Billy Creekmore

by Tracey Porter

  We followed the tail end of the parade to the circus grounds. Hundreds of folks was there for the show. Kids ran about laughing and calling out, begging their parents for an extra penny to buy some cotton candy or a candied apple. Uncle Jim bought us a program to read while we waited for the show to begin. On the back page was a list of all the cities the circus would tour. One wasn’t far from Albright, and I wished that somehow or other my old friends Peggy and Rufus could see it.

  For a little while, even while the band was playing and the ringmaster led out one of the clowns with his pack of trick dogs, I felt lonesome for them. I couldn’t enjoy what was in front of me for wondering what fate had befallen Rufus, and wishing that somehow he and Peggy might be able to see the spectacle Clyde, Uncle Jim, and I was about to enjoy.

  For a while I was right sad, but I have to say I was taken over by what was before me, for the circus was splendid, even better than the parade. The dancing and dramatic parts told the story of how the Queen of Sheba sailed along the Nile with all her dancing girls and slaves to seek counsel from King Solomon. He greeted her with all manner of beasts, including camels and lions, as well as musicians and dancers of his own. Then he gave her a great party with jugglers and acrobats for entertainment. Later on, she tried tricking him with fake flowers to see how wise he really was. When he passed her test, she poured out all her troubles and implored him to help her. He set her straight on all that ailed her, and back to Sheba she went in her radiant barge, with Solomon and all his folks waving good-bye. In between scenes from the story were all kinds of acts. There was fire-eaters, animal tamers, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, and even a wild west show where the horseman acted out Custer’s defeat at Little Big Horn, including the part where Custer gets scalped. It was so realistic Clyde and I hid our eyes. Otherwise, I was right transfixed, couldn’t take my eyes off ‘em for the Indians was stunning trick riders. I decided right then and there that’s what I’d want to be if I was ever lucky enough to be in a circus. One stood on the back of his galloping stallion to throw a tomahawk at General Custer, and he was calm and steady like he was standing on a chair. Uncle Jim out and out booed it, saying a wild west scene had no part in a spectacle ‘bout King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.

  Despite this, Uncle Jim agreed with me and Clyde that it was a right bully circus, the splendidest one that could ever be. We walked back through town to the train station, laughing and arguing about which was the best part. Clyde and I fell asleep in the waiting room till the train arrived sometime past midnight. Uncle Jim helped us get on board and find some seats, and then we fell back asleep until we arrived home in Holly Glen. We walked Clyde to his house, then stumbled into ours, sleeping sound till late Sunday morning.

  When we woke, Aunt Agnes had a big breakfast for us. She sat with us as we ate and wanted to hear all about the show. Much as she liked our recounting of it, she was glad she didn’t go. She’d prepared all her remedies and was ready for winter. It was going to be a nasty year for the grippe. She could tell by the way the leaves were drying up so soon without turning orange.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I Daydream Too Much,

  and Learn About

  THE UMW,

  RATS,

  and

  a GHOST

  Oh, but I thought about the circus plenty while I was deep in the mine. There I’d be, driving Markel, and I’d see myself as one of the trick riders making his stallion race around lightning quick with its mane all ripply in the wind. Sometimes I saw Markel and me thundering across the plains all set to attack General Custer. I liked that part of the circus, even though Uncle Jim found fault with it.

  “Are you my stallion, Markel?” I’d say as I fed him lumps of sugar, which is what Clayton said I should do if I wanted him to work hard for me. “Do you want me to braid your mane with little bows and get you a spangled headdress?” Markel loved sandwiches and pie, but wasn’t too keen on the cold potato Aunt Agnes packed in the lower tray of my pail. Neither was I, to be honest, but you don’t mind bland food when you’re hungry.

  Plenty of miners got awful angry at me ‘cause I was stuck in daydreams and not keeping up with ‘em. I couldn’t remember who was spending the morning undercutting and who was filling up a car. All I could think about was the trick riders, and how one of ‘em was blindfolded but managed to somersault from one galloping horse to another. Oh, it was a grand thing to see! And awful thrilling since you didn’t know how he could possibly know where the next horse was and if he missed he’d break his neck and get trampled. How I wanted to be a daring horseman, riding around with an audience cheering me on! But the roof of the mine was too low for me to stand on Markel’s back. And then, of course, I didn’t have no time at all to waste learning any kind of trick down there. I’d show up at the wrong room at the wrong time, and the miner was getting ready to drill a bit of blasting powder into the face.

  “What you doing here, Billy? You know I’ve been undercutting all morning. I won’t have a car of coal for another two hours!” Then down the corridor I’d hear a miner yelling my name, “Creekmore! Billy Creekmore, git over here! You’re costing me money, boy!” A good miner shoveled ten tons of coal a day, and he sure didn’t want me standing in his way.

  Lots of the miners was angry men, just like Clayton said, and I overheard more and more of ‘em talking about the United Mine Workers when I passed by on my route. Every now and then, one of ‘em would say something to me about how the UMW needed young boys like me to stand with ‘em. Fortunately I remembered what Aunt Agnes said, and the words spilled outta me easy enough.

  “Boys like you should join the union,” said one miner to me. “After all, you’ve got more to gain than an old man like me. You’ve got a lifetime in the mine ahead of you, and the union can help you.”

  “Oh, but I already belong to the union at church,” I said. “I go there every Sunday and every other week-night for union with God and my fellow man.”

  “Well, the union I’m talking about is different,” he went on. “It’s more about standing up for your rights and not letting Mr. Newgate run your life to make himself rich.”

  “Oh, yes, I pray regular for Mr. Newgate and for all of us down here workin’ in the dangers…. Well, I best be off. Giddap, Markel!” I cracked my whip in the air and hurried away into the blackness.

  Day after day, deep in the mine, I felt some of the old loneliness that used to cling to me at the orphanage. I figured it was the darkness of the mine coupled with the solitude of my job. Three times a day, I pulled a load of coal from the farthest part of the mine way up to the weighing station, and I’d be alone in the dark for long stretches of time. The yellow light from my lamp cast weak shadows on the damp walls. As the clop-clop of the mule echoed in the tunnels, I’d get to thinking about things—like the way Mr. Beadle beat Herbert Mullens so bad he stopped talking or how fearful Meek Jones looked after he drowned.

  Plenty of folks believed the mines was haunted by all the miners that died there, and sometimes I felt something following me and Markel. It was awful unsettling. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I’d turn around quick to look behind me.

  “Who’s there?”

  My voice echoed down the dark passageways till it was swallowed up in black. Nothing answered back.

  “I bet you was feeling the ghost of little Golden Breedlove,” said Clyde. “He was a trapper like me, about ten years old. A coal car run off its tracks and crushed him against the wall of the mine.”

  Clyde was working the trap near the old part of the mine, sitting on his little bench eating lunch. I strapped a bag of oats to Markel, and sat next to Clyde with my sandwich.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, I’d say it was ten years ago … back when the mine first opened. He was the first boy kilt in the mine. Folks say his spirit wanders about trying to find its way out to the light.”

  “I felt like somethin’ was followin’ me … But it warn’t a me
an ghost. It was a sad ghost that wanted me to take it somewhere.”

  “That would be Golden, I reckon. He was thinking you’d lead him outta the mine. Folks say his mother went crazy with grief. Morning, noon, and night she wandered about the mine entrance looking for him. Then one day she was found drowned in Paint Creek. She filled up her pockets with stones and walked into the water.”

  A swarm of rats, twenty or more, and big as kittens, scurried under the trapper door, then under our bench. A fat one, bold as can be, came out to face us and stood up on its hind legs like a squirrel, begging for food. “This is my pal Jo-Jo. He’s so fat ‘cause I feed him.” Clyde tore off a piece of his sandwich and threw it to him.

  “Aaagh! How can you stand ‘em?” I moaned. “I hate their bald tails and fat bellies.”

  “Don’t you know the rats are a miner’s best friend? They’ll let you know if a roof ‘s about to collapse or if the gases are collecting. Their ears are better than ours and their whiskers feel the tiniest vibration. They sense rock grinding and hear timbers splintering long before we do.”

  “Oh, I hate ‘em!” I said. “They swarm about Markel’s stall, eatin’ his feed and nestin’ in his straw.”

  “That may be,” said Clyde, “but if you ever see a pack of ‘em running somewhere, you better drop what you’re doing and run with ‘em. Besides that, they keep me company. I get so lonely here hour after hour, I’ve turned ‘em into my pets, especially Jo-Jo.”

  I could hardly bear watching ‘em squirm over each other, fighting for food. They was bothering me too much to eat peacefully, so Clyde said to go ahead and crack my whip to scare ‘em off. Clyde warn’t bothered none. He said Jo-Jo and his friends would be back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. Newgate’s Practices

  GIVE ME A DESIRE

  TO LEARN POLISH,

  but

  DISASTER STRIKES

  BEFORE I CAN

  I was happy when I picked up my last car of coal. The day was near over and tomorrow was Sunday. Clyde and I were going sledding. Markel and I made it to the weighing station in good time.

  “You’re doing better,” said Clayton. He was already there, of course, checking over his deliveries with the supervisor. “The miners aren’t gonna yell at you so much.” He slapped his gloves against his leg to get some of the dust off.

  Just then, the ceiling above us shook a little. Muffled rumblings sounded deep in the mine.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Even the supervisor looked alarmed. He scooted off to the main hallway to take a look.

  “That’s the ceiling in the old corridor,” said Clayton. “It’s gonna collapse before long.”

  The mine boss met up with the supervisor, and the two of ‘em was pointing and talking in hushed tones. Clayton watched ‘em with an angry look on his face.

  “The Poles are working there,” he said. “Oh, it’s perfect for the company, ain’t it? None of ‘em speaks enough English to complain.”

  “I wish I spoke Polish so I could warn ‘em,” I said. I could see myself whispering to ‘em on my route, then tipping my hat to the mine boss on my way out, easy as you please. “Maybe I’ll learn.”

  “I just hope I’m nowhere near when the collapse finally comes,” said Clayton. “Until then, I’m watching the rats.”

  The sledding warn’t too good the next day. The snow was old and thin, so it was slow going down the hill. Mostly Clyde and I spent our time roaming through town looking for icicles. They hung from the rafters of different buildings here and there, fierce and angry looking. Some were nearly two feet long. We took turns keeping each other steady as one climbed atop a fence post to wrench ‘em free. When each of us had an armful, we walked down to the tracks and threw ‘em like spears. Our eyes trailed ‘em till we saw a tiny explosion of shattered ice in the distance. When the icicles were gone, we ran up to see what we’d done. About a million pieces of ice were flung around the tracks, all sharp and glittery like broken glass. Some had sunk through the snow, and others had landed right on top of the tracks. I guess they stayed there till the next train came and melted ‘em away in an instant.

  I threw those icicles so hard that my shoulder was sore the next day. I couldn’t lift the sack of lime to sprinkle over the straw in Markel’s stall without groaning.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Clayton.

  “I think I threw my arm out. Clyde and I were throwin’ icicles all day.”

  “Well, heck, Billy,” he said. “You gotta have more sense. You’re a working man now.” He took the sack from me and started spreading it around.

  Suddenly, a rumbling echoed deep in the mountain, only this time it was so strong that the floor beneath us started rocking. It grew louder and louder till the whole mine was filled with the sound of boulders and rubble crashing against each other.

  “Brace yourself, Billy! The old corridor’s coming down!” yelled Clayton. But the floor was pitching too hard for me, and I was knocked to the ground. Clayton was next, and he tumbled on top of me, pinning me so hard against the wall that I couldn’t breathe for a bit. That’s when I started getting panicky, ‘cause I couldn’t tell if it was him or a mound of rubble burying me.

  Somehow he righted himself, then he picked me up and started yelling at me to get up and keep standing, no matter what.

  “Keep your head up, Billy, your shoulders, too, so we can dig our way out if we have to.”

  Bits of rock and debris flew through the corridor into my eyes and throat, and I started coughing something fierce. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the shaking stopped, and even though we could hear the sound of boulders and timbers crashing elsewhere, our end of the mine was still. Coal dust hung in the air like smoke.

  I grabbed Markel’s reins and was all set to go, but Clayton made me leave him behind.

  “Don’t bother, Billy. Mr. Newgate’ll buy a new mule, but he won’t pay for our funerals. C’mon now. Someone’s lamp is likely to ignite all the coal dust in the air and the whole mine will explode.”

  An alarm whistle pierced the stillness, which struck me as odd and funny in a way, considering that it was after the fact. What we really needed was an alarm that went off before a collapse, but I guess Mr. Newgate hadn’t thought of that.

  Miners were streaming through the corridor. Some were panicky and pushing their way to the entrance; others were walking calm as could be with their picks and shovels and lunch pails just like it was quitting time of any other day. A few were bleeding from where a rock or a falling timber had grazed ‘em, and one old miner was dragging a crushed foot while two of his buddies helped him out.

  Seeing him made me think of Uncle Jim and Clyde, and I ran into the crowd of miners, dodging the ones who were running by me and pushing past the slower ones. All of ‘em looked alike, with their blackened clothes and faces, so I searched the crowd for one who was a head shorter than most, and then an even shorter one with blond hair sticking out of his cap.

  In a flash, Clayton was after me, yanking me by my collar and yelling.

  “You can’t go back there!”

  I tried squirming out of his grasp, but he was too strong for me.

  “I’ve got to find my uncle and Clyde.”

  “You can’t, Billy! It’s too dangerous! C’mon now. They might be out already.”

  He threw an arm around me and near dragged me back a few steps. More and more folks rushed past us now, and I could hear some men yelling near the entrance to the old section. They called for the fire crew to get in there quick, and I could tell that there was nothing any of us could do unless we was part of a rescue team. So I gave up trying, and ran into daylight with Clayton.

  Already the mine boss had ordered the entrance to the mine to be fenced off so that the families of the miners trapped inside wouldn’t go crazy with fear and grief and run in to find their kin. The rest of us was pushed away while a crew of men stretched out a length of chain link. Everyone was looking f
or their family and friends, and the same questions kept being asked over and over. Where were you when it happened? Who else was with you? Did you see old Pete, or any of the Poles? Did anyone in the old corridor make it out, or are all of ‘em buried under the rubble?

  Seemed like we broke up by nationalities, with the Italian miners at one end, the Welshmen at the other, and the colored and Russian, Romanian and native born in between. None of the Polish miners was there.

  After Clayton found his mother, he walked me over to the Welshmen to wait for Uncle Jim. Mr. Moon was there, talking to the others.

  “Don’t worry about your uncle,” said Mr. Moon. “He was working the face farthest from the old corridor. He’ll be limping out soon enough.”

  Little Frank Moon lit up when he saw me. He broke away from his pa to grab hold of my wrist and beg me for a story about Walter Barnes.

  “Not now,” I told him, but he didn’t let up on me till I had to push him away. What the heck did he think was going on? I wondered. I kept my eyes on the slow trickle of men coming outta the mine.

  Finally, a small man with a stream of blood down the side of his face hobbled out slowly.

  It was Uncle Jim!

  I ran over to him, and he pulled us close, saying, “Bless you, lad! Bless you, and thank God you’re safe.”

  “What happened to you?” The blood was running bright and red down his pants now.