Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  She stood, shaking with rage. In that moment, she finally understood the depth of her hatred for Hazard Flint.

  Mr. Flint tapped his cane on the edge of the desk. “Your uncle is replaceable too. Keep that in mind while making your decision.”

  “Do whatever you want with my uncle,” she said. “He’s of little concern to me. And I won’t be living in Coal River much longer, so I can’t help you with anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.” She started toward the door, but Frank grabbed her arm.

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Flint said. “Let her go. We know where to find her.”

  Frank did as he was told and followed her out of the room, closing the doors behind him. “I’ll take you home,” he said.

  She kept walking. “No. I know my way.”

  “You’ll get drenched.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. “I know you’ve been going up to the miners’ village.”

  “Oh,” she spat. “So it’s your fault I’m here.” She struggled to get away. He held her tighter.

  “I didn’t tell Mr. Flint that,” he said. “I just said you were talking to the boys at the store.”

  “But you told him I rode the Ferris wheel with Clayton.”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to see what you’re getting yourself into!”

  “What I’m getting myself into?” A crazy sounding chuckle escaped her lips. “Mr. Flint is a bigger threat to me now than Clayton will ever be, thanks to you.”

  He squeezed her shoulders, his face twisting in frustration, as if fighting the urge to shake her. “I’m not like him,” he said. “Haven’t I proved that to you? I can protect you from all of them.”

  She gaped up at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Did you forget the other day? What I saw you do?”

  “I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger.”

  “Oh my God. You don’t understand anything, do you?” She broke free and hurried away.

  “But I let you go,” he said, still following. “I could have taken you back down to them. I could have—”

  Emma spun around to face him, her eyes on fire. “You could have what? Thrown me in the river to drown?”

  “No!” he shouted. He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “I could have let them get rid of you. Mr. Flint has no idea it was you down by the river. I said I didn’t recognize you. And if he finds out the truth, we’ll both pay for that lie.”

  She turned away, heading for the front entry. “It’s about time you paid for something.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Without answering, Emma yanked open the door, darted across the veranda, and raced to the bottom of the steps. It was pouring now, the rain coming down in heavy sheets. She ran along the sidewalk and headed home, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Frank wasn’t behind her. After a few minutes she slowed, trudging through deep puddles and wet gravel, her hair soaked and the bottom of her skirt growing heavier with every step. Now what was she supposed to do?

  CHAPTER 14

  Later that night, after everyone was asleep, Emma snuck up to the miners’ village with a tin of raisins and two slices of lemon pound cake wrapped in parchment paper tucked beneath her overcoat to keep them dry. The rain had let up, but every now and then the skies opened up again to release a quick, cold drizzle. By the time she reached her destination, her hair and the bottom of her skirt were soaked through. She shivered, unsure if it was from rainwater dripping down the back of her neck, or nerves. Standing in the middle of the dirt road, she hoped she was at the right place.

  The windows of the shanty were dark, the porch empty. She took a deep breath, crept up the steps, and knocked on the door. No sound came from inside, no footsteps across the floor, no voices asking who was there. She knocked harder. Finally the handle turned and the door inched open. Halfway down the frame, a wedge of cheek became visible, and an eye peeked out through a dark crack.

  It was Jack.

  “Hello,” she said. “Remember me?”

  He nodded.

  “Is this Clayton Nash’s house?”

  Jack opened the door farther, one hand on the handle. He was barefoot and wearing a threadbare nightshirt with faded red stripes. He nodded and blinked, looking up at her with sleepy eyes. “Yes,” he said in a small voice.

  “Is he awake?”

  Jack shook his head.

  Retrieving the food from beneath her overcoat, she knelt and unwrapped the pound cake. The sweet, buttery smell of lemon and sugar wafted into the damp night. She smiled and held out a piece. “Would you wake Clayton up for me?” she said. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  Jack grabbed the piece of pound cake and took a bite. A look of rapture passed over his features, and then he disappeared into the house, letting the door swing slowly open.

  Emma stood rooted to the porch for a moment, unsure if she should enter. Then, deciding not to let in the damp air, she stepped into the dark house and closed the door behind her, but stayed near the threshold. Jack’s footsteps thumped across the room. He knocked on a door. The door opened and closed. She blinked, hoping her eyes would adjust to the gloom. But the room was too dark to see anything other than the vague shapes of furniture. Jack’s high, muffled voice came through the wall from somewhere in the back of the house, like an excited pixie talking underwater. Another, deeper voice followed, rumbling and surprised. For a second she thought about leaving. Maybe it was a mistake to come. Then something moved on the other side of the dark room, a rustle and a soft thump, like a body shifting in bed. She froze. She wasn’t alone. Someone coughed and she spun around, groping blindly for the doorknob.

  Then something banged near the back of the house, and footsteps sounded on the floorboards. She glanced over her shoulder. A door opened, and a yellow glow filled the doorframe. Body-shaped shadows flickered on the walls of another room. She let go of the doorknob and turned. Jack appeared, and then Clayton’s confused face above a hurricane lamp, his skin yellowed by the light, his dark hair sticking up in all directions. He wore a sleeveless undershirt and brown trousers, his suspenders hanging loose from his waist. Lantern light filled the room, and Emma looked around.

  Another boy and three girls slept on cots and a threadbare davenport, thin sheets and lumpy pillows bundled beneath their heads and bodies. Emma recognized the two older girls from the store, and the other boy was Sawyer. She gaped at Clayton, her mind racing with questions. Who were these children, and what were they doing here? She knew he was taking care of Jack, but what about the others? And why didn’t he tell her about Sawyer? What else was he hiding? A wife? A radical mine striker? A penchant for murder?

  Clayton whispered in Jack’s ear, then motioned for Emma to follow him toward the back of the shanty. Jack returned to his makeshift bed. Emma followed Clayton down a short hallway into a back room lined with canning jars and wooden barrels, trying not to stare at his bare arms and shoulders. Growing up in the theater, she’d seen plenty of male actors in their undergarments in dressing rooms, but they were either pale and slender, or overweight. Clayton’s chest and arms were corded with muscle, like iron bulging beneath his skin. The sheer size of his back reminded her of a workhorse. He turned to face her, and her cheeks flushed.

  “You have a family,” she whispered.

  “You might say that.” He turned down the lantern and set it on a shelf.

  “And your wife?” she said. “Is she sleeping? Maybe I shouldn’t have come. . . .” She turned to leave.

  He caught her by the elbow and shook his head. “My wife . . .” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Jennie died during the yellow fever outbreak last year.”

  She swallowed. “I’m so sorry. That must have been extremely difficult.”

  “If it weren’t for those kids in the other room, I’m not sure what I would have done. She did her best to hold on, but . .
.” He scrubbed his fingers across his mouth and looked away, pain passing like a shadow over his face.

  For a moment, Emma couldn’t speak. She wasn’t sure why, but seeing Clayton so distraught over the loss of his wife unsettled her in ways she didn’t understand. Yet she was determined to control her emotions, so she ignored the burning lump in her throat and went on. “It must be hard taking care of all those children alone.”

  “It can be.”

  Then she had another thought and furrowed her brow, unsure if she should broach the subject, yet knowing she must. “But Sawyer works in the breaker,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid something will happen to him?”

  Clayton leaned against the wall. Weariness seemed to weigh him down like a sodden overcoat. “What choice do I have? I can’t let those kids starve to death. I work extra shifts when I can, but I still have a hard time keeping them fed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s really none of my business. They’re your family after all, and I—”

  “They’re orphans.”

  Emma stared at him, wide-eyed. “All of them?”

  He nodded. “Sawyer and Jack are brothers.”

  “But when Sawyer told me about Jack’s mother and father, he acted so . . . so . . . matter-of-fact. I never would have guessed he was talking about his own parents.”

  “Sawyer is strong,” Clayton said. “Too strong sometimes.”

  “But why are they all living with you?”

  “My wife and I took in Violet, Sadie, and Edith shortly before she passed. After she was gone, I added Jack and Sawyer to the herd.”

  In that instant, Emma knew Mr. Flint and Frank were wrong about Clayton. He had a rough exterior, but inside, he was a good man who, despite his own suffering, wanted to make life better for those around him. She believed it with all her heart, and now, finally, she knew she could trust him. She just needed to convince him that she was on his side. If he would just give her a chance, whatever he wanted or needed her to do, she would do it. And she would be safe with him. She was sure of it. Suddenly the storage room felt like the inside of a coal stove. She longed to tell him what she was feeling, but had no idea what to say or where to begin. Or if she even should. And words wouldn’t do justice to the jumble of feelings rushing through her head. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to kiss his lips and ease his pain, to let him know he was no longer alone. Blinking back the moisture in her eyes, she said, “What happened to their parents?”

  “Mining accidents, illness, disappearances.”

  She shook her head, speechless.

  “What are you doing here, Emma?” he said.

  She hesitated, trying to find the words to explain. “I came to warn you that Hazard Flint thinks you’re up to something. He wants me to spy on you. He offered me money.”

  He straightened, his face filled with alarm. “When did he say that? And why were you talking to him?”

  “Frank Bannister forced me to go with him to the mansion. He said Mr. Flint wanted to interrogate me about the breaker boys who ran away.”

  “Why would he question you about that?”

  “Probably because I’ve been sneaking up here, bringing food and teaching some of the children to read and write. Someone found out.”

  “So you were the one leaving food on our porch! I knew it!”

  Her mouth fell open. “You did?”

  “I know a fighter when I see one, and you told me you wanted to help. It was pretty easy to figure out.”

  “If I’d known you had all those children living here,” she said, “I’d have left more for you. But I wasn’t even sure this was your house.”

  “It was enough. The kids thought it was Christmas every time they found something outside the door. Thank you.” He smiled at her, his green eyes shimmering in the lantern light. It was all she could do not to move closer.

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad to help.”

  Then his face went dark. “Now, tell me about Mr. Flint. What did he want?”

  “He said the boys’ mothers accused me of filling their sons’ heads with ideas, but he really wanted to ask me about you. He says you’re involved with the Molly Maguires, a secret society of miners who use violence to get what they want.”

  “I know who they are.”

  “He thinks you’re planning something big, something that will cause a lot of bloodshed.”

  Anger hardened his features. “That’s not true. I’m trying to help the miners stand up for their rights. Get what they deserve. But we’re peaceful, not violent agitators. If there’s bloodshed, it will be Hazard Flint’s fault, not mine.”

  “I want to help,” she said. “I’m doing all I can right now, but I need . . .”

  Clayton moved toward her, and she felt herself go weak, ready to be taken into his arms. Instead he grabbed her by the shoulders. “No,” he said. “It’s too risky. You need to be extra careful now that Mr. Flint is watching you. He’s dangerous, and he’ll stop at nothing to get rid of any opposition.”

  “I know. I saw him murder two men.”

  “What? When?”

  “A little over a week ago, when I was down by the river. Mr. Flint was there, with Frank Bannister and some man I’ve never seen before. I didn’t see them kill the first one, only the body floating down the river, but they shot a second man and shoved him into the water.”

  “Shit.” Clayton moved away from her, his hands in fists. “Did they see you?”

  “I’m not sure about Mr. Flint and the other man,” she said. “But Frank did. He told me to keep my mouth shut.”

  His head snapped in her direction. “He didn’t turn you in?”

  She shook her head. “No. We knew each other as children and . . .” She shrugged.

  “So you’re friends with the police captain?”

  “No,” she protested. “He wants to be friends, but . . . he’s the reason Mr. Flint wanted to talk to me. Frank wants me to think he can protect me. He wants—”

  “Did you recognize either of the men they killed?”

  For a second, she was hurt by his lack of interest in her relationship with Frank. But that was childish. There were more important things to worry about. “I don’t know the miners,” she said, “only some of the wives.”

  “They were probably single men or immigrants,” he said. “Someone who wouldn’t go along with something Mr. Flint wanted them to do.” He paced the room, silently stewing. Then he stopped and turned to her. “Maybe you should play along with Mr. Flint.”

  “No, I won’t. I said I hardly knew you.”

  “Well, if he tries anything else, tell him what I just said, that I’m trying to organize peaceful opposition.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A strike.”

  She gaped at him. “You want me to tell him you’re planning a strike?”

  “Yes,” he said. “If he asks again, tell him I’m trying to plan a strike but no one wants to cooperate because they’re scared of him.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. But what you don’t know can’t hurt you. And that might just buy me some time. Now you’d better go. And be careful no one sees you.”

  CHAPTER 15

  A week later, during the first days of August, a group of coffins and mourners traveled up Freedom Hill Road in a long, jagged line, twisting out of sight around the last bend before turning into the cemetery. Hazard and Levi Flint followed the mourners and their families in their touring car, its engine growling and spitting black smoke into the morning air. Behind them, the entire regiment of the Coal River Coal and Iron Police—forty men—rode on horseback, rifles slung across their backs. The rest of the villagers followed on foot, except Uncle Otis, Aunt Ida, Percy, and Emma, who were in the Tin Lizzie.

  Two days earlier, a sixth-level section of the breaker had collapsed right before the midday break, sending massive beams, heavy machinery, and one end of the still-rotating crusher crashing
through three floors. Four breaker boys were killed instantly, and two more died within minutes of being pulled from the wreckage. Several others suffered serious injuries, including broken bones, crushed limbs, and deep lacerations.

  Emma had no idea which boys were killed because the mine was shut down for two days, leaving her trapped at home while Uncle Otis stayed up half the night, drinking and tooling around the house at odd hours. She was afraid he would catch her if she snuck out to go up to the miners’ village. Even the Company Store was closed, giving her no excuse to leave the house. The only thing she could do was pray that Sawyer was all right and that Clayton didn’t think she had abandoned them. Other than the time spent waiting for her parents to return to Coal River after Albert drowned, and the day she woke up in the hospital after the fire, the last two days felt like the longest of her life.

  Luckily, her aunt believed her story about what happened at the Flint Mansion. When Emma returned, she claimed she and Mr. Flint had determined that the breaker boys had run away with the carnival. It didn’t have a thing to do with her. If anything, Emma suggested, Mr. Flint was a caring man who seemed thankful that she was developing a friendly relationship with the miners’ families. He hoped it would bridge the misunderstandings between the miners and the better sorts of townspeople during the recent discord. While Aunt Ida seemed relieved that Mr. Flint hadn’t found Emma guilty of any wrongdoing, she still kept a close eye on her niece. She also decided it would be best not to tell Uncle Otis about Frank Bannister coming to fetch Emma. He had enough on his mind.

  Now, Uncle Otis drove the Tin Lizzie through the iron gates of the cemetery, braking and swearing under his breath every time the procession slowed. In the backseat with Percy, Emma dabbed her swollen eyes with a handkerchief, watching the tombstones roll past the car windows. She hoped they wouldn’t go near Albert’s grave, which was in a separate section near the back of the grounds. Maybe it was selfish and wrong, but she hadn’t visited his grave since her return, and had no intention of going there anytime soon. Besides the fact that he was buried in Uncle Otis’s family plot, the thought of him lying beneath the earth, his small body in a wooden box—cold, still, and alone—cut into her heart like shards of glass.