The sound of the river was hypnotic. In the darkness it tugged at their senses and filled their heads. There was a moon tonight but it had no more impact in these deep valleys than the sunlight did during the day. Clouds high above them were illuminated by the pale moonlight and those occasionally reflected off the dark water. Otherwise they were back to the sensation of looking up at the sky from the bottom of a well.
“Are you an Irishman?” Miss Fannie Bell asked after they’d been riding in silence for some time.
Her voice surprised him. He’d been lost in thought and assumed she’d probably fallen asleep in the saddle. “Yes, I am, though I’ve been in America since I was a child. You recognize the tongue?”
“Oh yes. My grandfather was an Irishman.”
“Really?”
“Yes, indeed. He came over because he heard there were was work in the coal mines. He originally settled in West Virginia but that was about the time of the mine wars. They were trying to unionize and the company wanted no part of it. The government turned on them too.”
“I don’t know anything of the mine wars,” Conor said. “I know that strikes in coal country can be ugly business. I’ve only seen one of them in my time here, but I’ve heard a lot of stories. I take it there was a lot of violence.”
“I doubt the stories you’ve heard can touch what happened to folks back in those early days,” Fannie Bell said. “The company put everybody out of the mining towns and forced them to winter in tents. They claimed to own the roads, so the miners weren’t allowed to use them. My grandfather had just married my grandmother and she was pregnant. He was worried she’d freeze to death. There wasn’t enough food and conditions were just awful. My grandmother said she couldn’t feel her fingers and toes for weeks. They didn’t have the good winter clothes we have now. They didn’t hardly have nothing.”
“That sounds awful,” Conor said.
“It got a lot worse. You should check it out sometime. Battle of Blair Mountain, they called it. The company convinced the government that the miners were nothing more than terrorists. At one point the company even bombed them from planes.”
“You’re kidding me? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s the God’s honest truth, Mr. Conor. It’s hard to imagine in this day and time but the company had a private army and they were determined to kill everyone who stood in their way. It was a dark time. The government took the company’s side and the folks in West Virginia always remembered that.”
Conor chuckled. “Miss Fannie Bell, I know a lot about the government and the things they do to people. Nothing you can tell me in that department would surprise me. I fully understand what they’re capable of.”
“My grandparents moved after that. My grandfather had a bad temper and he didn’t want any part of working for a company that had treated them that way. He wanted to kill those Baldwin-Felts agents every time he saw one of them. My grandmother was afraid he’d actually do it.”
“We Irish can be stubborn. We can hold a grudge a good long time,” Conor said. “So you knew your grandfather, did you? You had the opportunity to spend time with him?”
“Oh yes. He was a nice man and good to me. Of course, he was already an old man when I was a child and people didn’t live so long as they do these days. I remember his stories. The songs. But then there was music in his voice even when he wasn’t singing. That’s why I remember the accent so fondly.”
“We Irish love our songs. Singing connects us to our heritage.”
“There was one he used to sing that I can almost remember. Red Is The Rose, it was called.”
“Oh, I know that one,” Conor said. “It’s a beautiful song.”
“You remember the words, Mr. Conor?”
Conor searched his brain. “I might be able to recall them.”
“If you could see it in your heart to sing it with me, it would do my soul good. I can’t recall the last time I thought of my grandfather and that song. Amazing how time gets away from you. You get so many memories in your heart that even the precious ones can get lost in there.”
Conor was a tough bastard. He’d lived a hard life and done many things, including some he wasn’t proud of. He’d killed men who deserved it and men whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d loved his mother and his grandmother though, and he’d have chopped off a finger without hesitation to have the opportunity to sing a ballad with one of them again. This might be the closest he’d ever come. It might even be the only chance he ever got to sing one of the old songs again.
He started into it, barely raising his voice above a whisper. He didn’t sing much in the company of other folks but this wasn’t a performance. He barely got through the opening line before Miss Fannie Bell’s stark high-pitched voice joined him. The words were coming back to her, just as they were to him. Funny how the mind works that way. His voice was low and gruff, the earthy roots of the tune. Her voice was bold and honest, her accent clearly not Irish but her rendering of the song just as authentic as his own. He could tell she’d heard it sung right, straight from the mouth of someone who knew and loved it.
The longer they sang, the louder they became. Conor wondered how far the song carried in the night. Were there people standing in their dark yards wondering what sort of madness this was? Did they assume it was something supernatural? He didn’t care. There was only the moment.
When they reached the last note, they both held it, like neither was ready to release the song back into the night, back into memory. Once it was gone, it was gone. Once the moment had passed, there was no reclaiming it. They fell into deep silence and the sound of the river gradually overtook them again.
“Thank you, Mr. Conor. Thanks for singing that with me.”
“It was my privilege, Miss Fannie Bell. For a moment, that took me back to my childhood.”
“It did the same for me. I saw things I hadn’t seen in years. I could smell my grandfather’s pipe and the bay rum he used to wear. Funny how those things can still be there in your head after all these years.”
“Memory is a strange thing,” Conor said.
The song, the oddness of the night, and the hypnotic sound of the river carried them to their own places. Conor thought about the people and events in the past who’d contributed to making him who he was. Starting down that road, the twisting tendrils of memory, was like boarding a train without knowing the destination. You never knew where you might end up. Lost in their own rides, Conor and Fannie Bell didn’t exchange another word until they reached the camp at Pastor White’s church.
“I wanted to go home,” Fannie Bell said when the fires of the camp came into sight.
“I’ll stop by here tomorrow. If you want to go home then, I’ll carry you there myself. For tonight, I think you should be around other people. Let them get some food into you and tend to that fever. You’ve survived too much to die of infection.”
Fannie Bell fell silent but Conor knew she wasn’t happy about this turn of events. On top of her displeasure, Conor received exactly the welcome he anticipated at Pastor White's camp. He announced himself to the sentries and sat his horse patiently while they lit him up with flashlights and confirmed that he was who he said he was. That he was in the company of Miss Fannie Bell, a person known to them, most likely helped things. When they were done, he clicked on his headlamp and could finally see the men in front of him.
A suspicious and disagreeable man with long sideburns and a craggy face immediately started badgering Conor. "Where's the rest of your people? You get them all killed or did you kill them yourself?"
"Probably that daughter of his killed them," observed the other sentry. He was overweight in a manner that made him appear babyish and effectively hid his age. He could have been anywhere from sixteen to thirty.
“Neither of you boys knows me well enough for this to be jest,” Conor said. “So if it’s not jest, I’m liable to take offense. Are you boys prepared for the conseq
uences of that?”
“What does that even mean?” asked the baby-faced sentry.
“Means I could kill both of you without alerting the rest of your camp. Then I could just turn around and take Miss Fannie Bell home, as she’d prefer to do anyway. You men want to die tonight?”
“Ain’t no need for spilling more blood tonight,” Miss Fannie Bell said. “This man brought me home safe. Y’all best leave him alone and quit poking at him. I have a feeling you ain’t gonna like it when he pokes back.”
The men scowled. “Whose blood you spill tonight?” Sideburns asked.
"Shuck is dead. He booby-trapped the bridge to his house and Bernard was killed when he fell through it. We tried to stop him from crossing but Bernard refused to listen to us. Hard heads are apparently a regional specialty."
Baby-face scowled, certain there was an insult buried in there somewhere but unable to extract it. “How you so sure Bernard is dead?”
"His head smashed wide open like a dropped pumpkin. Shuck dragged his body into the river and let it wash away. I have no idea if it will ever be found or not.”
Tired of answering questions, Conor threw a leg forward over his horse’s neck and slid off the side of the saddle. He helped Fannie Bell to the ground. She was light as a bird and everywhere he laid a helping hand he felt the protrusion of bone. Poor thing needed fattening up.
"You take care of yourself, Miss Fannie Bell. It was a pleasure meeting you and having your delightful company on the ride back."
In the manner of her people, her faith, she was reserved in her public communication with this outsider. She didn't offer a grateful hug or even a handshake. She simply nodded and smiled tiredly. To his farewell, she responded with, “Well.”
When the obstinate sentries made no move to help her, Conor lit in on them. "She’ll require help, lads. This poor soul has undergone a horrible ordeal. She was chained as a prisoner and has an awful leg wound. She'll be requiring immediate attention. If you got a nurse among you, you best be waking her up. This can’t wait until morning."
The men slung their rifles over their shoulders and glared at Conor but did as he asked. Each took one of Miss Fannie Bell’s thin arms and helped support her.
"Pastor White's going to have questions for you," Sideburns said.
"You tell the pastor I'll stop in over the next day or so. I’ve got business to attend to. Reckon I’m going to go back and help bury Shuck unless you fellows want in on that.”
The two hurried off and Conor laughed at their predictable reaction. He remounted his horse, settled into the creaking saddle, and turned onto the road. He left his headlamp on, feeling safe to ride to the firehouse with the glowing target mounted to his head. These two groups of men, Wayne’s and Pastor White’s, kept this area relatively safe and he'd make better time if he could see ahead of him. He set his headlamp to its brightest setting and nudged the horse into a trot. He checked his watch and was surprised to see the hour. With all they’d been through over the day and evening he’d assumed it was later than it actually was. They hadn’t hit midnight yet. The night was young.
15
Conor rode faster without having to be concerned with Fannie Bell and the ride to the firehouse took no time at all. As soon as he thought the radio waves might be able to navigate the convolutions of the hills and river bottom, he began trying to reach Wayne’s group on his radio. The response was nearly indecipherable, staticky bursts that didn't improve significantly even when he was nearly within shouting distance.
It was something anyone who relied on radio communications in these Appalachian Mountains could tell you. Whether it was law enforcement, EMTs, game wardens, or even the blasted forestry service, they all knew you couldn't trust the damn things. Even with repeaters on the ridge tops the terrain was just too rough. There were too many bumps and recesses, too many hills and hollers.
Conor slowed as he approached the first of Wayne’s roadblocks. Fortunately the sentries there had ascertained from his garbled transmissions that he was on his way and were watching for him. What he failed to anticipate was that their initial reaction to Wayne's absence would be to assume that their de facto leader had been killed or mortally wounded. The agitated men bombarded him with questions, speaking over top of each other until he could barely understand a word they were saying.
Finally catching the drift of this barrage, Conor held up a hand. "Easy now! Hold up! Wayne's okay. Quit your yammering and listen to me."
Surprisingly, the men did as he asked. There was none of the defiance and the barely concealed revulsion that seethed beneath the questioning from Pastor White's men. When they stopped, he continued.
"We found Fannie Bell and I just delivered her back to Pastor White. Wayne stayed behind at the home where we found her. There’s a ton of food there and if we don't take it, we’ll lose it. It's enough to help you guys make it through the winter. The man who owned the food won’t be needing it anymore.”
“Are you headed back there?” one of the men asked.
“I promised I’d get back to him with several men and some pack horses.”
The men didn't question Conor’s message. One of them got on the radio and immediately relayed his message back to the firehouse. "Why don’t you go inside and warm up?” he said when he had done so. “They’re scrambling a team. You might even find some food to chew on while they get the horses ready."
“Thanks,” Conor muttered, and prodded his horse toward the firehouse. Just as he had earlier, he tied his mount off to the mirror of one of the cars being used as a fence. He untied the paracord that held his burglar burrito to the saddle and heaved the bundle onto his shoulder.
"What's that?" a man asked, weaving through the barricade to join Conor at his horse.
In the glow of his headlamp, Conor noticed the man had a crow tattooed on his neck. "Guns, some ammo, knives. It’s for you guys. Got a place to stash it?"
"I'll take it," the man replied, transferring the bundle to his own shoulder. "Follow me. Got a fire inside to knock the chill off."
Crow Tattoo led Conor inside the pleasantly warm place. They’d installed several woodstoves in the building and the area had no shortage of firewood. One of the additional benefits of having sentries on duty all night was that they could tend the fire. Crow Tattoo set the bundle of rifles onto a folding table and pointed Conor toward one of the woodstoves. "There's a kettle beside that stove with leftover biscuits inside it. Help yourself.”
Conor didn’t realize he was hungry until biscuits were mentioned, then his stomach began clanging like a fire alarm. He’d turned his headlamp off when he came inside out of respect for all the sleeping people. There were numerous Lucie lights around the room, self-contained, inflatable solar lights that had an internal battery and provided a low light that would last for most of the night. It was enough light to allow the ravenous Conor to negotiate his way to a biscuit. He honed in on the warm biscuits like a bull just turned into a pasture of cute young lady cows.
Most of the people in the firehouse were asleep, stretched out on cots or homemade beds on the floor. Others lay awake reading or listening to music on headphones. Sheets were hung as curtains to offer some degree of privacy but the firehouse was definitely tight quarters. It reminded Conor of those hurricane evacuation shelters he’d seen on the news, grim people stuck in high school gyms waiting to find out if their homes were destroyed.
Conor stepped outside and enjoyed the warm biscuit on the cold night, then moved on to the second biscuit he’d stuck in his shirt pocket. He enjoyed it more knowing how much Barb would have frowned at the idea of him carrying a biscuit around in his pocket.
In short order, Wayne’s men were ready and they moved out. The trip from the firehouse to Shuck's house was relatively quiet. Most everyone in the community was settled in for the night and they saw not a soul outside of their own party. Had Conor been alone, he’d have turned his headlamp off once he was out of familiar territory and rode in da
rkness, as he and Miss Fannie Bell had earlier. These men were not comfortable with that. Conor relented and they made the whole journey by the glow of their collective headlamps.
He halted the column of riders at Shuck's bridge. The men were on edge from being pulled from their sleep to ride through strange territory in the cold and dark. However, they did not complain, aware that their mission was important for the well-being of their group. It was a task of necessity.
"Conor for Wayne, Conor for Wayne. In case you haven't seen the glowing inferno across the river, we’re here.”
"I was inside but I see you now. Lit up like a football field over there.”
"I’m going to tie the horses off on this side and leave one man with them. The rest of us are coming across the bridge to carry what needs carrying."
"That'll work. There's a stack ready to go. It’s laid out on a tarp in the front yard, close to the bridge."
Conor had the men tie off their horses and left a man named Luke to watch over them. There were no houses anywhere close to Shuck’s and they hadn’t seen any signs of life in the community on the way over but you never knew. Conor led the way across the bridge, pointing out the places where a single narrow plank spanned gaps in the boards. "Step carefully. Last man to slip off this bridge didn't fare so well."
Once they were across Conor saw that Wayne had done an excellent job of staging the loads. A tattered blue tarp was stretched out on the frosty grass. Burlap feed sacks were packed with carefully wrapped canning jars and tied closed at the top with baling twine. Two sleeping bags were packed in the same fashion, creating long, quilted sacks packed with food. A couple of battered suitcases were filled solid with glass jars, judging by the weight of them.
Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series Page 10
