Finder, Coal Mine Dog

by Alison Hart

  Thomas stares at her, speechless. I woof, wanting him to notice me. His hand drops to the top of my head. “What about Finder?” His voice is almost a whisper. I wag my tail, finally hearing my name.

  Aunt narrows her eyes at me, and I sink to the ground. Aunt often scolds and shoos me, but sometimes she slips me treats too. Only now her expression tells me I’ve been a bad dog. Did I track mud on the rug? Dig up her flowers? Tear the wash from the line?

  “Daisy caught rabbits and flushed quail, helping to keep meat on the table,” Aunt says. “Finder’s still frightened by a gunshot. I’m sorry, Thomas, that both your ma and pa are gone. That’s too many loved ones for such a young man to lose. But if Finder can’t hunt, there’s no room for him in this family. Now go give that dog a bath or he stays out all night again.”

  CHAPTER 3

  A Hard Decision

  September 11, 1909

  Finder…stream,” Thomas says as he stumbles away from Aunt. His voice is thick. Grabbing a bucket and chunk of soap from under the pump, he hurries into the field. I know stream, and I lope ahead of him.

  “I am not working in the mine,” he declares. I stop and wait for him to catch up. His cheeks are flushed.

  “And Aunt and Uncle are not getting rid of you,” Thomas adds as we continue down the path to the stream. I jump from a rocky ledge into the clear, cool water. It feels good on my paws and belly after pulling the potato cart in the hot sun.

  Thomas rolls up his pants and wades in next to me. He dips the bucket into a pool. “We’ll run away, you and me,” he says as he pours the water over my back. “I’d rather live like a hobo than work in the mine. I saw a man hop on the Milwaukee train once when it stopped in Cherry. He had everything he owned in a feed sack.”

  I shake, my ears flapping.

  “Hold still,” Thomas orders and I duck my head. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “It’s just that everything is going to change, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

  I hear footsteps. It’s Uncle. “Talkin’ to that cur again?”

  Startled, Thomas straightens. “Uh…yes sir,” he stammers. “I mean, Aunt Helen told me to give him a bath.”

  I wag my tail. Uncle has taken off his shirt and boots and rolled up his pant legs like Thomas. His face and hands are black with soot, but his chest is white. A towel is slung around his neck. Usually Aunt washes him in the big tub by the water pump. Today he steps into the shallows beside us, closes his eyes, and sighs.

  As Thomas rinses me, he watches Uncle.

  Eyes still closed, Uncle finally says, “We meet with Mr. Norberg tomorrow morning. He’s assistant manager. A fair man. I’ve told him you are responsible and a hard worker. He’s accepted my suggestion that you start as a digger.”

  Abruptly, Thomas lets go of my collar. I bound from the stream, happily shaking water everywhere.

  Opening his eyes, Uncle takes the bucket from Thomas. “The company needs a wiry boy like you to work the narrow tunnels,” he continues as he soaps his arms, face, and neck. “Mister Norberg agreed as a favor to me. Most young’uns start as breaker boys or trappers—thankless jobs with low wages. If you work hard, you should be able to pay off your Pa’s debt in ten years or so.”

  Thomas doesn’t say a word the whole time Uncle is talking. I prance in front of him, feeling good since my bath. But he only stares at Uncle, who is dumping water over his own head.

  “You can use your father’s equipment—your aunt saved it in the trunk in the cellar. I’ll wake you at five. First whistle blows at six.” Uncle wipes his face and then dries himself with the towel. “I also think I’ve got a way to cure Finder from being gun-shy. If the dog’s to stay on the farm, he has to earn his way too.”

  His tone sounds harsh and I duck my head.

  Uncle hands Thomas the damp towel as he wades out of the stream. “Now hurry and dry yourself. Supper will soon be on the table.”

  Thomas watches him climb the bank and walk toward the house.

  Grabbing a stick in my teeth, I leap into the water and thrust it into Thomas’s hand. He takes it and furiously slings it all the way to the grassy slope beyond the ledge.

  When I bring it back, he throws it again and again. Finally, he steps out of the shallow water and plods up the bank. Panting and exhausted, I lie down at his feet.

  “Ten years,” Thomas says, his voice tight. “Ten long years working to pay off the debt.” He sinks onto the grass with a groan.

  I crawl over and lay my head on his wet pant leg. His fingers stroke my ears, and I heave a sigh. I hate to see him unhappy. Jumping up, I lick his face. Only he doesn’t smile, and when I pick up the stick and drop it in his lap, his gaze is far away.

  That night, I sprawl on the rug by Thomas’s bed, dreaming of raccoons with sharp teeth. Then a toe nudges me. “Wake up, Finder. I can’t sleep.”

  Thomas lights a lantern. I curl into a ball, tired from pulling the cart and fetching sticks, but Thomas nudges me again. “Come on. I need company in the cellar.”

  Yawning, I follow him from the room, toenails clicking on the wood floor. The lantern light makes wavy shadows along the walls as we sneak past Aunt and Uncle’s door, into the kitchen, and then outside. Cicadas and tree frogs chirp and a screech owl warbles. We hurry to the side of the house.

  The cellar doors open from the outside to steep steps that disappear into the damp. Holding the lamp in front of him, Thomas leads the way.

  The last time I was in the cellar was when Aunt locked me down there to hunt rats. Only the rats were smarter and faster than I was. Those sneaky critters scurried around boxes and barrels, which I toppled over when I tried to get at them. When Aunt let me out, I was draped with cobwebs and the cellar was a disaster. “Can’t that dog do any job right?” she’d scolded.

  Thomas hangs the lantern on a hook next to shelves filled with jars and crocks of food. A ham hock hangs in one corner, and I lick my lips at the salty smell.

  “Uncle said Pa’s mining equipment is in the trunk. I haven’t looked in it since I came to live here.”

  He moves to the other side of the shelves and kneels in front of the trunk. He opens the lid. Curious, I peer inside. There’s a jumble of strange odors, but when he holds up a small blanket, I smell Thomas.

  “Ma must’ve saved this from when I was a baby.” He rummages through the trunk while I snuffle around for those rats. I hear scratching noises like tiny claws on wood, so I know they’re scampering in the corners and on the shelves, taunting me.

  Thomas calls me over. “Look, Finder.” In his hand is a small black box. “This is Pa’s old Brownie camera. He loved taking photos.” Digging deeper, Thomas pulls out several pieces of slick paper. “Here are pictures of Ma that he took. See how beautiful she was?”

  Thomas looks at the pictures. “Might be I could learn to use the camera like Pa. He wanted to be a photographer, not a miner.” He loops the Brownie strap around his shoulder and then again reaches into the trunk, this time pulling out a hat.

  It’s made of canvas, like the one Uncle wears when he heads to work. A metal lamp pokes out from the front. It looks like one of Aunt’s teapots, only smaller. Thomas also pulls out a sharp tool. “Pa was wearing this hat and holding this pickax when they found him under the avalanche of rock. See? The lamp is dented.” He scowls and his lower lip begins to tremble. “Tomorrow I’ll start at the mine like Pa did when we moved here. That means there won’t be time to play fetch and wander the fields with you, Finder.”

  Thomas digs his fingers into the ruff of fur around my neck, and I nuzzle his cheek to let him know he’s my friend no matter what.

  “Ten years. By then the coal dust and damp will have ruined me with black lung—or worse.” Thomas swipes his hands across his eyes and sets the cap on his head. He stands, the pickax still clutched in his hand. “Yet Uncle’s right, Finder, I have to work. Helping to pay off Pa’s debt is the honorable thing to do—even if it kills me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Mis
sing Thomas

  September 12, 1909

  Uncle is sitting at the table when Thomas and I come into the kitchen the next morning. Thomas sets the pick and canvas hat he found in the cellar last night on an empty chair. Then he sits down and leans over to tie his hobnail boots. Silently, Aunt places a mug of coffee and plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. I sit beside his chair and lick my chops hopefully.

  “Coffee?” Thomas asks her, sounding puzzled.

  Uncle nods and dunks a biscuit into his cup. “If you’re old enough for the mine, you’re old enough for coffee.”

  A strand of drool hangs from my mouth as Thomas digs into his breakfast. Aunt sets a bowl of bread soaked in bacon grease on the floor for me. Excited, I twirl once and then scarf it down.

  “I see you found your father’s equipment,” Uncle says.

  “Yes sir.”

  “The cap fits?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Before we leave, I’ll show you how to fill your lamp with sunshine and fit it on your hat.”

  “Sunshine?”

  “That’s what miners call the paraffin in their lamps since it’s the only light they see all day.”

  He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a certificate from the mine inspector,” Uncle tells Thomas. “It says you’re eighteen. All you need to do is sign it.”

  I lick the last of the grease from the bottom of the bowl and then glance up as Aunt hands Thomas a pen. He hesitates for a moment, but then quickly signs.

  Uncle refolds the paper and puts it in his pocket. “First day will be easy,” he says, standing. “They’ll show you around, introduce you to some of the workers.”

  Thomas finishes his breakfast and rises to his feet. His face is pale, but his expression determined. “I’m ready,” he says.

  Aunt hands them both lunch buckets. “I fixed your favorite,” she tells Thomas. “Ham and corn bread.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Helen.” Thomas takes the pail, which smells like the salty cellar, and starts out the door. I whirl to follow him.

  “Stay,” Uncle commands. “Tie the cur up if you need to, Mrs. Eddy.”

  “No. He goes with the boy,” Aunt replies sharply, adding, “For today, Mr. Eddy.”

  Uncle stares at her for a second then nods. “All right. But just for today.”

  As we walk the lane toward Cherry, I race ahead and then circle back. The morning sun is rising, the day is cool, and this feels like an adventure. I’ve never been to work with Uncle. Usually he leaves early, before Thomas and I are out of bed.

  “Wasn’t so long ago there was nothing here,” Uncle says. “No railroad, no houses, no stores. Cherry was cornfields and prairie before the St. Paul Coal Company bought it. Us farmers resented the mine and the foreigners who came to work in it, until we realized we could make twice the money underground. And we wouldn’t have to worry about insects, frost, or drought wiping out our crops.”

  “I remember moving here,” Thomas says. “I was excited to leave Chicago.”

  “Your father wasn’t. He was a city boy. All he wanted to do was take snapshots with that box of his.”

  “I found his Brownie in the trunk. I’m going to learn to use it.”

  Uncle harrumphs. “You should have left it there—that’s what I told your father. There’s no time for dreaming when you have a family to feed—or debts to pay. Fortunately, your mother was practical. She convinced him to take the mine job.”

  Thomas bends down and picks something up. A stick! I wag my tail and race ahead, ready for the toss. I snatch it out of the air and bring it back to him.

  Uncle shakes his head. “If Finder can retrieve a stick, he should be able to retrieve a shot bird and make himself useful.”

  “He will,” Thomas says. “I’ll work with him in the evenings while it’s still light out.”

  When we get closer to Cherry, the town dogs start barking. Other men dressed like Uncle and Thomas stream from the houses that line the street.

  Uncle nods to them, but he does not talk or walk with them. “You’ll be working with many foreigners, Thomas. Most don’t speak English,” he says in a low voice. “Some of the men hate the ‘Eye-talians’ and Slavs that now work the mine and live in Cherry. I find them hard workers.”

  The crowd of men grows larger, and strange words and smells swirl around me. The town dogs dart around the men’s legs. I snarl at them, telling them to keep away from Thomas.

  As we approach the buildings clustered beside the slag pile, the smoky air grows thicker and the clanging, grinding sounds grow harsher. Thomas’s hand drops to the top of my head.

  “You sometimes met your father here after work,” Uncle says. “But I don’t know how much he told you about the mine. That’s the tower.” Uncle points to the black structure that rises into the sky. I’ve seen it from the slag pile, but never this close up. I have to lift my head to see the top.

  “Coal is hoisted from the ground through the center of it in one of two cages. It’s dumped into the tipple, that long building jutting out from the tower.”

  “Nice doggie!” Small hands pat my head as three boys surge past and clamber up the steps into the tower.

  “Breaker boys,” Uncle explains. “They sort rock from coal all day in the tipple. The rock then gets sent to the slag pile on a conveyor. The coal gets dumped in railroad cars below.”

  “I know about the breaker boys,” Thomas says. “Last fall our teacher said it was a pity they had to quit school so young and go to work.”

  An enthusiastic voice greets Uncle. “Good morning, Mr. Eddy.” A boy about a foot taller than Thomas shoulders his way through the group and hurries up to us. He shakes hands with Uncle and then says, “Hello, Thomas, I’m glad you’re joining the company.”

  “Thanks, Alex,” Thomas says.

  I nose Alex, who used to throw sticks for me.

  “You remember my older brother, Bobby Deans?” Alex jerks his thumb toward several men walking behind us. “He’s a cager—well, an assistant cager—for his boss, Alex Rosenjack. Me, I started as a digger like my Uncle John and his brothers.” He puffs out his chest. “Two days under my belt.”

  “So you’re not going back to school either?” Thomas asks.

  “Nope. Earnin’ wages now. Might be we’ll work together.” With a wave, Alex leaves us and joins his brother.

  Uncle steers Thomas to an orange clapboard building. I stay close by my friend’s side. There are no town dogs here. No trees, bushes, or birds like we find when we wander the fields. What is Thomas going to do in this place that smells of soot?

  “We’re meeting Mr. Norberg in the company office,” Uncle says. “He’ll take you below. I’ve work to do.” He gives Thomas a solemn look. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  Mr. Norberg has a swept-up mound of hair and a bristly moustache. He doesn’t seem to mind that I tag along while he shows Thomas the boiler room and the engine room. At the emergency hospital, we meet a man called Dr. Howe.

  “The St. Paul Mine here in Cherry is the most modern and safest in the country,” Mr. Norberg boasts as we continue our tour. “And one of the first with electricity. You’ll be proud to work here.”

  When he takes Thomas toward the tower, I follow, ducking at every bang and screech coming from above. Narrow metal stairs lead straight up. Thomas and I both hesitate, but Mr. Norberg smiles. “Don’t worry, the tower is ninety-two feet of steel, engineered to last a hundred years.”

  Thomas starts to climb; I stay right on his heels. Midway up, Norberg stops at a small wooden structure. “Every day you’ll get check tags here from Mr. Powers. Hang one on each coal car that you fill.” He hands Thomas several small metal objects. “You are paid by the amount of coal in your car, so the number on the tag helps the company keep count. You’ll be number 160.”

  As Thomas stares at the tags, his face turns white. I poke my muzzle into his side, sensing something is wrong. His fingers close around the tags before he
shoves them into his jacket pocket.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Norberg says. “Every new worker has first-day jitters.”

  A grinding noise makes me spin around. Two coal cars from the mine below rise up through the tower in a metal cage. They stop, and a gate in the side of the cage lifts.

  “The cars full of coal come up in a cage,” Mr. Norberg explains. “The same cage that carries the workers to the tunnels below.”

  After a man pushes the cars onto a track, a dozen miners waiting along the platform climb onto the floor of the cage. “Ready?” Mr. Norberg asks.

  Thomas swallows hard. “May my dog come with me, sir?”

  “Sorry. He might scare the mules.”

  “Okay. I understand.” Stooping, Thomas cups my head in his hand. “Home, Finder. I need to go to work.”

  I whine. I know what home means, but I don’t understand why I can’t come with Thomas and work too. Mr. Norberg steps into the cage. Thomas follows, joining the group huddled in the center. I try to follow but a boot knocks me away. “Git now, dog.”

  I clatter down the stairs, my eyes on Thomas as the cage begins to move. Settling his hat on his head, he juts his chin high, like he’s trying to look brave.

  But even from this far away, I sense his fear. I bark, telling him not to leave me, but suddenly the cage drops, and Thomas falls through the tower and disappears into the earth.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Same Day

  September 12, 1909

  I wait. The sun has grown hot and I flop beside the door of the company office. Mr. Norberg returns from the tower whistling, but Thomas is not with him. When I jump up, the man tells me to go home.

  Slinking off, I hide behind a railway car under the tower. The tracks smell like tar and the iron rails burn my paws. I find shade under the car and sleep until a whistle blows. I look up.