by Carla Kelly
“I’m not even aware,” she said. “I swear I am not.”
“I believe you, even though thousands wouldn’t,” he joked.
She knew it was a British Isles bit of wit, but it made her feel helpless and then angry. “I wish you wouldn’t say that,” she said, leading to an argument all the more fierce because they kept it quiet, since Angharad still slept in the next room. She wanted to weep because after six months of marriage, it was their first fight.
He left for work without his usual kiss. He didn’t come to the assayer’s office to eat lunch. He apologized that evening, blaming his foul mood on the tension of making sure of the precision of his measurements.
She accepted his apology, all the while wondering if she should apologize for that which she could not control. Maybe he expected her to. When she didn’t, she felt his subtle withdrawal. The casual observer might not have noticed, but Della could tell by his long silences.
He no longer told her when he went into the mine, but from Saul’s office window, she saw Owen and his crew with their load of prepared timbers, riding a flatbed up to the Banner Mine on Uncle Jesse’s railroad spur. It stung her that he said nothing, but she knew better than to comment or, heaven forbid, nag him, as she remembered Aunt Caroline berating Uncle Karl. Maybe Owen was trying to spare her more anxiety. Or maybe he didn’t care anymore.
Or perhaps it was all in her mind, because her husband continued to love her, which, truth to tell, relieved her of considerable anxiety. She treasured the pleasant aftermath when he cradled her head with his hand and held her close to his chest. For those precious moments, her life seemed normal. She was a new bride in love with her husband. If all wasn’t precisely well, whose life was?
Owen’s placid good nature at such times gave her courage to hope tranquility had returned. She asked him one night if she still had those dreams. His hesitation told her all she needed to know, even though he said there probably weren’t so many.
She lay beside her husband, warm and comfortable but wishing she had the courage to ask again if they could leave Tintic as soon as he finished the timbering on the third drift. She had begun to dread the train ride from Knightville to Silver City each day, to the point of hunching down in her seat when the little spur train rounded a curve that opened onto the western plain, stark with headframes and slag heaps. Below ground, miners were busy with their jackhammers as patient mules pulled the ore cars from the mines, one car after another. Gold and silver assayed out in high percentages and men made money.
She longed for trees with leaves, sidewalks, grass, substantial buildings of brick and stone, and lemonade on the porch in the afternoon. Everything here was unpainted wood scoured by constant winds and windows darkened by soot and particles blown from industrial chimneys that turned washing hung out to dry into gray rags. If the wind blew hard enough, she could taste grit in her jelly sandwiches. Lemonade on the porch would have been laughable.
Still, she had promised to honor and obey the good man she married, as much as she yearned to be somewhere else. A strange curtain made of two parts unease to one part disillusionment settled on her mind and refused to let any light through.
She could almost fool Owen into thinking she was content to live in a mining camp. She could almost fool Mr. Weisman by laughing and joking with him. The only creature she couldn’t fool was Saladin. Every morning, the sad-eyed behemoth greeted her at the door and then came close to rest his head against her shoes as she sat at her desk and typed. Every so often he raised his head to look at her, just a sympathetic stare, as if he understood her turmoil.
They were three days from returning to Provo for Thanksgiving with the Knights when Owen announced over breakfast that they were going into the Banner that afternoon, once the morning shift finished, to secure the next timber unit in place on Level Three.
“Da, did you forget that tonight is our Thanksgiving celebration at school?” Angharad asked, the dismay evident in her voice and on her expressive face. “I am to be a pilgrim by the name of Priscilla Mullins. There is a wonderful poem too, which we are going to recite.”
“ ‘The Courtship of Miles Standish,’ ” Della said. “My goodness, Angharad, you get to tell John Alden to think for himself.”
“Mrs. Baldwin says it is a very American thing to do,” Angharad replied. She tried again. “Da, there are two men interested in Priscilla Mullins, and you will miss the fun.”
Owen laughed at that, and winked at Della. “Think on, daughter, but there were two men politely fighting over this mam who decided to cast her lot with you and me. Perhaps it is also a Welsh thing.”
Angharad gave Della a wide-eyed look. “Mam!” She thought a moment and Della nearly smiled to see the gears turning in the child’s head. “Dr. Isgreen?”
Della wanted to hold the moment in her hands, watching father and daughter look at her, with all the kindly regard she was familiar with, from life among the Welsh.
“She made the right choice,” Angharad said.
“Aye, and so I tell her often,” he replied. He gave a sigh. “I do hate to miss your debut on the American theatrical stage, but tonight is the perfect time to install the timber. The miners on the second level have reached a point at the face where they need to blast. When we finish installing the unit, we will set off their charge on the second level on our way out, and they can start work there in the morning. Forgive me?”
“I am doomed to disappointment,” Angharad pronounced in round tones worthy of a Siddons or a Bernhardt.
“Alas and alack,” Owen said. “I’ll get home in the wee hours. Tomorrow after I wake up, what do you say you sit on my lap and we read the poem together?”
“If that is to be my lot,” his daughter replied.
“You’ll still like me, won’t you?”
The hand in Della’s mind, the one that had closed after the whistle blew at Mammoth, seemed to open again, but only far enough for her to remember another little girl, another time, and that same unanswered question. It closed again before she had more than a glimpse of her father on a path, he going one way, she another, but not happily. She opened her mouth to speak, and Owen looked at her expectantly. She closed it.
“It’s nothing,” she said, wondering why her heart beat a little faster. “I’ll watch for both of us tonight and give you a full report, since you must do this.”
Maybe he heard the bitterness. She truly hadn’t intended for her sudden fear to translate into anger. He gave her an appraising look and returned to his porridge. When he said goodbye later, he took her gently by the chin and gazed deep into her eyes.
“I could tell you not to worry, could I not?” he asked.
“You could,” she said, suddenly weary. “I doubt you would listen if I protested.”
“That’s unfair, wife.”
“It’s how I feel.”
Silent, he joined his friends on their way to the tracks.
Della made herself deliberately cheerful at work, which Saul Weisman saw through immediately.
“He’s in the mine this afternoon, isn’t he?” her boss asked when he handed her three more illegible reports.
“Yes, he is, drat the man,” she replied. She picked up the reports. “Mr. Weisman, your handwriting should be taken out and shot.”
He laughed at that, and Della had to smile, in spite of the fear that gnawed at her, and something else: the knowledge that she and Owen had not parted on kind terms. There it was again, that hand opening and closing, teasing her with some memory.
The day was warm for November. She stood in the door as three o’clock approached and watched, waiting, her hand shading her eyes. She was rewarded with the sight of Owen and his crew sitting on top of the hinged timbers headed to the Banner Mine. Each shaped and sized log was numbered. Owen had begun drafting his own approximation of blueprints for each unit. On the third drift he would lay out the blueprint and make sure he had timbers of corresponding numbers in the right places, everything as orderly
and accurate as one talented man could possibly contrive.
Maybe when the level was completely timbered and vastly safer he would consider his emotional pilgrimage to the graves of his friends fulfilled. Or would there always be another mine to shore up, another mining camp to seek out, another promise to dead men? It seemed unfair. Still, she owed him an apology for her shortness this morning.
Distressed, Della walked toward the slowly moving car. As the train picked up speed, she walked faster, wanting to wish him good luck, eager to tell him one more time how much she loved him, except she wouldn’t say anything that brazen anywhere except in their home. She could say she was sorry.
The train had picked up real steam now, because the slope to Banner Mine required it. Turn around, she thought. Just wave at me one more time. I can tell you I’m sorry tonight.
I didn’t mean it, Papa. I didn’t mean it, popped into her mind. With her heart in her mouth, Della whirled around, wondering what mother had allowed her child so near to the tracks. She looked closer. Nothing. Thoroughly chilled, she wondered what had just happened. She turned back to the train, but Owen was a small figure by now. Too late, she thought.
L
Supper was a hurried affair, with Angharad repeating her lines as Della French-braided her hair, gave it the critical eye, and pronounced it a success. Pilgrims probably never resorted to anything as stylish as a French braid, but Angharad knew what she wanted and sat patiently.
“When we go to Provo, we should visit a photographer’s studio for a family portrait,” Della said as they hurried to the well-lit schoolhouse with other children and parents. “I’ll braid your hair and we can twine ribbons in it.”
Della gave the child a gentle push toward the front of the classroom, where two blankets had been strung to serve as a curtain. She took her seat next to Mrs. Tate, the lady who had opened her home to Angharad for that hour after school before Della arrived. She took the smallest Tate on her lap, gratified when the child leaned back against her with a sigh.
She glanced at Mrs. Tate with satisfaction. Della knew two dollars a week was helping feed a family where the father wasn’t getting well fast. He had stayed home tonight, probably marshaling his forces for the day shift. Della gave silent thanks for her own healthy man and wondered if she could think of a convincing reason to tack another fifty cents onto her weekly payment without making Mrs. Tate feel poor. She would ask Owen what he thought. After I apologize to my good man, she reminded herself, as if she needed reminding.
With a lurch of the blanket curtains, a consultation between two little boys about what to do, and then another more successful lurch, the blankets parted and the pageant began. Della silently praised Mrs. Wilkins as her carefully rehearsed pupils pronounced their lines with energy and enthusiasm. Della knew from experience that a teacher couldn’t ask for more, not with little ones eager to impress and buoyed up with the idea of a few days off soon for turkey and stuffing.
The program continued with Angharad’s Priscilla Mullins and her charming Welsh accent, politely asking John Alden to speak his mind. As John Alden opened his mouth to reply, the steam whistle in the valley started to shriek.
Cast and audience alike froze. Please no, Della thought. Forcing down her panic, she listened, knowing that each mine had its own series of short and long whistles so rescuers would know where to go. Three long blasts for the Mammoth. She knew that one all too well, but this was different—a short, a long, a short, and another short.
She didn’t know the code, but that made no difference because the audience did. She gasped when everyone turned toward her.
Maybe they were looking beyond her. Della turned to look in the same direction. Everyone on the other side of her was looking at her too.
“Oh, God, please no,” she whispered.
Immobilized with horror, she felt a cold breeze on the back of her neck as someone opened the door. The blast grew louder until it filled the classroom—a short, a long, a short, and another short.
She tensed when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not the Banner,” she said distinctly. So there. Whoever he was could find another woman to terrify.
The hand didn’t leave her shoulder. “Sister Davis, you’d better come with me,” she heard Bishop McIntyre say above the great roaring in her ears.
Chapter 32
L
Della didn’t take the time to get Angharad out of her long black pilgrim dress with the starched white collar and into her own clothing. She clung to her stepdaughter when the bishop’s wife and Mrs. Tate tried to convince her to let Angharad stay with them. “You know, until you find out what is going on,” the bishop added.
“No,” Della said. “We stay together, don’t we, Angharad?”
“Aye, Mam,” came her child’s quiet voice.
She held Angharad tight on her lap as they rode the special train to Silver City. Wearing his overcoat, Saul Weisman waited for her by the tracks, his face as white as she knew hers was.
“I’m riding with Mrs. Davis to the Banner,” he told Bishop McIntyre, who had the good sense not to argue.
She looked for Saladin, and heard a mournful, wolfish howl from the assayer’s office.
“He’s in my bedroom,” Saul told her. “I don’t know what he would do.”
To her relief, the whistle stopped its unholy shriek. She looked around for other wives of miners, and saw none, which chilled her heart. Bishop McIntyre was talking to a man she recognized from the Knightville Ward who also mined in the Banner. Desperate to know what was happening, it was all Della could do to stand still beside Angharad, who shivered uncontrollably, even after Mr. Weisman took off his overcoat and draped it over her shoulders.
After what seemed like an epoch or two, the bishop joined her. “Here’s what we know, Sister Davis. The men came out of Level Two after setting a charge, which Owen was to set off after they finished on Level Three, and came out.” He took a deep breath. “For some reason, that charge went off as the Level Two men started up the hoist.”
Della gasped, remembering that Bishop McIntyre’s first counselor was a Level Two man. “Brother Cable?”
He shook his head. “The blast caught him.”
Della bowed her head, thinking of Sister Cable and her three children and then of Martha Evans at Winter Quarters with her three children and Annie Jones and Tamris Powell on and on and on.
Bishop McIntyre visibly collected himself. “The Level Two brought Brother Cable up and then took the hoist down as far as they could, but Two is blocked now and they can’t get to Three. The hoist was weakened, but they’re repairing it.”
“Dear God,” Della whispered. She knelt beside Angharad, who was weeping openly, her whole body shaking. She grabbed Owen’s daughter and held her close until the shaking stopped. Someone gave her a handkerchief for Angharad’s face.
“Angharad, we’re going up to the Banner,” she said.
“Stay here,” Bishop McIntyre said. “I insist.”
“Insist all you want, Bishop. We’re going up to the Banner. Don’t even try to stop me. We’ll walk the slope if we have to.”
She stared him down, even as her heart broke into a million pieces.
“Very well,” he said, wise enough to know when he was defeated. “Hop on the flatbed with Angharad. Here’s what they’re going to do, after the rubble is off the hoist: clear the rubble inside Two up to a winze between the Two and Three. Owen and his crew will be tunneling toward the winze, most likely, so they can come out on the Two, above the blockage.” He put his hand gently on both her shoulders. “And we will wait.”
“I’m coming too,” Saul Weisman said. “Saladin and I.”
“There’s no arguing with you people, is there?” the bishop said.
“No, nein, nyet,” Saul said cheerfully. “Pick a language, any language.”
In silence, hanging on to each other, they rode the flatbed to the Banner Mine, tucked in the side of the mountain, not far from probably th
e only remaining stand of trees where the slope leveled out. Someone had built a fire and placed folding camp chairs around it. Bishop McIntyre usher them toward the blaze.
Della resisted, looking toward the headframe, which was still some distance away. “I’m going there,” she insisted.
“No, you’re not,” the bishop said, and she heard no hesitation this time. “The miners are going up and down and spelling each other as they dig out. You’ll be in the way, and I won’t allow it. Don’t argue this point with me, Della.”
“Very well,” she said.
He handed her several blankets and gestured for one of the miners to bring over a cot. “If you get tired, lie down. Maybe Angharad can sleep. The men have soup and bread. I’ll see that you get some too. We’ll keep the fire going.”
He put his hands on her shoulder again. “Kneel down, both of you, and I’ll give you a blessing.”
Without a word, they did as he said. With one hand on each head, he blessed them with comfort and serenity. When he finished, he helped them up, kissed the top of Angharad’s head, and walked up the slope to the headframe.
Della handed back Mr. Weisman’s overcoat. She wrapped Angharad in one of the blankets and led her to the cot. “Lie down now,” she said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“Will they get Da out?”
“They know what to do. So does Da. They’re digging on their level too.” If they’re alive to dig, Della thought, but you don’t need to hear that.
“Sit close, please, Mam.”
“I’m right here. I’ll never leave you.”
“I know that. Do you think Da is singing the miners’ song?”
Break my heart some more, Della thought. “I don’t know,” she managed to say.
“If he won’t, we must. We have to.” Angharad started to cry. “He’s not here to pitch it just right. Oh, Mam!”
“I can pitch it,” Della said, as her mind, heart, and soul murmured no more. No more. No more mines, Owen. She gave a faltering note and wiped her daughter’s face again. “Is that close?”
