David’s head lifted slowly.
“’E said thare be anuther openin’ fur a spragger in a few weeks.” He socked David playfully on his arm. “Rhodes sez ya got spunk an’ ta cum see ’im agin in a month.”
Notes
^1. Much of the information on spraggers comes from Bartoletti, Growing Up in Coal Country, 32–34.
^k. Yorkshire colloquialism for a fool; a very derisive term.
Chapter 8
Saturday, February 20, 1869
When David returned from the paymaster’s office, he slipped quietly into their flat. A candle was burning, but, as he suspected, there was no sign of his mother. He removed his hat and coat and hung them up, careful to avoid any creaky spots in the floor. He moved to the sink and the bucket of water there. Ladling two scoops into the tin washbasin, he bent down and washed his face. As he took the towel and dried off, he eyed himself in the mirror. One hand came up and rubbed along his jawline. Though his mother teased him, saying there was nothing there but boyish hope, he was sure he could feel the first beginnings of stubble.
“David? Is that you?”
He turned, tossed the towel down, and went quickly to his parents’ sleeping room. He pulled the blanket back. “Yes, Mum. I’m back.”
She looked confused. Then she focused on him and offered a fleeting smile. “Already?”
“It’s past nine.”
Now she was remembering. “And your father? Did he go to the pub?” She was clearly disappointed with that.
“No, Mr. Rhodes was at the paymaster’s office. After Dahd was paid, he called him inside.” She looked alarmed, so he added quickly, “He wasn’t angry. He was smiling as Dahd went in.”
A bare nod told him she had heard. David took the black purse from his jacket and shook it, jangling the coins noisily. “Ten shillings this payday, all of it going into the box.”
A wan smile, then her eyes closed again.
That was disturbing. Most times, if he could get her talking about going to America, it enlivened her, cheered her up, lifted her spirits.
As if she sensed what he was thinking, her eyes opened again. “That’s wonderful, David. I counted it last night. We have more than sixty pounds now. We need at least eighty. Ninety would be better. Fifteen each for—”
“I know,” he cut in, sparing her the effort. “Fifteen each for three tickets. Then thirty-five to forty more for expenses.” He could see the thinness of her body, even beneath the blankets. Thankfully, there was not enough light in here to see the yellowish cast that her skin had taken these last few months, or the growing dullness in her eyes. Though she was trying to hide it from him by keeping her hair up in a bun, he knew she was starting to lose that too. That made him want to cry. Her beautiful, golden brown hair was now thin, with no sheen to it.
A nod and a warmer smile. “Do you think I’m crazy, Son? It’s such an impossible dream.”
He went to her and sat down beside her. “Mother,” he said, taking her hands. “You have taken the impossible and made it into reality. Even Dahd believes it is going to happen now.”
She squeezed his hands, and the weakness of her grip was frightening. “I know. My dear, patient, beloved John. That’s the one thing I can thank Reverend Pike for. I would never have come to Yorkshire and met your father if Reverend Pike had defended my mother.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, my darling Davee, I still can’t believe it could really happen.”
She saw him wince and laughed. “I know, I know. You’re twelve now, almost thirteen. Too old and too big for me to be calling you darling anymore.”
He changed the subject. “I’ll be thirteen in less than four months, and I’m planning to make mule driver before then.”
“Oh, David, David. Is this what I’ve done to you? Look at you. Hurrier before you were nine. A spragger at twelve. Now you want to be a mule driver before you’re thirteen. Next thing you know, you’ll be owning the mine before you turn twenty.”
“Aw, gwan, Mum. Mule drivers start at three shillings per day, and when I can handle six mules at a time, then I get a miner’s wages. Five per day. Think of what that will mean, Mum. Almost two pounds per week. I’ll put it all into the box.”
There was the sound behind them of someone clearing his throat. They turned to see David’s father standing in the doorway, flakes of snow in his hair and on his shoulders. He came forward, bent down, and kissed Anne gently on the lips. David watched as the flakes quickly dissolved into water droplets.
She was suddenly anxious. “What did Mr. Rhodes want?”
He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a chair. When he turned back, he was beaming. “’E wanted ta give me four more shillin’s per day.”
“What?” they exclaimed together.
“Startin’ tomorrow, me dear Missus Dick’nson, Ah be the new fire boss in Tunnel Five, an’ that means four more shillin’s per day.”
“Really, Dahd!” The position of fire boss not only paid more, it was a position of great importance. A tunnel fire boss was always the first one into the mine, moving from chamber to chamber, checking for fire damp or other dangerous vapors. No one went in until he said.
Then the implications of that hit David. “Four more shillings per day?” he cried. He jumped up and darted into the main room. He grabbed the slate and a piece of chalk and began scribbling. His mind was racing. At four more shillings per day, that was a full pound every five days, or two pounds eight shillings more per payday. When he made mule driver . . .
He was so excited he had to rub the figures out and start over. When he was finished, he stared at the board. They could save four more pounds each payday! He jumped up and ran back to his mother’s bed. “We can do it before the end of the year, Mum! Look.”
He sat down and led her through the figures. Her arithmetic was much better than his. John Dickinson watched the two of them in admiration. Arithmetic was a complete mystery to him, and he was amazed and proud at the same time.
“We need thirty more for ninety pounds. At four more pounds per pay day, that’s only . . .”
She beat him there. “Eight paydays, or four months.” She fell back, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Four months! Oh, David! There’s only one more week in February, so don’t count that. So March, April, May, June—” She ticked them off her fingers one at a time. Now she was positively glowing. “We could have enough to leave by July.”
John Dickinson coughed awkwardly. “Yur furgittin’ two things. First, Davee’s not a mule driver yet.”
“Oh, John, let us have some fun here.”
“Second,” he went on, stubborn now. “We owe at least thirty poonds ta the minin’ cump’ny.”
He may as well have poured ice water down their necks. David had forgotten. Totally. It was not his worry, and he just never thought about the debt they owed to the company.
“No, John!” His mother spoke with such ferocity that it shocked them both.
“No?”
“No! The mine owners are thieves and robbers. They’re worse than the highwaymen who prowl the moors. At least those men wear a mask and carry pistols. These people are weasels. Rats! Vermin! They charge outrageous prices because we have no choice but to pay them. They dock your pay for the tiniest infraction. And if you don’t watch them like a hawk, they’ll cheat you at the pay window.”
She had to stop. Her chest was rising and falling. “You’ve given them seventy-five or eighty hours of your life every single week since you were five years old. You—don’t—owe—them—one—farthing!” Each word came out like a small cannon shot.
Still too shocked to believe what he was hearing, John just stared at his wife.
She was up on one elbow, pleading now. “I mean it, John. No one knows anything about this. We’re going to just slip away. Like ghosts in the night. They’ll never hear from us again.”
A tiny smile suddenly played around her mouth. “When we get to America, we’ll write and apologize. Tell them how sorry we are t
hat we forgot to pay the bill before we left.”
She fell back, the look on her face one of sweet satisfaction. “I’m tired, John. I’d like to sleep now.” She turned over, cutting off any further comment from either father or son.
Friday, May 14, 1869
David had only one thing on his mind as he watched Freddie Robertson lead his three mules down the gangway toward the third side chute. Five empty coal cars rolled along behind Freddie and his “sweethearts.”
Just watching Freddie got his blood boiling. David should be the one guiding those mules now. Yet, for all his careful plans, all his boasting, there had not been a single position as mule driver come open. So five paydays had passed without the extra money he had counted on that night with his mother. That was almost ten pounds. That meant they would have to postpone their departure until . . .
“Let’s ride ’em back.”
David looked up in surprise to see Sean Williams staring at him, a silly grin pasted on his face. They were walking alongside the cars now, for the tunnel inclined upward here. The mules were doing all the work, and there was no need for the spraggers.
David and Sean Williams had become friends of a sort after their contest for spragger last year. But it was not a particularly close friendship. The memories of the fight still stood between them. Often they were paired together on the longer trains, like today, but when they had a choice, they both selected other junior spraggers to work with.
David straightened slowly and looked around. What Sean was suggesting was that when they reached the chute, they would have a downhill run. Freddie would unhook the mules, and they would let the train roll. That was when the two of them were supposed to run alongside and sprag the train if it got rolling too fast. But the grade in that particular chute was not that steep, so if no one was around, the boys could jump on the bumpers and ride the train all the way except for the last little stretch into the work chamber.
“Cum on,” Sean jeered. “Ain’t nobody aroond. Whaddya say?”
David was tempted. Riding the cars down a chute was exhilarating, but the bosses absolutely forbade it. Nearly half of the fatalities among spraggers came when the boys were struck by a low-hanging outcropping of rock or lost their balance and fell off the cars and were run over.
And there was something else to consider. If they were caught, they wouldn’t be fired. Good spraggers were far too valuable, and he and Sean were the best. But they would be fined, at least half a day’s pay, maybe a full one if Rhodes was in his usual foul mood. And it would be just like him to pass over David for the next mule driver’s position. But . . . the chances of them being caught were practically nil. He grinned. “Why not?”
Freddie had the mules pull the train off into the chute until all five cars were on the decline. David jammed a sprag beneath the lead wheel on his side, and Sean did the same on the other side to hold the train until the mules were unhitched. On the end of each car was the bumper, a small extension of the car’s base, which was just wide enough for a man to stand on while driving the teams. Sean pointed. “Ya care which side ya git?”
“No. Let’s go.”
Sean nodded, leaned down, and knocked the sprag out from behind the wheel. As the wheels groaned and slowly began to turn, the two boys jumped onto the bumper. “See ya at the bottom, Freddie,” Sean called. Then he grasped the sides of the car and leaned forward, looking every bit like some mythical figure on the prow of a ship. As the cars gradually picked up speed, David also leaned forward into the wind. When they rolled past the first lamp, he turned and looked at Sean. Their eyes met and they both laughed.
There wasn’t much danger of the cars jumping the track in this stretch. But you never knew. Sometimes a large chunk of coal would roll off a car and dent the track. Five cars—even empty ones—carried a lot of momentum.
David crouched down slightly, darting his head back and forth, searching out ahead of them for any bad spots. For now, the tunnel was plenty wide, and the roof was a good six feet high, providing ample clearance. But coming quickly now, the entire tunnel constricted. Another hundred feet and the roof would be just inches above their heads. And jumping off when the clearance on either side was just two or three feet was extremely dangerous.
The line of cars approached the first curve; now they were moving at five or six miles an hour, enough that a man would have to run to keep up. David tensed as they approached the narrowing of the tunnel. He remembered very clearly that just beyond the curve there was a real bad spot. A spot of granite had been found in the coal seam and left where it was. It was like a small, upside-down pyramid. Why no one had bothered to knock it off, he wasn’t sure, but it had given more than one miner a raging headache. And it was on his side of the tunnel.
“Whee’yah!”
David turned his head. Sean had one hand raised, letting his fingers brush along the ceiling. His cap was pulled low over his eyes and his chin jutted forward.
Giving a whoop of his own, David let go with one hand and leaned even farther forward, bending his knees to lower his head a few inches. They were between lanterns now and it was hard to make out any contour of the ceiling whipping by just above their heads. That spot should be coming any—there! He jerked his head to the left and down. Too late. The blow slammed his head backwards, almost flipping his face up into the coal face. He felt a searing pain, and lights flashed before his eyes. He dropped to a crouch, clinging desperately to stop from falling.
“Ya awl reet?”
He didn’t answer. Tears were streaming from his eyes, pushed horizontally back across his cheeks by the wind. Reaching up with his other hand, he discovered that his cap was gone. Then he felt the warm stickiness even as pain shot through his skull. He was bleeding.
“Ahre ya okay?” It was Sean again.
He waved a hand. His jaw was clenched against the pain and he couldn’t speak.
And then the roof started to rise again and the floor began to level. They were moving at close to ten miles an hour now, rocking back and forth, but this would be the maximum. The train was already starting to slow. Another hundred and fifty yards and they would roll to a stop at the entrance to the chamber.
That thought brought his head up with a jerk. His hat. If they saw him without his hat, the miners would know instantly what he and Sean had been doing. Most wouldn’t care, but if there was a foreman there . . . He looked down, judging the speed, waiting for a wide space. Then he jumped and hit the ground running. He lumbered to a stop, then whirled and ran back up the chute, scanning the ground ahead of him as he went. Bringing one hand up, he gingerly probed his scalp, grunting in pain. It was bleeding, but so far it was all matting in his hair. He felt his face and found nothing. Good. Blood streaks down his cheeks would end it.
His father wasn’t working this tunnel anymore, but if David came walking in with a bleeding head, his father would know about it before the afternoon was over. He had to find that cap. He moved slowly now, eyes moving back and forth. There. Up against the wall. He picked it up, carefully placed it on his head, then started back, wincing with each step.
Ahead, the train was down to a slow roll. He saw Sean jump off and sprag the wheels. It screeched to a halt. Behind him, he could hear Freddie coming with the mules.
“It’s all right,” he called. “Had to get my cap.”
“Yur cap?” Sean said incredulously as he reached David. “You jumped fur yur cap?”
“Yeah,” David snapped. “First person to see my scalp ripped open and we’d be in trouble.”
“Oh! Yah, reet. Ah dinna think of that.”
“Well, not a word to anyone. My head’s cut, but it’ll be all right.”
Sean put an arm around David’s shoulder, causing him to inhale sharply. “Man, Ah thot fur a minute thare, that outcrop dun tek yur ’ead off.”
“It did,” David said, forcing a grin. “Luckily, it was still inside me cap.”
They waited for Freddie and the mules to catch up with th
em, hitched the animals to the train, then fell in behind the five cars as the mules pulled them into the work chamber.
“Oh-oh,” Sean muttered.
David was keeping his head down in an attempt to lessen the pain. His wound throbbed horribly and he felt a little light-headed. When he looked up, his stomach lurched. Tom Cutler, constable for Cawthorne Village and the Cawthorne Mines, stood in the midst of a half circle of miners.
Sean shot him a look. How could they know already?
David shook his head, instantly regretting it. “Don’t say anything. I’ll do the talking.”
“David Dick’nson?”
“That’s me.” He had seen the constable around town a few times, but rarely did he come into the mines. And surely not for some spraggers riding a train just for fun.
“Do ya kno whare yur pa be reet noow, Son?”
They were going to tell his father? “He’s a fire boss,” he said slowly. “Could be anywhere.”
One of the other miners spoke up. “Saw John earlier this mornin’. Said he wuz gunna do sum work in Tunnel Five.”
The constable turned and nodded. “Gud. Can sumone tek me thare?”
The same man stepped forward. “Ah can.”
David was confused. His head was pounding. The pain was excruciating. But it seemed that this was not about him or Sean. Then a sudden prickling sensation started up the back of his neck. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to my Dahd?”
The constable had started after the other man. He half turned. “Naw, not yur pa.” He went to say more, thought better of it, and started off again. David leaped forward and grabbed his arm. “Then who? What’s happened?”
The man’s eyes were grave and filled with hesitation. He took a breath, then another.
“Tell me!” David cried, tightening his grip. “What’s wrong?”
“It be yur mum,” came the soft answer. “She were walkin’ ta the store, an’ joost collapsed.” At the shock on David’s face, he hurried on. “She be awl reet. They took ’er ta the infirm’ry. She be resting noow. Ya stay ’ere, Son. Soon as we find yur pa, Ah’ll tek ’im up. We’ll send word back doon ta ya.”
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