He did tell me a little at night when he came in worn out but unable to sleep and I bathed his face with a cool cloth and massaged his back. He spoke of Sheriff Don Chafin of Logan County, the meanest man in the state of West Virginia.
“He’s got secret police like that Czar had in Russia. He’s got hundreds of deputies, and the coal companies pay all their salaries. In Logan County, folks disappear in the middle of the night. And ifn anybody at the Huntington depot buys a train ticket for Logan, the secret police tail him, no matter who he is, or what his business is. The union aint never even got a toehold in Logan County. But we got to go through there to git to Justice. We’ll have to hang that bastard Chafin.”
He brought in a case of Pabst longnecks and drank three bottles every night.
“The local boys at headquarters are gitting nervous. The federal boys in town know something’s up. Everybody’s scairt.”
“How many men you talking about?” I asked.
He sipped his beer, studied the bottle. “Ten thousand,” he said.
“Lord in heaven,” I said.
He gave me a U.M.A. headband to sew onto my nurse’s cap. It covered the three black stripes that stood for the Grace Hospital.
Word went out on August 22. At dawn of the next day, Rondal took me by Dr. Booker’s little red brick house with the white porch posts. Dr. Booker carried his black bag and a roll of blankets. He wore his old gray suit and wide-brimmed hat and a red bandana knotted around his neck instead of a tie.
“Where’s the rest of your uniform?” He pointed at my overalls and plaid shirt.
“Uniform’s in my bedroll. I didnt want to git it dirty yet.”
“She’s got on her redneck uniform,” Rondal said. He pulled a bandana from his back pocket with a flourish. “I even got her one of these here.”
He tied it around my neck, touched my earlobe and then my chin.
“Aint she one hell of a brave girl?” he said.
“I always did think it,” Dr. Booker replied.
We walked with our bundles down Hale Street. The streets were sticky from a recent rain. On the sidewalk, gray pigeons with pink bills poked at a mound of shattered peanut shells. The downtown buildings closed in over our heads, like mountains near the head of a holler. We paid the toll and walked up the long curve of the bridge. An early morning streetcar clattered by. Rondal waved his bandana at the moustachioed conductor, who tipped his hat.
“You know we got to win,” Dr. Booker said. “You know what will happen if we dont.”
Rondal took my hand. “Be a relief to have it done with, one way or the other.”
We took the train to Marmet, the jumping-off point for the road to the southwest. At Marmet thousands of armed men milled around outside the depot. Most were clad in overalls, but some wore faded military uniforms. Each man sported a red bandana tied jauntily about his neck. Some were already armed. One group of rawboned mountain men carried long rifles that Rondal said dated back to the Revolutionary War, and I even saw a Greek with a curved sword. A Ukrainian man wore a faded painting of St. Vladimir on his back, sewn there by his wife as a talisman of good luck. Welshmen, camped along the railroad track, sang of building Jerusalem among dark satanic mills. Trains kept arriving with men standing in the aisles, and trolley cars from Charleston so full that passengers hung outside on the steps. They gathered around the brightly hued banners of their union locals, formed companies in the main street of the town and marched off. Some were Justice County men who had escaped to safety, but most of them were union miners from the Kanawha and New River coalfields. Rondal left us at the station and we waited until Talcott came from the ferry with three hundred Point Lick men.
Rondal returned soon with a big grin on his face.
“We’re set up at the mouth of the creek,” he reported. “They’re checking passwords and handing out guns. They even sent two machine guns through that they stole from company stores. And there’s ammunition and medical supplies waiting in Danville. I got to check when we git there.”
“When did the boys first take out?” Talcott asked.
“Early. Some will be at the head of the creek by now. And the line stretches all the way back to here, with fellers still yet coming. God damn, we really done it!”
We joined the march. Townspeople lined the main street. Some only stood, their faces long with disapproval, but most clapped and waved. The men hoisted their rifles to their shoulders, swung their arms. We sang “John Brown’s Body.” Some Italians in front of us sang a marching song in their language. Doc said it had to do with a man named Garibaldi. Rondal held my hand and swung my arm high in time to the music. He laughed. “Jesus, I wisht C.J. and Isom could be here.”
We quieted as we started up Lens Creek. Dr. Booker whistled the Internationale softly. Cicadas buzzed far up the dark green hillsides. At the checkpoint, Talcott approached three automobiles parked across the rutted dirt road.
“I’m in charge. Point Lick, Local 124.”
One of the men made a mark in his notebook.
“Password.”
“I come creeping.”
“Stand around here and watch each man that passes through. Point out anybody you dont know.”
“Who’s the lady?” one man asked, his voice high with surprise.
“Nurse,” Rondal said. “See her cap?”
“Honey, you got a long way to walk.”
“I’ll make it. I’m going toward home.”
“That right? All I can say, you sure do pick bad company to travel in.”
“You’re jealous, Cantley,” Rondal said.
Cantley laughed and waved us aside. We waited while those who had come unarmed received their rifles from the back of a truck. Then we marched off up the creek to a distant drumbeat from one of the locals behind us.
The day was scorching hot, even for August, and it took the longest and hottest part to reach the head of Lens Creek. I trudged along, worn out after the first few hours and hard put to keep up. I was not used to the long heavy overall material on my legs in such heat; I wondered how men could bear it. My spirits rose whenever the road joined the creek. Then I had an excuse to splash and wet myself down. Once I fell on purpose and flung cool water on my face and neck. My nurse’s cap flew off and floated downstream where Rondal retrieved it. He helped me up and set it crookedly on my head.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” I said.
The sun was high for a while before we stopped to eat. I took a ham sandwich Rondal pulled from his knapsack, and mulled chunks of it around in my mouth. It was difficult to swallow.
“How far?” I asked.
“Two more mile to the foot of the mountain, maybe.”
He leaned over and rolled one of my pantlegs above the knee.
“Rondal, I cant show my legs with all these men around.”
“Hell you cant. I’ll speak to the first one says anything.”
I went on gamely in the afternoon. It took about an hour and a half to reach the foot of the mountain. Here the road was rougher, narrower. Naked roots and gouts of brown dirt hung along the roadside. Rondal gripped my wrist, pulled me along after him. Finally I stumbled, my feet dragged through the dust. He stopped, wiped his brow.
“Goddamn, I’m tired,” he yelled. “Boys, let’s rest a minute.”
They muttered a bit but crouched on their haunches. They tipped up water jugs and drank. The dust was itchy up on my legs. Rondal knelt beside me, pulled off my shoes. Both of my heels were bloody. He poured water from his bottle, rubbed my feet gently.
“Doc, git some bandages.”
I bit my lip to keep from crying.
“You’re so damn brave,” Rondal said. “I sure am proud of you.”
I counted each step up the mountain, lost track, and started over again. Going down, my legs felt as though iron rods had been soldered inside from my ankles to my thighs. Rondal carried me the last half-mile to Racine, all the way to the river bank, where we settl
ed in the shade of a willow. I was embarrassed. I had always walked, sometimes ten miles at a stretch, but never in such heat and in such heavy clothes.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled when Rondal set me down.
“Hit’s all right. I’m plumb tuckered myself.”
“Cause you been toting me.”
“Naw, before that.” He lay back, covered his face with his hands. “Damn Isom. Why couldnt he git hisself kilt in October?”
“Rondal!”
He laughed helplessly and pulled me down beside him. Soon we were both laughing like idiots, hugging and rolling on the ground. He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my mouth. Then he jerked and yelled. Talcott stood over us, had kicked Rondal in the back. He dropped a cigarette butt near my face.
“Thought I’d remind yall they’s other folks around and you look like damn fools.”
We sat up. Rondal’s face was red. I rolled down my pantlegs. Rondal helped me up and I hobbled beside him toward the river.
The bottom, once a cow pasture, had been transformed. Here and there a tent had been set up, but most of the men spread bedrolls out in the open, so that the whole ground was blanketed with varicolored cloth. Men sprawled on the blankets or stood in groups cursing and gesturing, or wending their circuitous way from one place to another. They lined up beside trucks drawn up at the edge of the field to dispense soupbeans and cornbread, or stood in circles, sharing bottles of liquor. Children from the nearby town dashed back and forth and dogs wandered in search of scraps of food.
Rondal left me the rest of the evening, and I thought he was angry. I shared supper with Dr. Booker. Then he went off with some friends to pass out socialist newspapers and I was left alone with Talcott. I spread out my blanket and laid down. All around me the Point Lick men laughed and cursed, speculated on which boss man was the meanest, played poker, tipped up tin cups of homebrew. Off in the distance I heard the singing of hymns.
“Damn missionaries followed us out here,” Talcott grumbled.
“Naw, they’s a preacher man digs coal at Bull Push that vowed to hold services every night we camped,” someone said. “He’s all right. He’s union and he preaches burning hell for the operators.”
I soon fell asleep despite the commotion. But Rondal shook me awake, whispered, “I found us a place,” and picked me up, bedroll and all.
“Where you been?” I mumbled.
“Had to check on some things. We set up a big comissary tent for breakfast tomorry.”
He stepped over sleeping men, carried me inside a tobacco shed. I could see the stars through the gap along the bottom of the roof. He fumbled with the snaps on my overalls.
“Damn, these are hard to git into,” he muttered.
“You’ll figure it out.”
His scalp was wet with sweat and his skin tasted of salt and gritty dust. His rough denim overalls scraped against my belly. Then he stood up and undressed.
“Too hot for clothes anyhow,” he said and laid back down. “You dont have to worry about walking tomorry.” He kissed my neck. “We found us a train.”
A commissary tent was set up during the night. Cooks served bacon, biscuits and milk gravy. I stared at the plate Rondal brought me, thrust it back at him, and ran to the river to vomit. When I returned he had eaten my bacon, but gave me the biscuit.
“Stick that in your pocket. You might keep it down later.” He put his hand to my forehead. “You all right? Maybe you should go back to Charleston.”
I had begun to guess what was wrong but was afraid to tell him. He would have sent me back for sure.
“I aint going back,” I said. “Hit’s the heat and excitement, that’s all.”
“Let’s go git you that train.”
“How on earth did you git a train?”
“We aint took it yet, but the boys is keeping a sharp eye on it. Hit’s setting on a spur around the bend.”
The train consisted of an engine, tender and four flat cars. I trailed along behind when Rondal, Talcott and the others approached it. They surrounded it, their guns pointed in the air with the butts resting easy on their hips the way a woman will hold a baby. A man in a blue cap stuck his head out the engine’s window.
“Got her fired up yet?” Rondal asked casually.
“Almost.”
“Where to?”
“St. Albans.”
“How’s about taking us to Logan first?” Rondal’s voice sounded like he was asking for a cigarette.
“Boys, I’m with ye,” the engineer said, his voice full of smiles. “Time to clean things up, aint it. But if I haul yall to Logan, hit’s my job, son.”
“And if we kidnap you and make you haul us?”
The man raised his hands. “Cant argue with no rifle, now, can I? No, sir. Yall climb on. I’ll have her fit in ten minutes.”
Talcott climbed into the cab with his rifle and the others clambered on board. Rondal ran back to me.
“Come on, while they’s still yet room.”
I was suddenly frightened. “You’re coming with me, aint you?”
“Sure I am. You think I’d walk when I can ride?”
Dr. Booker yelled at us from the last flat car. Rondal hoisted me up, then climbed up himself. We sat with our legs dangling over the side. The train jerked, then moved slow and smooth. I smiled at Rondal, happy to be so close to him. But he was looking across the bottom at the miners breaking up camp.
“Take a heap more trains,” he said.
We stopped in Danville around noon. Someone had decided we could take on cars there and pick up more of the men who had already made their way to Coal River. Dr. Booker and I entered a restaurant with a crowd of miners while Rondal went to see about the train. We squeezed around a table in the corner. The owner hovered uncertainly in the middle of the room, tried to walk in two directions at once, then called out in a voice that cracked, “Listen here! Listen! I dont serve no colored in here. Yall go on back outside.”
A dark Negro at the lunch counter swung around on the stool. He made sure the man saw him lay his pistol on the counter.
“Mister, yall going to serve this here colored, or else I going to serve myself. And I guarantee, I’ll give myself a bigger helping than you would.”
“We’re all rednecks!” someone yelled from the back.
The man retreated to the kitchen.
“Better go make sure he dont do nothing to the food,” another Negro said. He and a companion followed the man into the kitchen. One of them returned shortly with a telephone in his hand, displayed the frazzled ends of its wires.
“I carried me away a little souvenir,” he said.
We applauded. The food began to arrive soon after, trays of hamburgers, sandwiches, and fried potatoes. We paid for everything we ate, and the Negroes at the counter left a tip.
At Danville we took on twenty more flatcars and twelve boxcars. Men rode up top of the boxcars because of the heat. They seemed to float in the shimmering air, their hair smoothed back like birds’ feathers by the wind.
I gave up trying to keep my cap on my head, and crushed it inside the bib of my overalls. It was speckled with cinders from the smokestack.
We passed through the middle of a large coal camp. Rondal yelled that it was called Ramage. Children raced alongside the train on long, skinny brown legs and waved their arms above their heads. They were lovely, their eyes large, their faces narrow, their gait awkward as they navigated across the jagged red dog on their bare feet.
A row of peeling dark green houses slid past across the creek. Their jumbled back porches were immodestly laid bare to passing trains. Washtubs hung on the walls and gray laundry flapped from wires strung between the porch posts. A spindly yellow dog charged across a footbridge, tossed its head. The noise of the train drowned out its yapping.
At the last house a woman leaned over the porch rail beside a row of potted plants. She waved at us. Then she ran down the steps and across the road to a green frame post office. She yanked the American f
lag from its bracket beside the door, tucked the pole under her arm and loped across the bottom, her skirt held high and her ponytail flying. We rounded a long curve beside a baseball diamond and she met us on the other side, planted her feet wide apart, and whipped the flag back and forth, beating the air to cream. We cheered like we were at a baseball game. A man near me, who wore an army helmet, flat like a saucer, snapped to attention and saluted.
The woman was lost to us around the bend.
Twenty-one
RONDAL LLOYD
ALMOST AS SOON AS WE ARRIVED AT THE FOOT OF BLAIR MOUNTAIN, we got word that we had to turn back. We were ordered to a meeting with the District 17 leadership at the baseball field in Danville to learn why the march was called off.
The men were in an uproar, and I was furious. Blair Mountain was all that stood between us and Logan, and Logan was the gateway to Justice County. I had no intention of returning to Charleston. But when the men heard the District was backing down, they got nervous. Talcott and I went to Danville to try to get things going again. Carrie and Doc Booker stayed behind because Carrie was so weary of traveling. I put her up in a hotel at Clothier and Doc boarded with a colored family nearby, the hotel being Jim Crow. I figured they were safe enough, for the union boys from Ramage and Sharples were in control there. We loaded the train, backed it up and returned to Danville.
They are good men, the District leaders. Two of them are even socialists, friends of Doc’s. But they just didn’t know. They always wanted to talk strategy. I admit that strategy is important. But they had lived in Charleston too long and couldn’t understand that things had gone beyond strategy.
Frank Keeney, the District president, stood at home plate on the Danville diamond with his hands in his pockets and jiggled his legs nervously. Miners filled the bleachers behind the batting cage, packed the infield, hunkered down along the baselines. Talcott and I pushed through to get in close. I knew Keeney would be looking for me.
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