Night of the Burning Tents

By Juliet Rosetti

       "A vivid account of one of the most shameful events in American labor history, told by the children who lived through it"

       

When her dad is killed in a mining accident, 12 year-old Katie Scully takes on the burden of supporting her family. Wearing her brother's clothes, she enters the rough and tumble, boys-only world of the coal breaker. Bullied by the meanest boy in the breaker, Katie, coached by a young Greek immigrant named Leander,  learns to fight back. Soon the breaker boys are caught up in the Great Coalfield Strike of 1913. Enraged over dangerous conditions in the mines, Colorado's miners form a union and walk out on strike. Evicted from their company-owned houses, the strikers and their families set up living quarters in canvas tents just outside the town of Ludlow.

 

Against all odds, the union survives, despite hunger, cold, the worst blizzard in Colorado history, and the harassment of a private army of machine gun-wielding thugs. When the State Militia is sent in to keep the peace, everyone hopes it will put an end to the violence. Instead, the soldiers use their power to terrorize the residents of the tent colony. As the strike stretches on, the mine owners decide the union must be broken at any cost. Guardsmen are ordered to destroy the tent city. Under cover of darkness, they torch the camp. Fourteen women and children are killed in the fire--an event that becomes known as the Ludlow Massacre.

 

The fire was an accident, claims the brutal commander of the Guard troop. Only Katie, hiding the night it happened, witnessed the soldiers setting the fires. With a coroner's jury set to decide on the victims' cause of death, Katie faces an agonizing decision: keep quiet in fear of reprisals to her family, or step forward and tell the truth, hoping to find justice for the victims.

 

"A riveting narrative of a little known chapter in American history" --ARC reviewer

 

"Vivid period details, strong characters, and a rip-roaring pace" --ARC reviewer   

 

"Thrilling--not a dull moment" --ARC reviewer                 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonbow Books
• Release date: Mar 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781386732389

Juliet Rosetti

Juliet Rosetti is the author of several books for middle grade readers as well as a romantic suspense series called The Escape Diaries. She lives in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The breaker rose against the dawn sky like a great crouching beast. Seven stories tall, with a steep, crook-backed roof, it stood in a dark cloud of soot beneath the skeletal frame of the coal tipple.

A man emerged from the shadows and unlocked the massive front door. I knew who he was—everyone in Ludlow knew Caldwell Briggs, the breaker boss. Foul-tempered and heavy-fisted, he was feared by every boy in town.

And this was the man I had to talk into hiring me.

All my cowardly impulses shrieked at me to turn and run, but I couldn't go home without getting this job—and fast, before twenty boys showed up, ready to beat each other bloody for a shot at the job.

Guts churning with fear, I approached Briggs. Sir? I croaked. I heard you need a new breaker boy?

He spat a wad of tobacco juice. You got a work permit?

My hands shook as I fished the crumpled form out of my pocket and thrust it at Briggs, certain he'd be able to tell I'd faked Ma's signature.  

Kevin Scully, Briggs read aloud. Age twelve. His eyes raked over me like a razor on a raw wound. You're a runty thing, ain't you?

I tried to look less runty. I squared my shoulders, jutted my jaw. I'm stronger than I look, sir. I'm a real hard worker and I'm reliable and—

Spare me the sales pitch, growled Briggs, who smelled like stale beer and rancid cigars. His eyes were streaked with red, like little forks of lightning. Pay's a nickel an hour. Give me any guff and I'll kick your sorry can halfway to Sunday. Bench fifty-six.

I was hired? Just like that? Before he could change his mind, I nipped through the door of the breaker and found myself in a dark, gloomy world. Coal motes danced in the air, so thick that if you lit a match, the air itself might catch on fire. Long wooden chutes angled from the top of the building to the ground floor; metallic screeches rose from the tunnels below, where ore cars were being coupled into trains that might stretch a mile or more.

Where in this huge, frightening place was my bench?

A whistle hooted, making me jump. Suddenly the building was thronged with boys. Boys laughing and swaggering and cussing and yelling at the tops of their lungs. How was I going to pull off my flim-flam on this rowdy crew?

Jamming my pa's cap lower, I jostled along with the torrent of boys, tossed my lard bucket lunch pail where the others threw theirs, then galloped up a wooden ramp with rows of benches branching off it.

Outa the way, squirt. A boy shouldered past.

Sorry, I muttered automatically, even though he'd been the one to bump me. Wait—where's bench fifty-six?

Giving me a quick, sharp glance out of dark eyes, he jerked his thumb upward. I hurried off, climbing higher. There, near the top of the breaker, where the coal dust hovered in a hot black fog, I found a bench with 56 scrawled on it in grease pencil. It wasn't really a bench, just a plank of splintery wood set above a coal chute like a bridge over a stream. A pale, skinny boy sat hunched at the next bench, his shaved head suggesting a recent bout with head lice.

What do I gotta do? I whispered.

The boy stared at me. Pull out the rocks and chuck 'em in the bin, dummy.

But how do I know—

An ear-piercing shriek sounded—the work start whistle. Machinery started up with a thunderous racket, the building shook, and coal surged in a jiggling torrent beneath my feet. Glancing up toward the top of the breaker, I watched the enormous steel crushers grinding up slabs of coal fresh from the mine into fist-sized pieces, then tumbling them down the chutes. I'd heard stories about boys who'd gotten too close to the crushers, been pulled in and mangled to death.

Don't think about it! I jerked my eyes to the kid with the convict haircut. Eyes fixed to the black river beneath him, he repeatedly bent down and snatched out bits of rock, then lobbed them into a metal tub. But which ones were the rocks? They all looked like black lumps to me. By watching carefully, I figured how to spot the difference. Pure coal was shiny and light; the bad stuff—the gob—looked like chunks of blackboard slate.

At first the work seemed laughably simple. I couldn't believe I was actually getting paid for this! But before long my spine began to feel like a matchstick about to snap in half. Sharp rocks slashed my fingers and the coal acid seeped into the cuts, stinging like ant bites. Why didn't they give us gloves?

Briggs stalked past, looking like a lump of coal himself with his bristly black mustache, gritty gray skin and black suit. He clutched a shovel handle in one grimy fist, slapping it rhythmically against his thigh as though itching to use it.

Sir? I called out.

Briggs stalked over, scowling.

Could I get some gloves? I asked.

Gloves? Briggs stared at me as though I'd requested a diamond tiara. His eyes glittered; his mustache twitched. "Sure thing, sonny boy—here's your gloves!"

He stomped a nailed boot on my outstretched fingers, then caught me three sizzling blows across the back with his shovel handle. I hear you bellyachin' again, I'll punt you across the breaker. Now get back to work!   

Chapter 2

D umb greenhorn, sneered the boy next to me. Ya gotta have bare hands to work coal.  

Hoots and jeers from the boys nearby. Someone lobbed a chunk of coal at the back of my head. Burning with humiliation, I bent back over the chute, hiding my face. My knuckles throbbed from the nailed boot; my back stung where I'd been walloped; and my eyes burned with choked-back tears. No one had ever hit me before!

I wouldn't stand for it! I'd show Briggs—I'd up and walk out! I jerked to my feet, took a step. Then reality drenched me like a Rocky Mountain rainstorm and I slowly lowered myself back to the bench. Like it or not, I desperately needed this job.

It was all that stood between my family and the street. Our rent was overdue, the company store had cut off our credit, and Ma had even pawned her wedding ring to pay the doctor bills. My baby brother had a croup like a barking seal and my other brother wasn't right in the head. It was up to me to rescue my family. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I bent back to the coal. Bend, pick, toss. Bend and pick and suck the poisonous dust into your lungs. Bend and pickle your eyeballs in soot and cough until it feels like your lungs are turning themselves inside out.

The morning passed like a week with the toothache. At last the noon whistle blew, the machinery clanked to a halt, and the boys bolted to their feet and scampered down the chutes. Not me. I hobbled like a granny, every muscle aching, guts griping with hunger. Even the stale bread I'd packed for lunch was going to taste like peaches and cream!

The boys ate in a storeroom, a windowless space that smelled like machine oil and rat poison. They were all there already, lounging on nail kegs or sprawled against walls, stuffing food in their mouths with filthy hands. They looked up when I walked in, nudging each other and grinning slyly.

Too ravenous to care what they were up to, I limped to the shelf where I'd stashed my lard bucket and yanked off its lid. My lunch was gone! In its place was a glob of axle grease the size of a catcher's mitt. The boys let out a pent-up howl of  laughter.

Very funny, I said. N-now whoever took my lunch, give it back, please.

A boy swaggered forward. Big, hulking, with a face that looked as though it belonged inside a horse collar, he mocked me in a falsetto voice. Can't have it back, boyo. Cuz I et it.

You ate my lunch? I stared at him, open-mouthed. Nobody could be that mean!

He belched in my face.

Why, you're a—a dirty, rotten thief!

The boy's hand shot out, shoving me so hard I bounced against the wall. Nobody calls Eddie Coogan a thief.

"I just did." That was my empty belly talking, not me.

Coogan's lip curled. "What're you gonna do about it, huh? Gonna hit me—a sissy, glove-wearing girl like you?"

My heart felt like it was being clamped in a vise.

You talk like a girl, Coogan jeered,  jabbing me in the chest with a hard forefinger. And you walk like a girl and you got eyes like a girl—

I'd give him girl! I cocked back my arm and swung my lard bucket at his fat, stupid head.  Coogan hadn't seen it coming—it hit him square in the jaw and he collapsed like he'd been slammed with a sledge hammer. Something seemed to break loose inside me. I leaped on him, bashing him with my fists, shoving grease up his nose, in his mouth, his ears—

The louse-head kid kicked me in the ribs. Yelping in pain, I toppled off Coogan. A boy with pimples like a bad case of measles yanked me to my feet, pinning my arms.

I'll kill you! Coogan blubbered, his nose gushing grease, snot, and blood, lurching to his feet and advancing on me, murder in his eyes.

Leave him be, said a quiet voice.

A boy stepped out of the circle of onlookers—the boy who'd given me directions that morning. He was tall and wiry, and something in the dark, alert eyes suggested it would be a bad idea to tangle with him.

Pimples abruptly released me. Hey, Karras—just horsin' around, he said, nervously licking his lips and edging away. Showing the new kid how things work around here.

Coogan glared at the boy named Karras. Keep your nose out of this, greaseball.

Who's the greaseball, huh? The boy reached out and snicked a fleck of axle grease off  Coogan's nose. Coogan's hands balled into fists, but the challenge in the cool eyes made him think better of what he'd been about to do. He flung himself out of the room, leaving a string of curse words in his wake like a bad smell.

The break over whistle hooted and the boys stampeded back to their work stations. Except for Karras. You okay? he asked. He had straight black hair and looked somehow foreign—maybe Greek or Italian.

I nodded, although I felt weak and wobbly all over.

Here. He took a packet wrapped in waxed paper out of his pocket and thrust it into my hands. Eat it at your bench. Don't let Briggs see you."

I skidded onto my bench just as the machinery ground back into gear with a skull-rattling rumble. Keeping an eye peeled for Briggs, I stealthily unwrapped the wax paper. Inside was a kind of sandwich that looked like a pancake. Foreign food, maybe crawling with foreign germs. But beggars couldn't be choosers, so I bit into it.

It was the most wonderful thing I'd ever tasted! The crunchy bread formed a pocket around pale soft cheese and spicy meat. I gobbled every crumb, wishing there was more, and licked my sooty fingers, feeling energy flood back into my body.

I had a friend here! Well, not a friend exactly—more like the enemy of my enemy.

I thought back to the fight in the break room. I'd never hit a person in my life! I was the kind of person who set baby birds back in their nests, walked around ants on the sidewalk, and bandaged little kids' skinned knees. Yet I'd been ready to knock Coogan's block off. I hadn't realized I had that much mad inside me.

The day dragged by like several eternities stitched together, but at long last the quitting whistle blew. Feeling like Ty Cobb had been using me for batting practice, I lurched to my feet. I've done it! Survived a day in a coal breaker! Earned fifty cents! Staggering to the exit along with the crowd, I kept a wary eye out for Coogan and his cronies. Outside the breaker, boys pinballed off in all directions. I found myself alone, scuttling along the alley near the tracks.

A shadow moved in a doorway. My heart gave a sickening plunge and I tightened my grip on my lard bucket, now filled with slabs of rock. I see you there, Coogan, I growled, trying to sound tough. 

The boy named Karras stepped out of the shadows. A smile flickered across his face. I know your secret, he said quietly.

"What secret?

He leaned close. I know you're a girl.

Chapter 3

Iscowled at him. Take it back!

"Coogan was right. You do act like a girl."

Go soak your head.

"Don't put your hands on your hips. Guys don't do that. Swagger when you walk. Ram your hands in your pocket, take bigger steps. This is my sidewalk—get outa my way. And don't say please. It's a dead giveaway."

My heart plummeted clear down to my grimy socks. He'd seen through my act; he was going to spill the beans. If Briggs found out he'd hired a girl to take on a boy's job I probably wouldn't even get paid for today.  

Karras's face cracked into a grin.  "I'd like to see the look on Coogan's  mug when I tell him he got knocked on his can by a girl."

"You can't tell him! You can't tell anybody!"

He stared at me, curious. I don't get it. Why are you pretending to be a boy?

Because they don't let girls work in the breaker.

We emerged from the alley onto Main Street. The little town of Ludlow, Colorado, was an anthill of activity at this time of day, men swarming out of the mines, women hurrying home from the company store with supper fixings, boys pouring out of the breaker. Horse-drawn delivery wagons and mule trains jockeyed for road position with honking motorcars. It was a raw, overcast day without a breeze; the smoke from the coke ovens roiled at ground level, turning everything even grayer and grittier, obscuring the view of the Sangre de Cristo mountains off to the west.

Breakers are no place for girls, Karras said.

Hah! Neither is any other place. There's no jobs for girls. Girls are just supposed to sit around waiting for some dope to marry 'em.

Does your papa know what you're up to?

Well, that's a good question. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Depends on your view of the afterlife. I bit my lip. It ought to get easier explaining it after all these months, but it never did. My pa, Mike Scully. . .

Tears sneaked into my eyes and I had to clear the gravelly lump in my throat before I could go on. He was working in the Cockleburr mine. There was an explosion . . . the ceiling caved in. And my pa—he didn't  make it out.  

I know about the Cockleburr, Karras said. The worst disaster in Ludlow. I'm sorry about your papa.

We clumped along without talking for a couple blocks and waited for a coal train to pass before we crossed the tracks that sliced through the center of town. Then Karras asked, What's  your first name, anyway?

Katie. Kathleen Maeve Scully.

Karras stuck out his hand. "Leander Karras. Harika pousas gnorissa. That's pleased to meet you  in Greek."

Feeling kind of silly, I shook Leander's hand. It was rough as tarpaper. You're Greek? I asked.

"Ne—yes. So now you know I'm Greek, maybe you ain't so keen on being pals." 

Greeks and Italians were generally despised, usually given the hardest, dirtiest jobs. Don't be a dope. You saved my life!

You were doing pretty good on your own. He laughed out loud. Oh, man—the way Coogan's eyes bugged out when you whacked him with your lunch pail!

I started laughing too. Now that I thought back on it, it had been pretty funny. Leander told me more about the boys in the breaker—which ones were okay; which ones were sneaks; which ones were mean—as we trudged up the steep sides of Hardscrabble Hill.

The path wound between towering gob piles—small mountains of shale and junk rock dumped from the breakers. Women and kids swarmed up the sides of the piles like mountain goats, digging out the slivers of coal—a way to avoid paying sky-high prices for fuel at the company store. Gob-picking was risky, though—if the guards caught you doing it, you might get a beating. And sometimes the piles collapsed without warning. Just last week a Russian woman had been suffocated when the pile suddenly shifted and tons of loose rock avalanched down on her.

At last we reached the row