He turned to his mother and took her hands. “Mum, I’ve been practicing. I’m real good.”
“I don’t care. Look at Richard Doyle. He lost his hand. And Margaret Wynche’s boy. He got dragged under a tub, now he’s hobbling about on one leg. And the Jones boy—”
“Annie,” David’s father cut in quickly, “thare be naw need fur awl that.” It was not the miners’ way to talk about mine accidents or the dangers associated with their work.
“Mum,” David said quietly, “I get one and sixpence as a hurrier. Spraggers are paid three and two.” He squeezed her hands, cutting off her protest. “And besides, I’m getting too big to be a hurrier. I’ve got sores on my back from scraping the top of the tunnels.”
“Davee, I—”
“’E’s reet aboot bein’ too big, Annie.”
She turned away, lips pressed into a tight line, knowing she had lost. Again. And yet, strangely, she felt a little thrill of pride, too. This was her son. He had her will, her determination, her fierceness in grabbing life and shaking it until it conformed to one’s will.
David swung around. “Mum? What if we take the extra money and put it into your box?”
She was stunned. “What box?”
“The box for America.”
She whirled around to look at her husband, but he was as shocked as she was. “You know about that?” she exclaimed.
A curt nod. “I do. Think about it, Mum. Six shillings a week. Even when I take out my expenses. Every week, six more shillings. Think what that will do for us.”
She wanted to slap him and hug him at the same time. How had he known about the box she kept hidden under the floor? And how could a twelve-year-old know that the one thing that kept her going, kept her alive, was the thought of leaving the mines and going to America?
With a cry that was half laugh, half sob, she threw her arms around him. “All right.”
Now his father came to him. “Ta even try oot fur spragger, ya need permission from Mr. Rhodes. An’ he gonna be sayin’, Naw way ya gonna be a spragger at age twelve.”
“I was going to stop and see him this morning. There be an opening coming up next week.”
“Ah, know, but . . .” John stopped, his eyes lifting to stare at the ceiling. David looked at his mother, and she smiled. They both knew this meant that his mind was working, chewing on the problem, considering it from every angle. Finally, he gave a brief nod. “Here’s what ya be sayin’ when ya talk to ’im.”
Mr. Jonathan A. Rhodes, supervisor of Pit Three, was a short man with a giant ego. Like some small men, he was vicious and mean. He always had a cigar clamped between his teeth, as if that somehow made him more formidable. He had a temper like a bulldog with boils and a tongue like a mule skinner’s whip. David hated him with a deep and silent intensity that still smoldered after nearly six years. It was Rhodes who had left Bertie and the spragger lying there, all battered and broken, while the miners cleared the tunnel. There had been no expression of sorrow, only a stream of profanity over the fact that the mine had shut down.
Later David had learned that Bertie’s family had had to pay half a pound to have the body brought up top. One more evidence that the most serious offense a miner could commit was to have an accident that stopped work. If a mule died in the mines, the company paid to have the carcass removed. If a man or boy died in the mines, the family had to shoulder the costs, and typically the body was left in place until the end of the shift. But none of this showed on David’s face when he knocked firmly on the office door of Mr. Jonathan A. Rhodes.
“Yah!” It was a low bark with not the tiniest shred of patience in it.
He pushed the door open, sweeping off his cap. “Mr. Rhodes, sir? Ah be Davee Dick’nson.” There was no way he would be talking fancy London talk here.
He swung around. “Who cares? Why ahrn’t ya in the cage? Shift starts in five minutes.”
“Beggin’ yur pardon, sir, but Ah hurd ya wur lookin’ fur a new spragger. Ah’m yur man.”
He leaned back. “John Dick’nson’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.” He held his breath. His father was widely respected among the miners.
“Too late. Awreddy ’ave me a boy picked oot. Sean Williams.” Then his eyes narrowed. “’Ow old ya be, boy?”
“T’day be me twelfth bur’day, sir.”
There was a rasp of disgust. “Git outta ’ere. Spraggers need be thirteen. See me next year.”
“Beggin’ yur pardon, sir, but Ah be better than Sean Williams.”
For a moment, David thought the man was going to explode, but then a deep chuckle rumbled within him. “Well, ya be cheeky e’nuff.” He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Sorry. Awreddy tole Sean ’e cud ’ave it. Noow git.”
But David stood his ground. “’Ow aboot a contest, sir?”
The place Rhodes chose for the “shoot-out,” as he called it, was in Chute Number Four. It was a long chute. The tunnel’s roof was five to seven feet high, and the walls about thirty feet apart. That was wide enough and high enough to run a double track and use mule teams. The engineers had made it so the chute had a slight decline. It wasn’t dramatic—about a two-percent grade—but it was enough to keep a train of seven or eight cars rolling. Rhodes had chosen Chute Four precisely because of the slope in the floor. Seeing how a boy did on a level stretch was no contest at all. Six loaded cars sat on the rails, three in one train, three in another.
These full-sized coal carts were four feet wide and eight feet long and could hold the contents of six of the small coal tubs. That was about four tons of coal each. The carts had wheels and axles formed from a single piece of steel. This meant the two wheels did not turn independently, nor did they have an independent braking system. This was where the spraggers came in. If a car got rolling too fast down a grade, it would jump the tracks and smash into the wall.
A sprag was a stick of oak or other hardwood about two feet long, which had been milled down until it was round like a shovel handle, only about half again as thick. These were the “brakes” for the cars. The spraggers would run alongside the car, and, if it got rolling too fast, or simply when the car had to be stopped, they would jam sprags up behind the wheels. The sprags would be jerked upward and jam in so tightly that the wheels locked. It was a cheap and effective braking system. Cheap, if you didn’t count the danger to the spraggers.
Since the bed of the car extended almost a foot over the wheels on all four sides, placing the sprags exactly right when a car was rolling took speed, agility, and a quick eye. His mother was right. It was dangerous work. If you didn’t put the sprag in far enough, when the wheel grabbed the wood it could pop the stick right back out at you, cracking your jaw or maybe putting out an eye. If you put the sprag in too far, it could yank you in with it. That was how fingers were crushed or severed. Sometimes hands and arms as well.1
So what? David thought. Every job in the mine was dangerous to one degree or another. Bertie Beames was the ultimate proof of that. What being a spragger offered in addition to the higher pay were some very attractive compensations. First of all, spraggers roamed freely through the tunnels. No more sitting in mind-numbing darkness hour after hour, listening to the rats and counting the drips of water from the ceiling. No more crawling along dark passageways, pulling your guts out trying to keep the tubs moving.
And precisely because it was so dangerous and required such quickness and skill, the work was exciting. You never heard spraggers talking about how bored they were. And with that came the extra pay. And prestige. Even the miners viewed the spraggers with respect. If a load was spilled, it was the miner who got his wages docked, so miners curried the favor of the spraggers. Some even brought tobacco or food for them.
David was startled out of his thoughts when someone gave him a hard shove from behind. He turned. Sean Williams was standing right behind him, breathing heavily, his face a stormy cloud. “Ya be the wazakk tryin’ ta tek me job away frum me?”
David to
ok a step back, surprised by the hatred in his eyes. Sean was nearly fourteen, a little older than most starting spraggers. He was lean and hard. He too had spent his life in the mines. He was half a head taller than David, which would give him an advantage when it came to placing the sprags. But David hoped he was just enough faster than Sean to make up for it.
David’s jaw set. “No, I be the wazak who be takin’ yur job away frum ya this mornin’.”
Sean’s face went the color of a plum. The men roared with laughter. David turned, grinning. That was a mistake. Sean lunged. His clenched fist caught David high on the right side of his cheek. Lights flashed and he stumbled backward. His foot caught on a rail and he slipped and went down hard. Searing pain shot through his right hand as he threw it out to catch himself.
“Fight! Fight!” The shout echoed in the tunnel and instantly the men and boys closed in around them. Sean stepped forward, breathing hard, glaring down at him. “Ya ’ave a big mooth, lit’le boy, but ya canna be a spragger if ya canna even see sumthin’ comin’ at ya.”
More laughter. David remained where he was, still a little dazed. Then he saw Rhodes push into the circle, his head moving back and forth as he took in what was happening. David knew he wasn’t there to intervene. That was not the way of the miner. His eyes flashed when he saw David on the ground, but he just jammed the cigar in his mouth and waited.
For a moment, David was tempted to turn his head, search out his father. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. If he didn’t do something right now, the contest was over before it started.
Sean spat to one side and turned away. “Cum back in a year or two, wazak.”
With a shake of his head to clear the lights dancing before his eyes, David got slowly to his knees, then to his feet. Every eye was on him now. He started toward the retreating back. The shouting and yelling instantly died away. Hearing that, Sean stopped and turned around. When he saw David coming, his fists came up again. “Reddy fur sum more, lit’le boy?”
“Yep,” David said. His head was down, and his arms were at his side. “Only this time, let’s see if ya can do it when me back’s naw turned.”
Sean threw another punch, this one aimed straight at David’s jaw. David ducked to one side and grabbed Sean’s wrist in a pincer grip. Then he smashed his left fist into Sean’s nose. Blood spurted. He hit him again. Then again. And this time it was Sean who went down flat.
There was stunned silence. It had happened so fast. David moved to stand over him, chest rising and falling as he stared at him. “I’m back now, big boy,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“E’nuff!” Rhodes roared. “We ain’t gunna settle this wit fists. Git yur sprags. The ’ole mine’s shut doon ’ere, so let’s git it over wit.”
“Awl reet,” Rhodes bellowed, raising his hand for silence. “Thare be only one rule. We cahrn’t be ’avin’ these cars jumpin’ the tracks joost cuz we got two nippers who think they be a couple of barnyard roosters. So, we have Dick Canning ’ere, an’ Johnnie Brown. They be two of our best spraggers. If’n sumthin’ goes wrong, they’ll jump in.” He swung on David and Sean. “If’n they tell ya ta git outta the way, ya better git outta the way.”
He waited for their acknowledgment, then chomped down hard on his cigar. “Ev’rybuddy else stays oot of it. Naw callin’ oot advice. If’n that ’appens, the contest be over. Un’erstood?”
Everyone nodded.
“Awl reet,” he said, glowering at David. “Dick’nson be tekking the first three cars. Williams gits the second train.”
Three cars meant six sets of wheels. David selected six stout sprags, then, as a second thought, took two more. His father had said you always needed extra sprags. He tucked all but one under his left arm, took the last one in his right hand, and walked to the first three cars. Half a dozen men, including his father, stood behind the last car, ready to start the train rolling.
“Ya be ready?” Rhodes called. David’s head bobbed once. “Then let ’em roll.”
For a moment, there was not a sound except for grunts of exertion as the men leaned into the back of the last car. Then there was a creak, followed by a groan of steel, and the wheels began to turn slowly. David bent down, watching the lead wheel intently. All thoughts of Sean Williams were gone. Now it was just him and these six wheels.
“She be yurs,” someone behind him hollered.
He was right. Gravity was taking over and the cars gradually began increasing in speed. David walked along, ignoring the creaking and groaning, which were becoming more pronounced. He had earlier walked this stretch of track twice and had a good feel for what was coming. The slight decline ran all the way to the gangway, which meant that if the train were left alone, it would hit the last curve too fast. From here, the chute was straight for a good three hundred feet. Then the tunnel curved slightly, opened up in another straightaway of a hundred feet, then bent into the final turn before the gangway that led to the cage.
The trick was to keep the train from going so fast that it jumped the track, yet not stop it too soon. If he did that, mules would have to be brought up to take it on into the gangway and the cage. David had watched spraggers work before and had been amazed to see them bring a train to a halt just ten or fifteen yards from the cage.
David broke into a trot as the cars continued picking up speed, rocking back and forth. His eyes darted back and forth from the wheels to the track ahead. He ducked. Just ahead the roof lowered enough that the top of the coal in the cart just barely cleared it. Hit that with your head and the contest would be over, or worse.
He broke into an easy run. The cars were moving at five or six miles an hour now, but they had covered only half the distance to the first curve. Not yet. Not yet!
Ten seconds before it reached the curve, the train was running at close to eight miles an hour and he was sprinting hard. It was time. That, or lose control. He leaned in and shoved the first sprag behind the lead wheel. Instantly, there was a spray of sparks and the horrible screech of steel.
David swore softly. He had been so worried about getting his hand caught that he hadn’t put the sprag in as far as it should have been. The wheel caught the end of it, and the tremendous pressure on the stick twisted it upward and outward at a crazy angle. No time to worry about that now. He dropped back to the next wheel, snatching another sprag from beneath his arm. This time he really leaned into it, and this time his placement was perfect. The wheel jerked the sprag out of his hand, burning his fingers with the speed of it. He was vaguely conscious of shouts and someone running hard right behind him.
With two sets of wheels locked and shooting sparks, the train was no longer increasing its speed, but neither had it slowed appreciably. His eyes snapped forward. The curve was just ahead. He dropped back to sprag the second car when someone slugged him on the shoulder. It was Johnnie Brown, running alongside him now. “Watch yur front sprag!”
His head jerked forward and instantly he knew he was in trouble. That first sprag was wobbling wildly. There was no way it was going to hold. Even as he darted forward, there was a sharp crack. The end of the sprag sheared off, and the rest of it rocketed back at him like a missile. He ducked to one side, feeling a brush of air as the stick shot past his head.
With the release of that set of wheels, the train shot forward again. It was leaning into the curve now, with the next one just seconds away. Sprinting hard, he grabbed yet another sprag.
“Block ’em awl. Block ’em awl!” Johnnie was screaming.
David barely heard. He knew what had to happen, and how fast it had to happen. Feeling like his lungs were on fire, he bent down, running at full speed. He reached the front wheel, leaned in, and shoved hard. This time there was no mistake. The wheels shrieked in protest as sparks shot out from beneath them. He didn’t wait to see if it would hold. Back again to the lead wheel of the second car. Don’t rush it. There! His hand darted in and out and the wheels locked. Grab another sprag. Drop back. Shove it in. See the sparks and know it’s a
ll right.
With the speed of a striking cobra, in went another, and another. And that did it. As the train hit the last curve, its speed dropped dramatically. He slowed, matching the train’s pace, head jerking back and forth as he checked each of the six sprags. They were all in solid as a rock.
It was over. The lunging monster swung into the gangway and ground to a halt about fifty or sixty feet later. It was another hundred feet to the cage, but David didn’t care. It was stopped. He bent over, hands on his legs, gulping in deep breaths of air. Someone ran up beside him. “Gud work, man,” Johnnie said. “Ah thot it was a goner thare fur a bit. Gud job.”
“Thanks,” he said, not looking up. He couldn’t. He felt sick. He had lost, and he didn’t need to wait for Sean Williams to prove that to him.
As he was buckling the gurl belt around his waist, readying himself to haul an empty tub through the monkey head to the next chamber, he saw his father approaching. He kept his head down, pretending he hadn’t seen him. Don’t tell me how great I did, Dahd. Please.
When John reached him, there was a brief nod. “Sean did well. Every sprag put straight in.”
“I heard.” Do we really have to talk about it?
A hand rested on his shoulder. “Davee?”
“Yes, Dahd.”
“Mr. Rhodes pulled me over b’fur ’e went back up top.”
The Undaunted Page 8