. Luckily Dante’s father liked the man whom he called “Mr. Foreman” in a sort of mock salute to the position.

  What Dante’s father did not like was the fact that Panettas worked in the same mine. Dante fervently hoped that their enemies might transfer to another mine. At best they were often working in one of the other four shafts. But even with five separate areas to work, their paths would cross and words would be exchanged. The latter was usually only between the two patriarchs, while their sons silently observed, watching and waiting lest one man or the other decide to do more than talk.

  As Father stood instructing Orlando, Dante couldn’t help but study his brother. He seemed so carefree, so unconcerned with his deception. Would he truly risk being ostracized from the family for the love of a woman?

  “Are you going to help us or just stand there?”

  Dante met his father’s stern expression. “Tell me what you want done.”

  “We will drill blasting points here and here,” his father said, pointing. The iron deposits were removed in a stoping system that was well suited to the area’s formations. Segments of ore were taken out parallel to the drift or horizontal shaft, creating a sort of stepped appearance at the top of the stope—the ever-expanding hollow created by the mining work. Underground iron miners always tried to let gravity work for them, using the overhand or upward method. This allowed the ore to fall to the bottom of the stope, and from there it would be scraped into chutes and loaded into the ore cars located below the floor of the work area. It was tedious work, often referred to as caving. Eventually all of the ore would be mined in that area, and the Calarcos would blast the surrounding rock to fill in the stope. The process went on and on in order to recover as much ore as possible.

  Dante tried not to give much thought to the dangers they faced, though they were many. Walls of the stopes often collapsed without warning. Blasts could go off prematurely, although the Calarcos had not been victim of that due to their father’s vigilant care in everything he did. Of course, just because they were careful didn’t mean everyone else was. There were plenty of new muckers who had no idea of the risk.

  Fires were always feared in the mines, but it was often accidents with the machinery or tram cars that caused injury and death. Dante had seen men lose fingers and feet because of being less than aware of their surroundings.

  “This is no place to daydream,” his father admonished.

  A knot of fear and embarrassment sat in his gut at his father’s words. He knew better. “Sorry,” Dante said.

  Father handed him a twisted roll of fuse. “Sorry will get you blown up, son.”

  Dante met his brother’s curious gaze. With a quick grin Orlando went back to work, mindless of what was truly bothering his older brother. They would simply have to settle this later, Dante determined, and pushed the problem to the back of his mind.

  Chapter 3

  “Mama, we’re going to Cormack’s store to pick up that thread you wanted to make lace,” Isabella told their mother. “Do you need anything else?”

  Chantel pulled on a wool coat she had just unpacked from the attic storage the night before. The fit was snug. The coat had been handed down to her long before her figure had filled out, and it was well past time to replace it with something new. Maybe she would sell some of her lace and order a new coat.

  “We need more sugar,” Mama said, looking to the ceiling as though there were a list written there. “And see if we can purchase more eggs from Stanley’s boardinghouse. They have the best eggs.”

  “Sí, Mama.” Isabella kissed her mother on the cheek. “And do you want me to put it on account or take money?”

  Mama went to the cupboard and pulled down a tin marked Tea. Chantel knew her parents, like most immigrants, didn’t trust the banks. They hid their money around the house rather than trust it to strangers. The older woman pulled out some change from the tin and handed it to Isabella. “Pay for the eggs and charge the sugar to our account. Tell Mr. Cormack to charge the silk thread, as well. Tell him we’ll come tomorrow after your papa gets paid and settle the account.”

  With that, the girls exited the house. Chantel secured a wool bonnet atop her carefully pinned brown hair. The temperatures had dropped again.

  “At least the roads are hard now,” Isabella said, tying her own bonnet.

  Chantel waited until they were a bit down the road to question her sister. “What are you up to, Isabella? You seemed very eager to run this errand.”

  Isabella threw Chantel a grin. “I am going to meet Orlando behind the store. Being how it’s Friday, Orlando’s father will have to remain at the mine for a meeting, but Orlando and Dante will leave their shift early. They always stop in town for their Nonna on their way home. I want you to come along in case I need you to keep Dante occupied so that Orlando can slip away to meet me.”

  Chantel frowned. She’d not seen the older Calarco son in some time. “What do you mean, ‘keep him occupied’?”

  “You know, talk to him. Goodness, Chantel, you would think you’d never had a conversation with a young man.”

  “And if he won’t speak to me?”

  Isabella rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you can find a way to intrigue him. Irritate him, if all else fails.”

  Sh
e looked at Isabella in disbelief. “When did you become so conniving?”

  Isabella laughed. “It’s not conniving, it’s just the way it is. Last time I had one of my friends stop Dante and ask him to help her carry a sack of potatoes. I do what I have to in order to meet my love.”

  “Well, if it keeps you away from the mines, I’m all for that.”

  “Most of the time Orlando can get away without arousing suspicion, but sometimes Dante seems to stick to him like glue. I’ve told Orlando it isn’t a problem even if he can’t meet me. I’ll still show up. It’s not like I have to walk very far.”

  Living in town had its advantages. It was simple enough to walk to the stores and acquire the needed merchandise. There was no need for a horse or carriage, both of which required more upkeep and expense than Chantel’s parents wanted to spend. Most of the miners walked to work for the same reason, and only the wealthier store owners and officials had horses and buggies.

  Today the town was bustling. Mining towns were always noisy places, with the constant hum and rumble of machinery, blasting, and loading. The mining day shift would end in another hour or two, and then the town would really get busy. The whistle would sound and the night shift workers would make their way to the mines. While they took over the tasks at hand, the day shift workers would make their way home through town, and those who still had money from last week’s pay would frequent the local businesses to purchase food, liquor, and other pleasures. For a price, most anything could be had. Chantel had even seen a Finnish sauna. There were a large number of Finns living and working in Ely, and most Finnish households sported some form of a sauna. It seemed only right that someone should utilize their popularity and make a business of it.

  Chantel knew their mother was less than enthusiastic to have her unmarried daughters on the town’s streets when the miners were getting off work, so they had assured her they would make it back before the whistle blew to signal the end of the shift. Not only that, but the days were becoming shorter as winter approached, and already the skies were blending into evening twilight.