“I beg your pardon, but it’s quite official. Drawn up in Mercer County yesterday.”
“We aint going,” Isom said. “Hit’s a set-up.”
The tall man’s hand slipped back inside his coat, the butt of a pistol appeared, Talcott’s gun roared beside my head. The man looked surprised, the weight of his gun dragged his hand down as he fired, and C.J. fell to the ground clutching his belly. Isom ducked and fired, my rifle was on my shoulder and I pulled the trigger, the short man fell, his hand tangled in his watch chain, Albion Freeman dragged C.J. backward, the gun thugs ran for cover. They shot back. The glass front of the hardware store exploded and the men inside screamed. The Bluefield train pulled into the station, one guard ran for it, Isom, kneeling and somehow unscathed by bullets, cut him down. The faces in the train windows flashed by. The train did not stop.
Three guards leaped at the caboose and clung desperately to the railing. One fell off and struck his head on a crosstie. Talcott strolled over to where the man lay writhing in pain. He raised his pistol in a salute to the retreating train, then leaned over and shot the man in the head.
I turned away. Isom still stood on the platform, surrounded by bodies. He carefully examined the barrel of his pistol. Albion Freeman crouched behind the luggage rack and cradled C.J.’s head in his lap. C.J.’s belly was a sticky mass of blood and flesh.
“Git Doc!” Albion hollered. “Hit’s real bad.”
I ran toward the hotel. Sam Gore yelled from the doorway of the hardware store, “Git Doc! Antoine, he hurt!” I passed two dead miners sprawled on the ground and met Doc, already on his way, his bag swinging from one hand and his coattails flying.
“C.J. and Antoine!” I cried.
“Lord, lord!”
He knelt beside C.J. first, put his hands over his face for a moment, then looked up.
“I cant do a thing for him,” he said in a choked voice. “I could shoot him full of morphine but I dont expect he’ll last long enough for it to take.”
“Go tend Antoine,” I said. I pulled off my jacket and laid it over C.J.’s midsection to keep away the flies.
“Papaw,” C.J. said. Blood ran out of his mouth and Albion wiped it with his red bandana.
“Oh, papaw.” C.J.’s chest heaved and he was still.
I squeezed C.J.’s hand and started to cry.
“We ought to take him to the hotel.”
Albion Freeman put his hand on my arm. I shook it off. Between the two of us we got him inside and stretched him out on a couch just as Violet burst in. Her screams drove me back outside.
I met Carrie in the street.
“Albion?”
“He’s all right,” I said. “He’s in the hotel with Violet. C.J.’s dead.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said. She looked toward the station. “I got to go. Doc’s taking Antoine to the hospital and I got to tend the others.” She took my hand. “I’m so sorry about C.J. I know you was close.”
I pulled my hand away. “You better run to somebody that needs help.”
I followed her toward the station and then I spied Isom. He was squatting by himself on the track rail, clutching his ankles. I sat beside him. His round face was streaked with tears.
“C.J.’s dead, aint he?”
“He’s dead.”
“He wont never git that land back.”
“No, he wont.”
“I kilt a man, Rondal. I kilt that one right over there.”
“I kilt the short one in the suit. Leastways I fired at him right when he fell. They was shooting all around by then.”
He wiped his nose. “They damn well deserved it. They pushed folks around long enough. How many did we kill?”
“Looks like seven maybe. Where’s my brother?”
“Damned if I know. Last I seen he was heading for the creek.”
Beside the toe of my boot, a piss ant struggled to escape from a spreading pool of blood. I offered Isom a pinch of snuff and he poked it behind his lip with one grimy finger.
“This here going to hurt your strike?”
I put my arm around his shoulders.
“Son, you kill a man in a suit, hit aint just a strike no more.”
We erected a new sign at the train depot that proclaimed FREE ANNADEL in letters two feet high. Armed miners stood guard at every street corner. Only hours after the shootings we had moved into Jenkinjones like an occupying army. The red bandanas around our necks served as a uniform and we carried rifles on our shoulders. Many of the women were also armed. We went straightway to meet the newly evicted families, still gathering up their belongings beside the railroad, and told them to go back to their homes. Jenkinjones belonged to them.
The next day we held C.J.’s funeral in the main street at Annadel. We bore the coffin to the porch of the Alhambra Hotel, accompanied by hundreds of miners and their families. They came in their Sunday best, men and boys in suits and ties, women and girls in neatly pressed cotton dresses except for the Italians, who wore embroidered blouses and brightly colored skirts. Many of the children were barefoot.
Albion Freeman preached the sermon. Mostly he said the same old things preachers say, about how a man must die because he is a sinner, about the next life and how sweet it is. But one thing he said caught my attention.
“Most of you got your guns there,” he said. “Hit’s a sin to have them. Hit was a sin to shoot down them gun thugs, even if they was bound to shoot you first. I’ll not have a gun with me for the purpose of shooting a man, and I bid you to pledge the same. But I’ll not condemn you for carrying those guns. You carry those guns in God’s freedom. You make mistakes because you are alive and free. You cant escape your sin, so sin boldly and know God loves you. Only try to do good for the glory of God.”
I thought these were strange sentiments for a preacher, although Doc said later that Albion was preaching straight from St. Paul. After Doc took over and launched into a tearful recitation of C.J.’s virtues and contributions to the struggle, I kept thinking about what the preacher said.
“This was a good man we lost,” Doc said.
“A good man,” I repeated, and thought of the road C.J. had urged me down so many times, the road which lead to the place where we stood that day, a terrible place which would bring all the world down upon our heads.
Eight of us carried the coffin up the hill to the town cemetery for the burying. Isom walked alongside, supporting Gladys on one arm. Violet had already agreed that the two of them should marry.
“Look a-yonder,” Isom said, and nodded up the hill.
A lone figure stood beside the open grave. I could just catch glimpses of him as we struggled up with the coffin for I had to keep a close watch on where I put my feet. But I knew who he was. He backed away as we approached, stood beside the fence like he might jump over it and run away. I looked at him steady as we set the coffin down, and he looked back. I studied him all through the final words—his rough hide jacket, his Indian brown skin, his long dark hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a ponytail.
He turned to leave before the last prayer was done, and I followed him into the woods. I doubt I would have caught up to him, but I called out “Uncle Dillon!” and he stopped and turned around.
“So you’re that boy,” he said.
We stood face to face and I searched my heart to know what I felt about him. What I found there inside me was anger.
“You come back just to leave again?” I said. “Without a word to nobody?”
“I aint much used to talk,” he said slowly.
“I reckon not. You turn your back on folks, I reckon it’s hard to know what to say to them.”
He smiled then. “I see Ermel now and again, trade him a load of liquor for what I need. He said you was a mean one.”
“Damn straight. You set the Evil Eye on me, according to Mommy. Not that you bothered much with me after that. Nor with my daddy when he needed you, nor with C.J. You been too busy living the old ways, aint that right? Living the pu
re ways, the dead ways.”
He stood still as a statue.
“You could have fought back,” I said. “A long time ago, before it was too late, you could have fought back.”
“I fought back the only way I knew how.” He spat on the ground. “And I’ll fight a man that calls me a coward. Would you be a calling me that?”
I knew better than to take on a man that was all muscle and had cloudy brown eyes like an animal.
“Hell, no, I aint saying that. I just cant figure you out. I dont know you. Damn it, you come in here oncet in a while and see Ermel, and I dont even know about it. How come?”
“I didnt care for you to know. I made Ermel swear he’d not tell you when I come, or where I was. Wouldnt do you no good, nor me neither.”
“Didnt you ever want to see your family? Didnt you want to see Daddy?”
“I loved your daddy but I never could abide that woman he took up with. Werent worth risking one for t’other.”
“What about C.J.?”
He grinned and I saw all his teeth were gone. I wondered if he’d pulled them himself. “C.J. were a good boy. That’s why I come down when Ermel sent word. C.J. allays had a silly streak. Dreamer, you know. I was fond of that. But he passed on from me to Ermel. He become a store man. That’s all right. I wouldnt take nobody with me.”
With that, the talk seemed to die between us. We looked at the toes of our boots.
“Why dont you come on down to the hotel, have a drink?” I said at last. “After all, hit’s your liquor.”
He rolled his shoulders around like he’d been carrying a heavy load. “I cant abide a room for long. I reckon you’re a store man, like C.J. Reckon you like a room. Like all this ugliness too. Like all these outlandish folks that made it this a way. I seen em when I come to trade with Ermel. They live like sheep. They like to be ordered around. You pull them outen the fire, they’ll jump right back in again. I cant abide em.”
I had nothing to say back, not even a muttered hope that I would see him again. That was the last thing I wanted. For all these years I had known only what C.J. and Daddy had told me of him, and he had been something to dream about. It was a good thing to live on the land, to respect it and to hate anything that would tear it down. But Dillon was hoarding the land like a miser his gold, and he had nothing to give anyone. It seemed to me he was no longer among the living.
I dreamed of two men that night. Of C.J. alive and walking with me among the miners’ tents. Of Dillon dead, a burnished skeleton lying on its back, the fingers of one hand curved and twined through the rib cage.
Sixteen
ROSA ANGELELLI
FRANCESCO IS BACK FROM THE DOCTOR. HE SITS BESIDE MY BED and talks with me. He brings me oranges.
Senore Davidson is not here. He goes to Carmello and Luigi, to see why they stay so long with the doctor. I stay in his house to watch over the butterflies.
The butterflies weep. Let us out, they cry. The glass case is so hot.
Mama tugs at my sleeve. Break the glass, she says. Let them go. They have been here so long.
I break the glass. I hit with the lamp. The butterflies scream. They are so frightened, but I whisper to them and they are quiet.
I cannot carry them all but Francesco helps. We must hurry, he says. When the butterflies are gone this house must burn.
But Chi Chi, I say, this is Senore’s house.
It is God’s house, he says. Smell. Like the incense.
Bambino, I say. He puts his arms around me. He doesn’t speak.
Baby, I say in the inglese. You are my baby.
We run with the butterflies. Help them to fly, mama says.
Oh, mama, I cannot touch the wings. I hurt, I break.
But Francesco, ah! He picks up with his fingers, he is so gentle.
He throws and the butterfly is gone.
Again, I cry, again. Save them all.
He flings and they leap from his hand like purple and gold fairies, their wings shine like precious jewels, they flash like the wine the priest pours. They go, fast.
Where do they go, I wonder.
Francesco smiles. To the angels, he says.
My mama is with the angels, I say. But she visits me. I squeeze his face with my hands. Bambino, let me wash your face. It is so dirty, and no one washes like your mama.
We kneel beside the river. The smoke does not choke us here. He gives me his red scarf and I dip it in the water. I clean the folds beneath his eyes, the tender skin.
I kiss his forehead. He presses my hand against his cheek.
I must wait for your brothers, I say. They will come to me. I must wait for Mama.
I will take you, he says. I know the place.
It is very clean here. Francesco comes every day and Mama makes my bed at night. Soon we will go to the angels.
Seventeen
CARRIE BISHOP
RONDAL LLOYD CAME TO MY TENT EARLY ONE SUMMER MORNING and shook me awake.
“I got to talk to you.”
I sat up, wrapped my quilt around me and blinked stupidly at him. He smelled of burnt wood.
“Where’s Albion?” he asked.
“He’s with Doc standing watch over the Ledford baby. What you been up to?”
He pulled up the only chair and sat down. “We burnt part of Davidson last night. They was a big fight. I reckon they’s at least ten men laying dead up there. But Number Five and Number Eight stood with us. Hit’s Number Two that’s kept working, but I think we got them scairt. They’re staying home now.”
He spoke easily of the shooting. But that morning there was such a look on his face. His was not the face of a man who has watched others die. His was the look of Moses who has seen the burning bush.
“I want to tell you what happened. I thought you’d know what I should do.”
“Tell me.”
“We set the big house on fire.”
“Lytton Davidson’s?”
“That’s right. He took off for Philadelphy when the strike broke out, so we burnt it down. But just after we set the fire, I thought I’d best run in and see that they wasnt nobody in there. Sure enough they was a woman in a big room at the back. I learnt later on that she’s an Italian that worked for Davidson as a maid. Isom says her old man run off after the Number Six explosion and Davidson moved her into the big house. It appears she lost four sons at Number Six. Isom says one of them was a damn good baseball player.
“Anyhow, you wouldnt believe what that woman was a-doing. They was two big cabinets full of dead butterflies on pins. Davidson must have collected them. She was a-smashing them cabinets with a lamp. Jesus, the glass flew everwhere. She had a cut on her arm where a piece hit her. Hit’s a wonder she didnt hurt herself bad. I hollered at her to stop, told her she had to git out of the house. And she turned and looked at me—slow like—” his eyes widened, “and she called me Francesco, says I’m her baby. I picked her up to carry her out but she was yelling that she had to take the butterflies with her. I tried to pull her away from them but she wouldn’t budge so I helped her gather up them little panels with all the butterflies stuck on. And she headed down the hill with them, and then she made me pull all the butterflies off and throw them in the creek.” He shook his head. “And then she made me sit there by the creek and she washed my face.”
“That poor woman!”
He stood up.
“I didnt mind it,” he said. “What I seen in her eyes—What am I going to do? I brung her up to the farmhouse and Annadel’s got her now. But she’s kind of looney.”
“I’ll go take a look at her.”
I had to run to keep up with him.
“She thinks I’m her son. But I cant take care of no crazy woman.”
When we reached the porch I grabbed his arm and swung him around.
“Why didnt you tell her you wasnt her boy?”
“Didnt have the heart. I’m turned upside down about it.”
The woman sat in a rocking chair in the kitchen. She
wore a white shawl about her shoulders. Her face was unlined, beautiful and peaceful. She spoke softly to herself. When she looked at Rondal, she gave no sign that she recognized him. I saw the disappointment on his face. He left me with her.
I learned by asking among the miners that her son Francesco had married and fathered a son before he was killed, and that the daughter-in-law worked in Ricco’s Italian Bakery at Justice. I reached her by telephone and she agreed to take charge of her mother-in-law. She had not known the woman was ill, she said, for Lytton Davidson had assured her all was well. She would arrange for a bed in the Miners’ State Hospital.
Rondal insisted on taking her to the train. She walked slowly, as though she was under water. Before he handed her up to the conductor, he kissed her upon the forehead. She smiled up at him with the face of an angel, pressed his hand to her cheek.
“Francesco, you such a good boy.”
It was a golden summer. We lived in tents, but the weather was warm and the union sent us food. We had typhoid, but no more than was usual in the camps. Some of the mines still worked but our men blew up tipples and burned company stores. Some were killed, but no more than in the mines. Jenkinjones belonged to us. And whenever we walked to town we were greeted with a sign proclaiming FREE ANNADEL. The Free Press, black-bordered in memory of C.J. Marcum, ran articles extolling the American Revolution and the Declaration of Independence. On every corner, an armed miner stood sentinel with his red bandana knotted around his neck. The gun thugs called us rednecks. It was a name we accepted with pride.
There was no feeling like it in the world. I believed we could beat any coal company, any sheriff, any governor. So did everyone else. You could see it in the way people swaggered, hear it in the high-pitched laughter when they gathered over the cook-fires. I know now that Albion and Rondal were not so optimistic, that they hid their feelings for our sakes. I don’t know how they did it. And sometimes, later, I cursed them for it. If we had known, would we have gone out, suffered like we did? I can hear them now, answering such a question.
“Hit aint the right question, whether or not we win,” Albion would say. “The right question is, are we faithful? Ifn we strike just to win, we are lost at the start. We must strike to please God, because nothing else will find favor in His sight.”
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