by Diane Noble
“Ma! Ma!” yelled a voice from somewhere in the crowd behind them. “Ma!”
Percival turned to see Alfred winding his way through the fear-filled clusters of families.
“Ma!” He gathered his mother in his arms, baby and all.
But Abigail James pulled back with a frown. “I thought you were in the tunnel.” Her face was a mix of relief and worry.
The boy looked at the ground and for a moment kept silent. “Me and Grover decided to play a trick today.”
“What trick, boy?” She grabbed his arm. “You tell me now. What trick, Alfred?”
“We traded places. We didn’t think it would bring any harm. Honest, we didn’t.” Tears filled the boy’s red-rimmed eyes. “Ma, I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen. I wish it were me up there in the tunnel. Honest, I do… I do!” He swiped at his wet cheeks with the backs of his fists. He bit his lip as if trying not to cry, but his shoulders trembled as he gave his ma a desperate look.
“It was as much Grover’s fault as yours, son. When he gets down here, you’ll both answer for your prank.”
“I’m going after him. Him and Pa,” the boy said, moving his gaze to the mountain.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Abigail cast a pleading look toward Percival.
He gave her a slight nod. She did not want to lose her husband and two sons to the tunnel. “You need to stay here,” Percival said to Alfred. “Someone needs to be here to comfort and help your mother and sisters.”
The boy stared at him as if just noticing who was standing next to his family.
“I’m going up with the next group,” Percival said. “I’ll look for your kin first.” He put his hand on the boy’s thin arm. “I promise.”
But as the ashen dusk mixed with the smoke still spewing from high above the huddled families, the first rescue car had yet to descend for the second load. Rumors began to fly. Some said the injuries must be too great for Doc Murphy to allow the injured to make the trip down in the flatbed car. Others said that the rescuers could not reach the victims to send any down the mountain to the clinic.
For the first time, Percival considered that the men in the tunnel might be trapped deep inside the earth. At the same instant, Abigail turned to him, meeting his gaze above the baby’s downy head. Her eyes filled with ragged fear.
“I don’t know how to pray,” she whispered. “I forgot how a long time ago.” She paused, searching his face. “Please… will you…?”
Percival had never prayed in public. He scarce knew how to pray silently, speaking to God about his own needs, and when appropriate, about those of others. He had been praying silently for the men in the tunnel since the first blast.
But to pray aloud, not with just Abigail James and her children hearing him, but anyone else within earshot turning to listen.
He was the town drunk, the man most folks remembered as too flush-faced and rheumy-eyed from whiskey to carry on a decent conversation about the weather, too inebriated to walk a straight line.
How could he call upon God to save their husbands, fathers, brothers? He swallowed hard, still staring into Abigail’s face. How could he do it? Wouldn’t he shame his heavenly Father by the mere attempt?
Then he glanced down at Daisy’s upturned face. She reached for his hand, placing her small fingers in his palm.
That simple, trusting act brought him up short, making his heart feel as though a giant fist had taken hold of it and squeezed. How could he have forgotten? God used the plainest of folks, the simplest of tender hearts, to see His will done… from the peasant girl who bore His Son, to the shepherds who witnessed all of heaven’s glory.
How could he pray? No, more to the point… how could he not?
“Yes,” he said to Abigail. “Let’s pray.” With his left hand he reached for her hand, Daisy still clinging to his right. One by one the James children clasped each other’s hands until they formed a perfect circle.
A reverent hush fell over the crowd as other mothers and their children pressed closer, hands clasped, faces silent and tearful. Almost as one, they reached for the hands of those standing nearby, until nearly everyone in the crowd had formed circles of their own.
Percival’s heart hammered, but as he began to speak, an unnatural calm settled over him. And suddenly… suddenly it was as if no one else stood beside him except his Lord.
“Heavenly Father, though we feel so alone and our hearts are filled with fear, we know that You are here beside us. You have said You will never leave us, You will never forsake us. That when we walk through the fire, the flames will not scorch us, when we pass through the rivers, they shall not overflow us.
“You haven’t said fires won’t flame up. You haven’t promised floods of sorrow and pain will not threaten to overflow our hearts. But You have said that when we pass through such times You will be with us. You have said that we are precious in Your sight—each of us. From the smallest child standing here before You today to each one who awaits rescue on the mountain above us.
“We are Yours, heavenly Father, even those of us who have a hard time believing we are redeemed and beloved. You are the same today and forever, and we remember Your promises now. ‘Fear not,’ You have said to us. ‘Fear not, for I am with you.’
“Unworthy as I am to ask it, I believe Your promises, Father. Unworthy as I am to even breathe such a petition, I ask that You guard and protect those in the tunnel right now. Help the rescuers to find each one…”
Around him, the sounds of soft weeping rose in the night air. Daisy was squeezing his hand so tight it brought a fresh ache behind his eyes. And on his other side, Abigail wept openly, murmuring the names of her husband and son, beseeching God to keep them safe.
Abigail James had remembered how to pray.
When Percival said amen, several others standing nearby echoed the word. Abigail turned to him, met his gaze, and whispered, “Thank you.”
Daisy bit her lip, watching the first load of wounded descend the mountain. A round moon had lifted into a navy blue sky, causing the tracks to glint silvery in the moon’s glow. The figures inside the car appeared as plain as day. She could see it was loaded to the hilt with men standing at one end and others stretched out flat at the other end. She caught a glimpse of Doc Murphy’s white beard and fedora.
Still clinging to Mister Taggart’s hand as tight as she could, Daisy was afraid to breathe. She strained to see her pa and Grover on that truck with Doc.
The car came to a trembling halt, everyone surged forward at once, crushing and crowding, to get to the injured men.
“I see Orin!”
Daisy’s heart leapt at her mother’s cry. Ma was standing as tall as nature would allow, pointing. “I do! He’s at one end of the car, next to Doc.” She caught her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. They’re bending over one of those stretched out…”
But Ma did not have a chance to finish. Mister Taggart simply parted the sea of folks around them—it was just like Moses did that time in the Bible storybook Daisy once found hidden away in a cupboard.
Folks stood back, seeming to understand that it was a James boy on that car. Grover James and his pa stood there beside a worried looking Doc Murphy.
Daisy choked back her fear, clinging to the words Mister Taggart had prayed as surely as she hung on to his big, warm hand. Fear not, for I am with you, Mister Taggart had said, just like it was God Himself speaking straight to Daisy’s heart.
They reached the edge of the crowd and stepped into a clearing nearby, where the car was being unloaded. Some of the men climbed down, limping and covered with soot and ash. Others were moaning like they were badly hurt. Around them was a bustle of activity as more workers gathered to travel back up the incline.
Even so, Daisy could see that someone was laying on the flatbed, still as death.
There was another hush as Pa looked up and met Ma’s eyes. Something passed between them that made Daisy’s heart stand still.
It was a look of h
elpless sorrow, like Pa was sorrier than a body could ever be.
With a small cry, Ma handed Rosie to Daisy and ran to the flatbed to kneel beside her son.
MA MADE ALFRED watch over Daisy and the younger girls that night because she and Pa planned to keep vigil at the company clinic. Friends and neighbors, more than Daisy could imagine, stayed with those who had loved ones injured—Cady’s and Wren’s families, Mister and Missus Knight-Smyth, and Mister Taggart among them. Reluctantly Daisy trudged from the clinic with Rosie in her arms. Violet rode on Alfred’s shoulder, staring fearfully at Grover, who appeared to be in a deep sleep on a contraption called a stretcher. Clover wanted to stay at the clinic too, but Ma and Pa insisted they all go home, have supper, and stay out of the chill air.
Hours after the little ones were in bed, Alfred and Daisy still had no news about Grover. At nine o’clock Alfred insisted that Daisy go to bed, saying he would stay awake and keep a vigil of his own.
Daisy woke with a start as the Liberty clock struck twelve. A soft melody carried from someplace in the distance. Angels! She was sure of it. She sat up with a smile, knowing Grover must surely be fit again. After a few minutes of listening to the singing, she crept down the hall to her brother Alfred’s bedroom and knocked just outside his door.
“Alfred, can you hear it?” she whispered into the dark. “Voices, like unto angels.”
He turned on a lamp, looking momentarily confused, his eyes still swollen from sleep or his earlier crying spell. “You must be dreaming, Daisy girl,” he said, stretching. “I don’t hear anything.” He studied her face for a minute, then swung out of bed. He still had on his work clothes. Only his face looked washed—Daisy wondered if it was from soap and water or tears.
Alfred would be in a truck of trouble for soiling Ma’s hard-scrubbed bedclothes with his overalls. But then again, Ma had other things to vex her right now. She might not notice.
“How about some warm milk?” Alfred seemed to want to make up for his recent grumpy ways. “I don’t think Ma will mind, do you? There’s still plenty left in the bottle for breakfast.”
He led Daisy back down the hallway into the kitchen and fanned the coals in the stove. Daisy settled onto a chair by the table. He unlatched the icebox door and pulled out a bottle of milk, pouring a small amount into a blue-speckled pan.
The music still carried on the night breeze outside the house. “I can hear it again,” she whispered. “Can you?”
He slumped into one of the bent wood chairs across from her. “Maybe it’s your angels singing, Daisy girl.”
She knew he was teasing, but his voice was gentle. She leaned on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands. “I think it’s coming from the clinic. I was thinking that maybe we could just slip out of the house. I’d like to see for myself what’s making the music.”
“We can’t leave the younguns, Daisy. You know that. Besides, what happens with Grover happens… whether we’re there or not.”
“Tonight when Mister Taggart prayed, I prayed too.” She lifted her chin. “Grover will get well. I just know he will.”
Alfred moved his gaze away from hers, and Daisy thought his eyes looked wet. He shook his head slowly. “You don’t need to make up stories about the music, Daisy girl, and all this talk of angels.”
He turned back to her. “It’s not that I don’t want you to go. I just know that Ma and Pa would have my skin for sure if I allowed it.” He stood to pour the milk into her cup, then carefully brought it back to the table. “Especially if anything happened to you,” he added softly.
Outside the music seemed to grow louder. It was better than Christmas caroling, in Daisy’s way of thinking. It was the kind of music that made a body so happy it could not sit still in a bright kitchen with a cup of warm milk, even if it wanted to.
“How about if you stood in the doorway and watched while I go? I would only be a minute out of sight. Surely Ma and Pa wouldn’t mind that.” She nibbled her bottom lip, waiting to see if he might agree. “It’s not that far.”
He studied her face, then gave her another smile. “You promise you’ll peek in on Grover, then come right back home again? Tell me how he’s doing?”
She nodded over the rim of her mug, then took another big gulp. “I promise.”
He stood and handed her a flour-sack dish towel. “Wipe your mustache, then you can go.”
“You’ll stand watch?”
He chuckled. “You worried about bears?”
“Not in December,” she said with a giggle, knowing he was teasing. He was the one who taught her that animals hibernated.
Minutes later, bundled warm in her heaviest coat and gloves and Alfred’s wool scarf, she raced along the moonlit path. At the top of the small hill in front of the clinic, she looked back to see Alfred standing in the doorway, the glow of the kitchen lamplight behind him. It made her eyes water, seeing him like that. Her big brother was back.
She blew him a kiss, then ran as fast as her legs would carry her toward the clinic. She reached the top of a small hill and stopped dead still.
There must have been a hundred people in the clearing, maybe two. Each one held a candle, making the pine forest bask in its glow. At the front of the clinic stood Mister Taggart. He was waving his arms the way he did during music class, and everyone standing with the candles followed along, singing softly to the rhythm he had set, music that sounded like lullabies and rushing waters mixed together.
His voice rose clearer than all the others, a silvery sound that warmed her from the inside out. The music blended with the night breeze and the murmuring pines. And it seemed to lift as high as the heavens and join the spangle of stars.
Before she could move, the clinic door opened and Doc Murphy clomped outside onto the wooden porch. The music stopped as he raised his hand, then nodded at a few of the folks in the front row.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Doc called out loud enough for Daisy to hear. “I want to thank you all for your prayers tonight. As you know, seventeen men were injured in the explosion, a few seriously, others with mere scrapes and bruises. All are glad to be alive.”
“What about the serious cases?” someone in the crowd yelled. “Tell us how they’re doing.”
“Only one will require special attention. And that will be a funeral, unfortunately.”
Daisy’s heart caught, and she leaned forward to hear who it was.
“And that’s the canary,” Doc said with a cough that resembled a laugh. “I’m afraid the little fella didn’t make it.” There was a spattering of nervous laughter throughout the crowd. Doc waved his hand. “You all can go home now. The excitement’s over. And tonight, folks, don’t forget to thank the good Lord for watching over your loved ones.”
Daisy had long worried about the caged canary her pa said was taken in the tunnel each morning to test the air, and she thought it was no laughing matter that it had died. With a frown, she was just turning to run back home, knowing she had outstayed her promise to Alfred, when three figures stepped through the clinic door. Her Ma and Pa had their arms wrapped around Grover, who was limping and grinning to beat the band.
With a holler of joy, Daisy clapped her hands and barreled toward them. Grover let go of their parents long enough to catch her in his arms.
After that night Daisy thought her joy was surely complete. The very next day after Pa and Grover were saved from the tunnel explosion, her brothers were fired—much to their ma’s delight—for the trick they’d played by switching places. They were reenrolled in Red Bud school before they could say Rumpelstiltskin and made to promise within an inch of their lives that they would knuckle down and work hard and never take even a whiff of whiskey again.
Everyone in town was talking about Mister Taggart. Even Daisy’s ma said she could not get over the transformation in him. After his prayer for the accident victims and their families, and after he led songs at the candlelight vigil, everyone in Red Bud wanted to come to the drama show.
One week
before the “play” was to open, as Mister Taggart called the Christmas Eve performance, Wren, Cady, and Daisy counted the money from the ticket sales. Their mouths dropped open almost in unison. They counted it again. And again. It took Grover’s old handwagon to pull all the tins filled with two-bit pieces to the mercantile.
Twenty minutes later, proud as she had ever been before, Daisy stood in front of Mister Ferguson at the section of the mercantile that doubled as the bank. Wren stood on one side, Cady on the other. When each of them set a tin canister on the counter, quarters rattled and jangled. They repeated the action until all ten containers were stacked in front of Mister Ferguson.
All three could not stop smiling.
“We would like to make a deposit,” Daisy said, her heart thumping harder than it ever had in her life.
Mister Ferguson had put on his green visor, just as he always did when switching from storekeeper to banker. “All right. And how much money will you be depositing in your account?”
Cady giggled. “Well, sir, we have just a wee bit from our ticket sales.”
“And how much would that be?”
“One hundred, twenty-two dollars and fifty cents,” Wren said, her eyes dancing.
“Well, now.” He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed.
Daisy was not as prone to giggling as Cady was, but she dared not exchange glances with her friend or she might end up rolling on the floor. She hoped he did not swallow that hard again.
“In these here cans?”
The girls nodded. “I’m sure you’ll want to recount it,” Wren said, “but I think you’ll find that we were quite accurate in our count.”
Mister Ferguson filled out the paperwork for their deposit, asking questions as he wrote. “And whose name is this account to be under?”
They had already decided, and Daisy lifted her shoulders with pride. “Make the account to read, Red Bud Church in the Pines.”
“Church in the Pines?” He raised a brow and peered at the girls from behind his spectacles. “Do your parents know about this?”
