The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Stay back! Stay back or I’ll cut you!”

  He must be stark raving mad, fighting shadows like that. She had heard of this happening to people who drank heavily, how they saw snakes and other visions that terrified them. She drew her arms and legs tighter to her body as he continued to flail at the shadows. What next? Would he turn his knife on her?

  “Jenny! Jenny!”

  There was that voice again. She must be going mad, too; imagining Patrick calling her like this.

  “Jenny, where are you!”

  No, that was no imaginary voice! “Over here, Patrick! I’m over here!” she shouted. But where was he? Why couldn’t she see him? “Is . . . that really you?” she added, feeling the need to make certain her mind was still anchored to reality.

  “Jenny, I’ve come for you. Be ready.”

  Be ready? But how? She struggled against the ropes, pulling this way and that. No use. Then she stretched out her legs and raised her skirt to expose her ankles. If he had a knife he could cut the rope. Even if there was no time to do her wrists, she could still run. But the ankles, they were the key.

  She peered through the shadows and watched as, inch by inch, Powderkeg was driven backward. When Patrick finally entered the field of lamp light, her heart leapt.

  “Be careful, Patrick,” she said, her voice a whisper. He had a knife, too, and she began praying when she saw it was still clean while Powderkeg’s was covered in blood.

  “Stay back. Don’t come no further or I’ll cut you again!” Powderkeg growled.

  Steel met steel as Patrick continued driving him backward. But when he finally saw Virginia, sitting on the ground between two timber pillars, he let his guard down for an instant, enough time for Powderkeg to strike again. From where she sat, it looked like the blade went deep into his heavy shirtsleeve. Virginia held her breath. Maybe it only penetrated cloth. But when Powderkeg pulled out his knife, she saw that the sleeve was wet and that Patrick’s arm dangled, like a dead cod, against his side. Mercifully, he still had his fighting arm, which he used with such ferocity it made her gasp. “Be careful, Patrick, be careful,” she mumbled.

  She didn’t want to watch but was powerless to stop. The two men were like wild beasts clashing as they thrust and parried, darted and weaved, shoved and pushed and crashed into each other and the timbers, making the whole tunnel shudder.

  Patrick was the next to draw blood. His knife went into Powderkeg’s side, just below his ribs. But instead of stopping him, Powderkeg became more enraged; and growling like a bear, he swung his knife so hard that when it connected with Patrick’s, it knocked Patrick’s from his hand and sent it flying several feet away.

  Now Patrick was unarmed.

  Virginia’s silent prayers intensified while she watched in horror as Powderkeg moved in for the kill. But just as Powderkeg was upon him, Patrick stepped aside making the crazed man lunge into open space and lose his balance. Then Patrick picked up a large piece of fallen slate, and while Powderkeg was still trying to regain his footing, Patrick, using his good arm, came down hard with the rock on Powderkeg’s head, sending the crazed man to the ground. At once, Patrick bent over the body, pulled the knife from Powderkeg’s hand and rushed to where Virginia sat.

  Without a word he cut the rope around her ankles. Then he worked to free her wrists. His knife was nearly through the rope when suddenly Powderkeg was upon him. And with one ferocious, almost maniacal movement, he raised his boot and kicked Patrick full force in his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Patrick groaned and writhed with pain, but managed to hold onto the knife. And when Powderkeg flew at him, it was only a second or two before the crazed man was dead.

  But Patrick remained on his back, limp as death, too. Virginia tore at her nearly severed bonds, deeply cutting her wrists as she struggled to free herself. And after she did, she crawled to where Patrick lay.

  “Patrick! Patrick!”

  He groaned as she checked him for wounds, running her hands down his arms, torso and legs, and finding only the gash in his upper left arm, and another across his cheek. And that worried her.

  “Patrick.” She was on her knees beside him, her face close to his. “I think your insides are damaged. I must go for help.”

  Patrick opened his eyes. “Come, darlin’, help me up. I must get you free of this tunnel. You’ll never find the way out on your own.”

  “No. You can’t. You’re hurt. Badly hurt. Inside. It could be your ribs . . . your lungs. Just tell me the way and I’ll go for help.”

  “‘Tis no use, lass. If you do that we’ll both die here. You must get me up. I’ll take you out. Then you can go for help.”

  “First, let me bind your arm before you bleed out.” Virginia leaned sideways where Powderkeg lay and nearly heaved as she pulled the knife from his heart. Then she began cutting the edge of her skirt. She willed herself to be calm as she wound the strip of fabric tightly around Patrick’s gash, and knotted the ends. Then she rose and went to where the three remaining flickering lanterns were positioned along the track, and picked up each one to determine which contained the most kerosene. They were all woefully low, but there was no time to trim or refill a lamp now, so she chose one and carried it to the pillar nearest Patrick, placed it on the ground, and returned to where Patrick still laid. He was such a large, powerful man. How was she ever going to get him to his feet?

  Oh, God, give me strength.

  “I’m going to sit you up,” she said, kneeling by his head and drawing his shoulders up over her lap. “After I do, I’ll drag you to that nearby timber and prop you against it. Then I’ll try to raise you. But you need to help me by pulling yourself up with your good arm.”

  He groaned with every move, but slowly, slowly she was able to get him to the post. But if he hadn’t used his feet to help propel himself backward, she doubted she could have done it. But it cost him. The look on his face and the constant grinding of his teeth told her just how much. But getting him to stand was even more difficult. Virginia put both hands under his left arm, while he held the timber post with his other, and helped shinny himself up. She pulled and pulled with all her might, causing fresh blood from his wound to soil the newly applied bandage. And more than once, Virginia feared Patrick would pass out from the pain. When he finally got to his feet and leaned against the pole, Virginia picked up the lamp. With lamp in one hand and the other bracing Patrick’s back, and with Patrick’s arm around her shoulders and hardly able to stand, they began the long trek to the surface.

  Patrick was right. There was no way she would ever have found her way out of the maze of tunnels that twisted and turned in every direction. Even Patrick often lost his bearings, though Virginia suspected it was due more to his pain than anything else.

  They stopped often to rest. It was difficult for Patrick to walk for long. But those times when they stopped, Virginia noticed how his breathing was becoming more labored and caused him to grimace with pain. There were times she was sure he was going to pass out, for he’d close his eyes and weave. And just when she’d think he was about to go down, he’d rally, as if something deep inside kept urging him forward. She marveled at his determination, but doubted he could keep this up much longer. They just had to reach the surface soon.

  Finally, there was light, way up ahead, a small light, like the flame of a candle that seemed to flicker and move as they wound their way through the dank tunnel. Oh, God, help us make it! They were nearly at the opening when their lamp went out, causing them to stumble over the last few yards. Virginia knew these final yards were utter agony for Patrick for he could barely keep from crying out with pain every time his foot found a broken track or pile of rubble which caused him to misstep and jar his body.

  And then . . . freedom . . . with sunshine streaming on their faces, the sound of birds chirping, the smell of pine filling the air. Virginia couldn’t keep from laughing and praising G
od. But as she gave thanks, Patrick collapsed in her arms.

  With what strength she had left, she lowered him to the ground. They appeared to be in an old clearing, for it had few trees while the surrounding area was so thick with yellow and white pines, maples and hickories and even birches, she could barely see through them. And though the mine was so old the dirt road leading to it was covered with underbrush, Virginia could still see signs of a trail. It was the trail she would follow.

  “I must go for help now,” Virginia said, kneeling beside him, her hands caressing his blood-and-dirt streaked face, her lips kissing his bruised forehead.

  “No, lass, ‘tis no use. I’m only grateful I found you. I went to them all. Powderkeg’s hidin’ places. I knew you’d be in one of them.”

  Virginia looked up at the sky. The position of the sun told her it was late afternoon. “There’s no time to waste. We’ve not much daylight left. I’ll need every bit to bring help back here to you.”

  When he grabbed her arm and prevented her from rising, it surprised her. But it also gave her hope. He would make it. He was still strong.

  “Listen,” he said, his voice raspy, “when it’s time, keep the sun to the right of you, and head south. This is the old Cargill mine, just north of the Mattson. You’ll be fine, Jenny. People are lookin’ for you, even now. You’ll . . . be all right.”

  “Then I must go.”

  Patrick shook his head, still holding her arm, but loosely now. “Not yet. Stay. It’s not . . . time.” He seemed to be barely breathing.

  Tears streamed down Virginia’s face. “You must let me go before it’s too late. You’re badly hurt, Patrick. Your lungs might be punctured. You may need a surgeon. There’s no time to waste.”

  “For me, it has run out, lass.” His hand dropped to his side. “I feel as though I’m . . . slippin’ away . . . .”

  She kissed his lips as she stifled a sob. “No! Don’t say that. I love you, Patrick. Do you hear? I love you!”

  His lips formed what looked like a partial smile. “I know, darlin’. Your heart has always been easy for me to read . . . like the primer my friend Davin MacCabe used when teachin’ me the . . . . a-b . . . but it’s . . . nice hearin’ you say it.” He closed his eyes. “I shoulda listen to you, Jenny . . . about the law. If I had, this wouldn’t have happened . . . forgive me.”

  “Stop. Don’t talk anymore. Save your strength. And there’s nothing to forgive.” Tears dripped from Virginia’s cheeks as she continued kneeling by his head, his motionless body sprawled over a mass of dried hepatica leaves that covered the small clearing like a blanket. She stroked his hair as she watched his color drain. “Did you know your friend, Davin MacCabe, offered me a job? As a reporter for the Monitor. An honest to goodness reporter! With pay. Oh, Patrick, think what this means! Now we can get that doghole you wanted, and a lot sooner than you expected, too. I wanted to talk to you about it, but there just hasn’t been time. I wanted to know what you thought about me moving to Tamaqua like Mr. MacCabe suggested. It’s only about sixteen miles away, you know. Or should I . . . .”

  “Davin is a good . . . man. He’ll do right by you. I’m proud . . . did I tell you that? Proud of what . . . you’re tryin’ . . . to do . . . for coal . . . con . . . .”

  Virginia sobbed. “Oh, please don’t leave me Patrick. How am I to live in this world without you?”

  “If anyone’s love could keep them here . . . it would be mine . . . but . . . listen . . . . Jesus is callin’. You’re strong, Jenny . . . you’ll be fine . . . I love . . . you . . . .” His eyes rolled toward the back of his head as his lids closed.

  “Patrick!”

  “Forgive me, Jesus . . . save me . . . I’m . . . yours . . . .”

  And those were Patrick’s last words, though Virginia tried to rouse him with her shaking. And when she didn’t have the strength to shake him any longer, and when she was certain he really was gone, she lay down beside him, and with her arm around his chest, sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Kate, look at the sky. It’s getting late, and that dress of yours won’t keep out the frigid night air. You’ll not be good to Virginia or anyone else if you wind up catching your death of cold. Go home while it’s still light. I’ll follow the trail until dark, then find some shelter for the night. I promise that at first light I’ll begin the search again.”

  Through the trees, Kate saw just enough sky to know the sun was dropping. “I’m not leaving. We’ll see this through together.”

  “And have your mother and sister worry all night? That would be cruel.” Joshua frowned as he put his arm around her. “And I don’t want to have to worry about you, either.”

  Kate removed a twig that had become embedded in her hair, ignoring the fact that most of her hair was hanging unfettered. The trek through this part of the mountain was dense with trees and underbrush, and had left their mark. But this was where the trail had led them. Hard to find at first, it was Joshua who spotted the broken branch containing strands of red hair. It led them to a path where they soon saw other broken branches and trampled vegetation. But their overall progress had been slow, and they lost the trail half a dozen times causing them to backtrack. The real breakthrough came when she found a piece of fabric on the branch of a spoonwood; fabric from the dress Virginia wore the night she disappeared. It made them continue following their present trail, a trail that defied logic because it wound north, across the back of Higgins Patch, and deep into woods that, for miles, led nowhere.

  “You must go,” Joshua repeated.

  Kate nodded, heavy hearted and not wanting to give up the search. But Joshua was right. She shouldn’t worry Mother and Charlotte. And what could she do in the dark? “If I thought for a second we were close, you’d have to use blasting powder to get me off this mountain.”

  “And don’t I know it.” He held her for a minute. “It should be easy enough to follow the trail back. But be careful.”

  “I still don’t understand why anyone would come this way. It doesn’t make sense, Joshua. There’s nothing around here for miles. Nothing but trees and brush and . . . the old Cargill mine.” Kate grabbed Joshua’s arm. “That’s it! The Cargill mine! It closed down before I was born. But Mother told me all about it. Her father was superintendent there. The colliery, what’s left of it, is further north, on the other side of the mountain, but I forgot that one of the shafts open, here, on the backside.”

  “I’ll find it, Kate, and check it out. But you go on home.”

  “Oh please, Joshua, not now! Let me go with you. With all this brush it will take two pair of eyes to find it.”

  Joshua looked up at the sky again. “Is it far?”

  “I can’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. I remember Mother saying it was just north of the Mattson Colliery, and if we continue following the trail, we should find it. It’s the only place that makes sense.”

  “You thought the old abandoned saw mill could be it, too.”

  Kate nodded in understanding. They had wasted an hour chasing that speculation.

  “If you go with me now, and the mine isn’t close by, it will mean you’ll have to spend the night out here.”

  “I know. But Virginia could be so near! Should I worry about my comfort or my family’s if it means losing the chance of finding her? And you, yourself, said we only have a little daylight left. It will take a lot less time if both of us are looking for the trail.”

  Joshua furrowed his brow. “All right. But let’s hurry. We’ve no time to waste.”

  The brush seemed to be getting thicker. It pulled Kate’s hair, snagged her sleeves, tore her hem, but she wasn’t about to give up now, because it was this very thickness that made the trail easy to follow with the many broken twigs and branches, as well as the matted vegetation on the ground, all showing them the way. And they had not gone far when suddenly, through the tangled brush, Kate saw a sma
ll clearing.

  “Look, Joshua, over there. See how the landscape changes? Only a few mature trees, and plenty of low brush. It must have been cleared years ago. Maybe it’s the entrance to the mine shaft.”

  Joshua nodded. “Yes, but stay behind me. No telling what we’ll find.”

  So with Kate following Joshua, they maneuvered the remaining distance to the clearing.

  “It is the mine!”

  “Quiet,” Joshua said as he held Kate back with one arm and pointed with the other.

  At first she couldn’t see them in their dirty clothes that blended in with the dried hepatica leaves covering the ground. But then she noticed the two bodies lying side by side, and so still it made her breath catch. The bodies were those of a man and woman, their faces obscured. The man was on his back with only his chin visible, while the woman’s face was buried in his shoulder. But what Kate could clearly see was that the woman had flaming red hair.

  “Oh, Joshua.”

  At once, Joshua pulled out a gleaming revolver that Kate didn’t even know he carried. “Stay here.”

  And while Kate lingered along the edge of the clearing, Joshua crept closer to the pair on the ground. Any minute, Kate expected someone to jump from the bushes, but when she saw Joshua return the gun to his inner coat pocket, she ran over.

  “Virginia! Virginia!” Kate knelt by her sister. “Are they . . . dead?” She looked at Joshua as he bent over the pair.

  “Yes . . . Patrick is. I’m not sure about Virginia.”

  With trembling hands, Kate gathered Virginia up in her arms. “Virginia? Oh, please be alive!” She stroked her sister’s hair. Oh, how scraped and bruised Virginia was! And her dress nearly shredded and so filthy from coal dust. Her hand traveled down Virginia’s bare shoulder. It was cold to the touch. Kate bent and kissed it, and when she did, she heard Virginia moan. And, oh what a wonderful sound it was! At once, Kate began shaking her sister. “Virginia! Wake up! Wake up!” And she would have gone on shaking her like this if Joshua hadn’t stopped her.