Finder, Coal Mine Dog

by Alison Hart

  “Mr. McKinney and I work in a ‘room,’” Thomas says. “That’s what the miners call them, but I don’t know why. None of them has a bed or even a chair for comfort.” He sighs, and I can see the sorrow in his eyes. I jump up, placing my paws gently on his chest, and he rubs my ears. “Before you came, I worked this room alone. Now I’ll have someone to talk to and”—he lowers his voice to a hush—“I won’t be so afraid. Uncle says I’ll get used to the dark, but I doubt it. To me this place feels like the purgatory that Preacher Smith talks about on Sunday.”

  Thomas unhooks the rope attached to my collar, then picks up the lantern. I follow him as he parts the curtain. He leaves his lunch bucket by the entrance along with a canteen of water. Then we travel down a smaller passageway, which gets narrower until Thomas has to stoop. He stops by a wooden cart and sets down the lantern.

  “This will be your cart, Finder. Uncle helped me screw axles and wheels to the sledge and add traces. You’ll pull it to the coal car after I fill it.”

  Squeezing around the cart, Thomas pulls on gloves, then drops to his hands and knees. The weak flame on his hat dimly lights the end of the tunnel. I crawl along after him until the only thing in front of us is solid rock. I feel trapped, as if I’m down a groundhog hole with no escape.

  “See this?” Sitting down with his back against one side, Thomas traces his finger along a seam of black, which glitters like gold in the beam from his sunshine lamp. “This is coal. This is what I have to dig out. It’s what makes the St. Paul Mine so rich. And it’s what will earn me enough money to pay off Pa’s debt.”

  Using a chisel, hammer, and pick, Thomas begins to hack away at the rock. When larger chunks fall, he scoops them with a small shovel and tosses them into the cart. He does this over and over while I rest. Once the cart is full, he hitches me to it. I pull it over the uneven, gravelly floor until we reach the canvas curtain. Thomas holds it aside and I haul the cart through the passageway. He quickly shovels the coal and rock into the larger car, and we take the cart back to the end of the tunnel. We do this many times, until finally a whistle blows throughout the mine.

  “Lunch.” Sitting by the lantern in the entryway, Thomas takes off his gloves. Blood dots the blisters on his palms, and I lick them gently. “It’s okay, Finder. The skin’s getting tougher every day. Uncle says it might take months for calluses to form.”

  He opens his bucket, and hands me a piece of his bread. First I lick off the bacon grease smeared on top, then gulp down the rest. Mr. McKinney sticks his head around the curtain. He nods as if satisfied that Thomas is all right and then leaves.

  “We’re so far from the little bottom there’s not enough time to go topside to eat with the others,” Thomas says. “Too bad. The sight of the sun would sure be wonderful about now.”

  When he finishes his sandwich, he pours water into the top of the bucket so I can drink. The water feels good on my tongue and throat, which are coated with dust from the chipped rock and coal. Then I lie down beside Thomas and rest my head on his leg. Is this my new job? I wonder. When I was hunting, I could at least feel the soft breezes on my fur and the crinkly grass under my paws.

  “I know I must work,” Thomas says, his fingers stroking my ears. “And I am earning wages. But shoveling day after day after…” He shakes his head. “It feels like death to me. Still, having you with me makes this bearable,” he adds, abruptly pushing to his feet. He puts on his gloves and heads back to the end of the tunnel.

  Four more trips later, the coal car on the rails is heaped high. Thomas adds one last shovelful, which he calls “topping it.” Then he suddenly lets out a whoop. It’s the first joyous sound from him I’ve heard all afternoon.

  “We did it! You and me, Finder! This is the first car I have ever filled myself.” Unhitching me, he shoves the cart to the side. I hear the tinkling of bells and see two mules plodding toward us down the tunnel. They walk in between the rails, one mule in front of the other.

  “Buongiorno, Dominick. For once it is good to see you and your team of stubborn muleos!” Thomas calls.

  My heart beats faster as the mules grow closer. The lantern light reflects off their menacing eyes. I duck behind the curtain and peer cautiously around it.

  Dominick walks behind the last mule, a coiled whip in one hand. “I see you have filled a cart on your own. You are lazy, so Finder must be working very hard,” he jokes. “Where is he?”

  “Hiding from your mules.”

  I woof, trying to show I am not frightened. As Dominick guides the mules to turn around and back up to the coal car, I keep my eyes on their powerful hooves.

  Grinning, Thomas pulls a metal tag from his pocket. “Pa would be proud of me.”

  “Yes. Your father was a good man, but rarely did he work hard enough to top off a cart.”

  “This is your number, Pa,” Thomas says solemnly as he holds up the tag marked 160. “This cart—and the many more that Finder and I will hopefully fill—is in honor of you and Ma.”

  Tears glitter in Thomas’s eyes. I jump to his side as he hooks the metal tag to the front of the coal car. Dominick climbs onto the car and clucks to the mules. They strain, then begin to pull the car up the track. Thomas gathers his tools and lunch bucket, and we follow Dominick and the mules down the tunnel.

  Two miners are topping off their own cart in the tunnel ahead. When they see us, they call rapidly to Dominick in words I have never heard. He talks just as quickly back to them in the same loud tone. The two men glare at us as we approach, their bushy brows furrowed under their caps. Suddenly one spits a wad of tobacco at my feet and gives me a nasty look. Then both men pick up their equipment and stride ahead.

  Thomas catches up to Dominick. “What was that all about?”

  “It is nothing.”

  “It must be something. Mr. Galletti spit at Finder.”

  “It’s nothing,” Dominick repeats. “Their lanterns kept going out and they needed to blame it on something other than the black damp. So they blame it on the dog.”

  “Alex warned me that some of the miners were superstitious.”

  “Superstitious, yes. But mostly afraid,” Dominick explains. “Mining is like going into battle.” Halting the mules, he gives Thomas a grave look. “Remember, you are not the only one who lost someone in the mine. Every time a miner steps into the cage and drops down that shaft, he worries that he or someone he knows will be the next one to die.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Coal Mine Dog

  October 10, 1909

  I can see why Pa dreamed about being a photographer.” Thomas is hunched over, shoveling rock into the cart. I’m hooked to it, ready to pull. This is my job now, deep below the surface of the earth, tethered to a cart in the darkness. It is cold, hot, noisy, silent, hard, and tedious.

  I do it for Thomas.

  “Dreaming of something different is all one can do in this godforsaken place,” he adds, grunting with each toss.

  We’ve been in this same room for too many days to count. Mr. McKinney says it’s a narrow but rich seam. He sets explosives, and then scuttles away like a bug while Thomas and I wait in the main tunnel. My ears have gotten used to the thick silence—there are no echoes in a mine—and then the far away muffled booms. By now, I don’t mind even the nearby explosions so much. Unlike a gunshot, these booms cause nothing to fall dead.

  This morning Mr. McKinney blasted the end of the tunnel again, leaving another hillock of coal and rubble for us to remove. I am harnessed to the cart, and I sit in the traces and doze. Thomas, however, talks on and on as he works.

  “A newspaper Uncle George was reading had an article about two brothers named Wright. They have built a contraption that flies like a bird. Can you imagine, Finder? Soaring into the clouds?” He breathes out loudly, and I see the rise and fall of his shoulders. I flick my ears and whine. He stops shoveling to look at me.

  “No, I can’t imagine you flying either. And the camera’s fun, but I’m not sure I want to travel
the country like Pa wanted to, taking photos of stern-faced families for pay. We need our own dream. Ouch!” Thomas drops his shovel and rubs the back of his head under his hat. “Dang rocks. Why do they jut so low?” Leaning back, he whacks angrily at the ceiling. Dirt and pebbles rain on his face and shoulders.

  When he starts shoveling again, silently this time, he doesn’t stop until the lunch whistle blows. Then he drops his shovel as if the handle is on fire.

  “Hurry,” he tells me as he crawls over to the cart. “Dominick is joining us today. He wants me to teach him to read.” Thomas takes off my harness and creeps along with bent legs to the front of the dark little room. I am glad to be free of the leather straps. I shake off the dust and trot after him, the rock ceiling brushing the tips of my ears.

  Dominick is sitting by the entryway, a lantern by his side. His lunch pail is open, and I smell the cheese-sprinkled, fried cornmeal he eats every day.

  “Lucia packed a slice of polenta and parmesan for you, Thomas. Though she snuck in a sausage for Finder.” He tosses me a delicious chunk of spicy meat. “She likes your dog better than you,” he teases.

  Thomas blushes. The girl who traded us the tomatoes is Dominick’s sister. Sometimes when we walk Dominick home after work, she waits on the porch. I run up the steps to greet her, sure to get a hug and kiss.

  “I’ve brought McGuffey’s Second Reader, which is the easiest book I have,” Thomas tells him. “I also brought Treasure Island, which is the most exciting.”

  “Read from Treasure Island while we eat,” Dominick says.

  Thomas takes a bite of his sandwich and opens the book. “Is your sister’s English as good as yours?”

  “Better. Though Papa forbids her to speak it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wants her to marry a good Italian boy and not some foreigner like you.”

  Thomas turns red. Then they both laugh, and I leave off my begging a moment to howl with them.

  A boom ends their laughter. “Mr. McKinney is skipping lunch to blast,” Thomas says. “He wants us to fill five cars today.”

  “Good luck.” Dominick prods him with his boot. “Now read,” he says. “Then teach. I want to make mule boss soon, so I need to learn to read and write instructions.”

  “You’ll make a good mule boss. Me, I’m not staying in the mine like you and Alex,” Thomas says as he throws me a bite of boiled egg.

  “What will you do then? Be a farmer or a grocer?”

  Thomas shrugs. “Anything other than shoveling coal all day. Right, Finder? There has to be something else we can do.”

  I woof, hoping for more egg.

  “Your pa always talked about being a photographer. Tomorrow, bring your camera and take a picture of me with my mules. Now for this adventure story,” he adds, “before the whistle blows again.”

  Thomas flips the book open and turns to the first page. Pulling the lantern closer, he begins, “‘Part One—The Old Buccaneer.’”

  I lie down by his side and rest my head under his leg. With a tired sigh, I listen to the hum of Thomas’s words and dream of my own adventure in the warm sun.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bad Luck

  October 11, 1909

  The next morning Thomas carries his camera with him in a rucksack. He arrives early to take photos of the breaker boys, who argue about who will get to stand by me for the picture. They tussle with each other and then tug me right and left until Dominick scolds them. Quickly the boys line up in two rows. Their faces and hands are scrubbed clean, but as I stand in the middle of them, I can smell yesterday’s dirt and soot.

  Alex, Bobby, and Rosenjack beckon to Thomas. “Come on, take our picture!” Alex says as the three stand at the bottom of the tower steps, arms around each others’ shoulders.

  Later, when we reach the third vein, Dominick hurries to the stable while Thomas checks in. Backing his mules from the stalls, Dominick leads them toward the lights. Then he poses between them, hands lightly holding their bridles.

  “Look at the camera, handsome Letty and Buster,” Thomas says as he bends over the black box. The mules flick their long ears and Buster brays as if laughing.

  “Thomas, what are you doing?” a sharp voice asks.

  I whirl, expecting to see Mr. McKinney. But Uncle is standing behind us. He narrows his eyes at Thomas and then glances at Dominick, who hurries the mules back to their stalls.

  “Give me the camera.” Uncle holds out his hand. “I’ll take it home when I leave for the day.”

  Often we meet Uncle leaving the mine as we are arriving. Sometimes we see him in the second vein passages when Thomas drops off his lunch. Usually he has a kind word for Thomas and a pat for me, but today he seems angry.

  Thomas holds out the camera, and Uncle takes it without a word. Then he writes on the slate near the office door, boards the cage, and disappears up the shaft.

  Thomas sighs. “No matter how hard I work, Uncle still thinks I will turn out to be a dreamer like Pa.” Turning, he hangs his metal tag on the peg outside the office and picks up a safety lantern. Mr. Norberg waves Thomas over. “Mr. McKinney is ill today. You can work on your own, or buddy with John Donna and his son, Peter.”

  “I’ll work on my own, sir. Mr. McKinney blasted yesterday in both rooms and left plenty of coal for me to shovel. Besides, I won’t be alone. Finder will be with me.”

  “Stay safe, then.”

  Thomas lights a lantern. “I will be my own boss today, Finder. Perhaps we’ll take a longer lunch and read a few more pages of Treasure Island. What do you think of that?”

  Barking, I twirl after my tail and then dart at Snow White. She arches her back and growls. Since I’ve watched her kill full-grown rats, I scoot in the other direction.

  We follow the other miners as they fan off down the main tunnel to work. John Donna and his son Peter, two workers from Scotland, join us. The two break into song, “So that is your new Sunday bonnet? Well, Sue, it’s becoming to you…”

  Thomas sings along, and I am glad to hear him joyful for once. When the group reaches the large wooden door, Seth jumps off his perch on the ledge and announces, “My pet rat can do a trick.” He dangles a piece of cheese from a string, waiting. Suddenly a rat darts from a crack in the rock and grabs it. Seth jerks the string in the air and the rat hangs on, swaying to and fro. “He’s an acrobat in the circus, see?”

  “One of them buggers stole my apple pie yesterday,” John Donna says. “Ran off with my fork too.”

  The miners all laugh, except for Mr. Galletti. “Mind you keep watch on that door instead of messing with those nasty rats,” the older man tells Seth.

  “Yes sir.” Seth swings wide the heavy door. We pass through, stepping aside for a team of mules hauling a coal car that was filled yesterday.

  I trot beside Thomas as he wishes a pair of miners a good day. It’s empty and silent at our end of the tunnel, and I can hear the creak and groan of the earth as it settles. Thomas is ducking under the canvas curtain when we hear a shrill whistle from the direction of the little bottom.

  “That’s an emergency signal,” Thomas says.

  My hair prickles at the fear in his voice. Then I hear the pounding of feet and men shouting, “There’s been an accident!”

  Dropping his lunch pail and tools, Thomas hurries toward the air shaft, back the way we came. His boots crunch on the gravel while I lope alongside. He trips over a rail, but scrambles to his feet and keeps running. Sensing his fear, I trot faster. Other miners join us as we race toward the little bottom, the flames on their hats flickering.

  When we reach the wooden trapdoor, it is open. I burst through ahead of the others. Charles Thorne, one of the mule drivers, is leaning over Seth, who lies on the tunnel floor. A team of mules stands hitched to a full cart on the tracks.

  Charles explains what happened as the miners gather around. “We were driving past when he suddenly yelled ‘don’t run over my rat!’ Then he pitched right into the car and knoc
ked himself out.”

  Thomas stares at Seth’s limp body. The boy’s hat is off, and I see blood oozing from a gash on his head. I nose his neck and lick his cheek. When he groans, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

  Thomas volunteers to go for a stretcher and Peter Donna goes with him. I stay with Seth, lying close beside him to keep him warm. Mr. Galletti drapes his jacket over the boy, and for once he doesn’t scowl at me.

  Soon Thomas and Peter appear in the passageway carrying a canvas stretcher between them. Mr. Norberg is right behind, a lantern held high. “Is the boy all right?” he calls.

  “A right nasty cut,” Mr. Thorne replies.

  “Let’s get him topside to the hospital.” Mr. Norberg slides his hands under Seth’s shoulders and nods to Thomas, who grabs the boy’s ankles. Together, they lift him onto the stretcher. “Thomas, you come with me,” Mr. Norberg says. “The rest of you get back to work. I’ll send Joe Leadache from the second vein to man the door.”

  Thomas doesn’t hesitate. He picks up the other end of the stretcher.

  “I told the boy to mind the door, not the rat,” Mr. Galletti mutters as he makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

  “He’s only a lad,” Mr. Donna says, “doing a man’s job. Someone should tell his mum.”

  “I’ll make sure someone fetches her,” Mr. Norberg says. As he and Thomas carry Seth down the tunnel to the cage, I stay close by. Seth groans again. When his hand flops over the side of the stretcher, I give it a gentle lick.

  Bobby and Rosenjack are waiting with the cage. “We’ll take it from here,” Mr. Norberg tells Thomas. “Thank you, lad.”

  “You’ll let me know how he is, sir?” Thomas asks as he backs away from the cage.

  “Someone will.”

  When the cage disappears, Thomas’s shoulders droop. With my own head hanging, I follow him to our room. “That could have easily been me, Finder,” Thomas says. “Seth is only a year younger than I am.” As he harnesses me, I feel the weight of each strap. “Time to get to work, Finder.”