Blackwater Hollow 1900-1929: Book One of the Monongahela Chronicles

By Joan Little Angelo

Charlie and Edna, representational characters, carry the story of the Monongahela River Valley through all four books of the chronicles. Its a story that details the working conditions in the mines and mills, the development of the labor union, and the unique culture of the region known as The Steel Valley.

Other characters appear, some actual such as Philip Murray, John Lewis, Mother Jones, etc. All of the incidents included though dramatized are based on real accounts garnered from a number of different sources.

Blackwater Hollow takes the reader from the year 1900 to the precipice of the stock market crash in 1929.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2003
• ISBN: 9781453551608

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Copyright © 2003 by Joan Little Angelo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Blackwater Hollow 1900-1929

Dedication:

In loving memory of my mother and father,

Lillian M. Hoak Little

and Robert E. Little of Coal Valley,

Pennsylvania.

Acknowledgements and sources are:

my husband Pat Angelo author of

Philip Murray: Union Man, Denise Conklin

and the Penn State Labor Archives,

Helen and Joseph Murray, Monsignor Rice,

Dan Hannan, John Cuddy, Nevin Smith,

Edward Grice, Joyce Schmidt,

Harold Ruttenberg,

the Edinboro University of Pennsylvania

Library,

the Pittsburgh Press

and the New York Times.

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He was born in New Castle and that ought to tell you something. He tumbled into this world from a birth-weary womb which had already delivered seven children, a little block of granite with the strength and cunning of a divine beast, ready to charge the time and space around his life with electrifying energy and set in motion a tide of events that would reverberate through the mountains of western Pennsylvania like a benign earthquake.

Within seconds of his entry he announced himself with a loud shriek that sounded like a big cat that had caught its tail in the screen door. Having done that expected thing, he immediately tried to stuff both fists into his mouth at the same time, making a sucking, slurping sound that filled the room. Had he been in the theater he would have gotten applause, in the church everyone would have genuflected at his wonderful presence but alas he was in a large walnut bed surrounded by lots and lots of embroidered white sheets and towels, Dr. Stuart, and his beautiful mother who looked through pain-filled eyes at her child and declared, No more. I will not go through that again and that’s final. And it was. She never did because she died within minutes of the delivery.

His father named him Charles Allen and called him little Charlie.

Little Charlie’s father, Mr. Allen Worthy of the New Castle Worthingtons had changed his own last name after a violent falling-out with his brother over an inheritance when he said to his brother, You keep it all. I want none of it nor of you.

Mr. Worthy was a man of strong principal.

Raising his large family kept him busy for the next several years following the death of his wife, Mary Agnes Walker of the New Castle Walkers.

Mary Agnes had been a pampered young woman and having children, one every year as it turned out, took its toll on her health but never her beauty. Her lovely wheat-colored hair was whispered about at church and her hazel eyes and porcelain white complexion was the admiration of all who saw her.

She was all of twenty-seven when she died.

Mr. Worthy was grieved but undaunted. Over the years, he took his obligation as a father with the utmost seriousness. His children were very good children much like their father and practically brought themselves up.

But little Charlie, that little red-haired cactus, who prickled his father’s nerves daily in one way or another, brought the fury of the ancient warriors into the sedate family of Worthy children causing them all, one by one to leave home to be on their own as soon as they were able.

It all began when he was six. He was dragged to his home, that large brick home at the end of Circle Street, the one with the big front porch, by the scruff of his neck like a pesky mutt by the local constable who complained to Mr. Worthy that his young son was beatin’ the livin’ daylights out of some kid up the street.

Well, it wasn’t the first time he had been brought home accompanied by the law and it wouldn’t be the last, for his strength increased by the day it seemed and his penchant for fisticuffs became legendary even in New Castle.

Why, lad? Why were you beating up that boy? asked Mr. Worthy.

Cause, said little Charlie.

Why because, little Charlie? Did he hit you first? asked Mr. Worthy.

He said my mother is dead, that’s why I beat him up, said Charlie, his jaw jutting forward and tears welling in his green eyes.

But she is, little Charlie. Your mother is dead. It’s the truth of the matter, son, said Mr. Worthy, with his usual patience.

But I don’t ‘low anybody to say it. I told him I’d beat him up if he said it and he said it anyways so I had to, said Charlie.

Yes, you did, said Mr. Worthy with great sadness filling his stoic, Victorian heart.

Matters became much worse by the time little Charlie reached eleven. That’s when he discovered he had the power.

*    *    *

By the time little Charlie was twelve, it became necessary for Mr. Worthy to purchase a house for him in Blackwater Hollow, coalmining country to be sure, down state in Allegheny County, approximately twelve miles south of Pittsburgh. Little Charlie was then obliged to leave home and take up solitary residence in the hollow. Not only that but he would have to get a job in the coalmines to support himself. This was necessary to build in him some good character.

Character was something Charlie already had in great quantity his father thought but he needed the discipline of making his own living to teach him humility and refine his character so that he would become genuinely noble, a credit to his father’s good name.

The day of his departure from New Castle, the neighborhoods breathed a collective sigh of relief. The thorn in their side, you might say, had been removed. Everyone was thoroughly grateful for Mr. Worthy’s wisdom in solving the problem. As for Mr. Worthy, he became so morose and despondent over the whole thing that he took to drink and who could blame him. It was said that he drank himself to death because his heart was broken.

Although much sympathy was lavished upon the man, no one ever made the suggestion that he bring little Charlie back home. No, they never said that. So, Mr. Worthy died in his cups one November when Little Charlie was fifteen and without ever having seen his youngest son again.

It was sad. Everybody said it was sad. Charlie’s brothers and sisters said it was sad. When everything was over with, the funeral and the settling of the estate, little Charlie was notified of his father’s death and also that since his father had already given him his share when the house in the hollow was purchased, nothing else was forthcoming.

So be it. Little Charlie had already established himself with the men in the mine and he liked being on his own. He was a good worker and once he got past that first little incident everything was fine.

*    *    *

It was a hot day in July. Charlie was thirsty. He walked away from where he was working as a doorkeeper and general fetcher to get a drink of water from his thermos.

Having seen him, his boss yelled at him. Hey.

Charlie turned and faced the boss.

The boss came toward Charlie and said in the same loud voice, What do ya think it is? Git back to work.

Gitten’ a drink, said Charlie as he went over and picked up his thermos from the large rock where he had placed it. He pulled out the cork and took a long swig of water.

I told you to git back to work, said the boss, shoving Charlie causing him to stumble backwards. Charlie barely kept his footing. Charlie was beginning to get hot under the collar.

Don’t like bein’ shoved like at, warned Charlie.

The boss shoved him again as he did before.

Charlie hauled off and hit him. Hard.

The boss flew back and tripping over his own feet fell to the ground, dazed by the awesome force of the blow.

By way of explanation, Charlie said, You shouldna done at. I told you I didn’t like it. Better not do it again. I got the power. And I might have to use it on ya.

Not requiring any further demonstration of ‘the power’ the boss got to his feet and addressing Charlie from a safe distance said, Well, ya ain’t gonna use it around here. You’re through, git goin.

Since it was a captive mine owned by the railroad, there wasn’t anything Charlie could do about being fired. He thought about using the power but he didn’t want to waste it on something he didn’t even care about. So he decided to look for a job in a union mine only he would tell them that he was seventeen so he could go into the mine and dig coal and make more money than just the few pennies a day he made at the previous job.

It wasn’t hard. He saw an ad posted the following day by the Northern Coal Company for several new workers to go into the mine. He signed up to start the next day.

He knew this was a union mine but he wasn’t exactly sure how he would go about getting a union card. He’d have to ask.

When he went to work the next morning, he was determined to weigh in as much coal as anybody else so they wouldn’t suspect he’d lied about his experience to get the job. But as he approached the pit mouth, a band of sooty, angry miners came at him with ball bats and crowbars. They stood against his entering the mine.

Charlie attempted to resolve the situation in a reasonable manner. I work here, fellas, he said.

The men kept silent. It was a deadly ominous silence that penetrated Charlie’s reasonable good nature.

I jis got the job, its ma first day, he said.

Still silent, the men stood there, swinging their makeshift weapons against their palms. It was a menacing sight and meant to be so.

Little Charlie was not frightened, only perplexed at the sudden animosity from men he didn’t even know. What could they have against him? He’d try again to reason with them. I read the poster the company put up. They told me to start today. Name’s Charlie Worthy.

Since he never attended school with any regularity, he began to consider that he hadn’t read the poster right. His main education consisted of his sister working with him night after night on his reading, writing and arithmetic. She had done a good job, too. Whenever Charlie did decide to go to school, usually in response to the severe scolding and dire warnings of the truant officer, he always seemed to be way ahead of the others in his class. So, he didn’t worry about it much if at all. But now he began to think he had misread the poster, that the job was for another mine, perhaps. He would have to get this matter cleared up soon. The standoff was beginning to annoy him. Say, is this the Selena mine or isn’t it? he asked.

Yeah. That’s right. The Selena mine. What of it? said a rotund extremely muscular man with a pronounced German accent.

Well, how’s come yer doin’ iss? Ain’t ya needin’ some workers? said Charlie.

Scab, hissed the men. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab, they chanted.

Charlie knew what a scab was. I ain’t no scab, he said.

The hell you ain’t, came the reply.

A truck could be heard coming up the dirt road that led to the mine. The threatening group of men backed away to the far corner of the open space and slipped behind some trees. The truck pulled up to where Charlie was standing and the driver jumped out. It was the same man that had hired Charlie to work. He stood on the running board of the little black truck. He said, Havin’ any trouble? He didn’t leave the running board but stood there holding the open door of the truck for support.

What kinda trouble? answered Charlie.

If you ain’t havin’ no trouble, then get to work. We don’t pay nobody for standin’ around beatin’ their chops, he demanded.

Did you hire me to be a scab? Are these boys on strike? asked Charlie.

The startled fellow quickly got back into the truck, started the engine and drove down the mine road, trailing black coal dust and mud dust behind like the tail of a frightened old fox, which is what he was.

As Charlie was about to turn around to face the mine entrance and tell the men he was going home that he wasn’t the sort to cross a picket line, he was set upon by the men carrying the crow bars and the sticks and they beat him without mercy.

Neither did they know that he was but a boy of fifteen, short, squarely built, bony arms and shoulders protruding through a shirt that was too small for him and neither did they care.

There is no violence as terrible and unrelenting as the unleashed violence of a desperate man who fears for his livelihood. And Charlie was to learn first-hand that these men were indeed desperate.

Curtained in the night by a shroud of unconsciousness, Charlie had no idea how he happened to wake up several hours later in his own bed. His face and eyes were swollen so that his features were all but erased and his arms and shoulders felt as if he’d been run over by a freight train. The house was pitch dark. He couldn’t be certain because his eyes were but tiny slits but he thought he detected a light coming from somewhere. He did his best to focus on that light. It appeared to come closer until it was beside his bed.

He forced himself to sit up and said, Who are you?

His lips were puffs of dried blood, his throat like a desert. Thinking he was not understood, he said the words again trying hard to make them come out of his mouth more clearly.

Who are you?

Charlie was unable to make a figure out of the light and was about to resign himself to the idea that this light was part of his unconsciousness when the lustrous entity spoke. You will be all right. I’m here to take care of you. By morning’s light I will send someone to you. This is what you are to do.

The light entity gave Charlie some detailed instructions about caring for his wounds, wiped Charlie’s face with a cool damp cloth and told him to go back to sleep.

Charlie did not make any effort to move or reply, just let himself drift away to another dimension where cradled in sleep his battered body began to restore itself. When he awoke in the morning he was mentally relaxed and rested but his body was stiff and sore all over. Before too many minutes passed, he heard a knocking at his door and saw a shadowy figure enter his room.

Here’s some stuff you can use for your injuries. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Charlie recognized the deep voluminous voice of the squire, C.J. Caspary.

Squire Caspary was hearing impaired and wore a little, hand-sized black hearing aid in his shirt pocket. Assuming, one might suppose, that others had the same difficulty in hearing him as he them, he always spoke loudly.

Swinging out the door on his crutches for he also had only one leg having lost the other when he was a boy shot by a railroad cop while attempting to hop a train, he disappeared into his own shadow and little Charlie was on his own again.

What the squire had left for Charlie was a loaf of white bread, a box of baking soda and a tiny bottle of Mercurochrome.

Once he was out of bed, Charlie washed himself with Octagon soap and noticing the growling that was going on in his stomach realized he was very hungry. He took only the crusts of the bread, rolled them up, dipped them in mustard and devoured them down to the last crumb.

The sharp taste of the mustard activated his ‘taste buds’ causing pain in his jaw and ears.

He put a piece of bread on top of the coal stove that Squire Caspary had mercifully stoked to a good high heat and sat down to wait for his bread to blacken. When it was done, he removed it from the stove and set it on the wooden sink top. He put a pot of water on top of the stove and when it had boiled, poured it over the blackened bread, which he had crumbled into a metal cup. By doing this Charlie made himself a pretty good drink, something that was ‘pretnear’ coffee.

When he was finished, he took the Mercurochrome and dabbed his cuts. With the bread, he made some poultices by soaking the bread in water, squeezing out the excess, sprinkling it with baking soda and applying it to his bruises and swollen parts He tied them all on with strips of cloth from his old work shirt. Then he went back to bed.

By the end of the week he felt stronger and the swelling in his face had gone down. His right eye was yellow throughout his entire eyeball as well as on the skin above the eye. This still hurt him and he was careful even when he was asleep not to roll over on that side.

The first morning that he got out of bed feeling like his old self again, he decided it was time to wash his clothes. Every last piece of clothing he owned was dirty and lying in a heap on the floor.

He knew how to wash clothes. His sister had taught him.

Just rub them good with Octagon soap, swish them up and down in the water a couple of times, wrench them and hang them out to dry. Folding them as soon as they are dry prevents them from wrinkling. That’s how he was taught and that’s how he went about doing it.

There were times though when he just hung his socks, shirt, pants and long johns over the table to dry, near the heat of the stove. He had yet to wash his blankets, towels and sheets that were sent with him to the hollow.

In addition to his linens, he was given a plate, knife, fork and spoon, an enamel cup, a pan for boiling water and one black cast iron skillet when he was sent to live on his own. And of course his clothes, which he’d just about outgrown. So, he’d managed quite well.

He never really cleaned the house. Just didn’t make much of a mess. Work in the mines was from before dawn to after dusk. Though his job wasn’t hard, by virtue of the long hours he put in, he was exhausted when he got home so he ate and went to bed.

He only made a few pennies a day wages so his meals consisted of mustard sandwiches and his black-toast coffee. To purchase a cake of soap, he had to save up. So he used Octagon for all purposes. Besides getting everything from body to floor clean, it helped cure cuts and scrapes from the mine work and kept him from getting poison ivy. And on top of all that, he liked how it smelled.

Charlie was very clean about his person. A good miner was always clean when he was off work. Charlie kept his clothes clean, too.

He didn’t always hang them outside on the clothesline even though he knew it made them smell fresh. To hang them outside meant that you had to watch them and rush to take them down as soon as they were dry to keep them from getting dirty again from the tiny grains of black dirt in the air.

Today Charlie hung his laundry over the front porch. He just didn’t feel up to going out to the clothesline. He knew the warm September sun would dry them as quickly on the stone porch as on the line.

He loved his front porch. It was all river stone and concrete, about four feet deep and eight feet wide by guess. It had no roof such as the one he remembered from New Castle. But this was much better because he could sit out at night and watch the stars and listen to the wind and all the other night sounds of the hollow. Miners seldom see the daylight. They come to depend on their night vision and their sense of hearing to warn them of impending danger whether that be a faint rumbling of the earth, a cracking of the posts, or the conversation of the company spies.

Once his chores were done and he was cleaned up, Charlie went out and sat on the porch step. With his hands clasped, his forearms on his knees, and with his head down he began to doodle a song.

Now to doodle a song you just made up the melody as you went along and the words consisted of deedless and doodles and deedluma doodluma dee, and so on down the line.

Deedluma, doodluma, deedluma day, deedluma doodluma dee, deedluma, doodluma deedluma day deedluma doodluma day-o

What in tarnation are ya doin’ ere young fella? The booming voice of the squire broke into Charlie’s doodling like a sledgehammer.

Doodlin’ up the power, answered Charlie.

The squire stood poised on his one good leg, leaning heavily against his crutches.

Come up to the office, little Charlie, and I’ll give ya a haircut, said the squire.

Not only was C.J. Caspary the squire, he was the barber and sharpener of saws and hatchets.

I got no money for a haircut, said Charlie.

I’ll do it for practice. Give us a chancet to talk.

I ain’t one for chewin’ the rag, squire.

Well, you listen, I’ll talk.

Charlie stopped doodling up the power, got up from the steps and walked with the squire to his office.

Who cuts your hair, Charlie? said the squire as he snipped wherever the cat stepped.

Nobody ever said the squire gave good haircuts. In fact the expression was that you would go and have your ears lowered. In one word, his haircuts were cheap and short and he often did them for ‘practice’.

You have too much hair for a workin’ man. You gotta keep it real short sos it’s clean and nobody can grab it in a fight, the squire went on to say.

Cut ma own, said Charlie.

What’d ya say ya was doin’ asitten’ ere on the porch? asked the squire.

Doodlin’ up the power.

Doodlin’ up the power. Now that makes no sense whatsoever, said the squire.

Not to you it don’t. But I got the power. I can make people do what I want just by thinking it. I can make things happen to people too just be thinking it will happen, explained Charlie.

How long have you had this power?

I was born with it.

How’s come you let them fellas beat the hell outta ya then if ya got so damn much power?

"Cause they come at me from behind. Caught me off guard.

Anyways, I didn’t want to use the power on them guys. I jis wanted a job. I never knowed they was on strike. I jis wanted a job."

"You’re a hard worker, little Charlie. I can tell you’re a hard worker. I’m gonna see to it ya get a job in the coal mine. Only not that mine. Most of them boys is from West Virginia. They got a hard row to hoe, a awful hard life from comin’ to goin’. So they’re hard, hard people.

I never knowed no people who could be so cold and untrustin’ as them people from West Virginia. But I guess ey got ere reasons. God knows ey don’t got two pennies to rub together no matter how hard ey work. Trouble is they got little to no schoolin’ and at hurts em. And ere awful independent. Druther starve en take. Won’t take nuthin’ from nobody less ey work for it. Ey keep to theirselves cause ey don’t trust nobody. Awful hard people. I heared tell ey worship snakes, too, though I never seen at myself.

The squire finished his description of the people from West Virginia and put down his shears. He spun the barber’s chair around until Charlie was facing him.

You all done? asked Charlie, feeling the back of his head with his large, square, calloused hand.

Done and wiped, boomed the squire with a hearty laugh.

Charlie thanked the squire for the haircut and said, matter-of-factly, I’ll take that job but I don’t need no lookin’ after. I already told ya I got the power, said Charlie.

Humph, grunted the squire. Okey dokey, sobersides, we shall see what we shall see.

You bet. See them big heavy law books a yours over on the shelf? I can lift them up offa there and put them on top of that big roll-top desk you’re always settin’ at. I don’t even have to go near em or even touch em, said Charlie, with a gleam in his eye and a slight smile on his face.

You let them law books a mine be. Now you skedadle, I got work to do, said the squire as he walked to the door with little Charlie and watched him amble down the cobblestone walk on his way home.

Squire Caspary stood a long time wondering about the boy until he just finally shook his head in a kind of an affectionate dismay and went back into his office.

When he did he was met with a little surprise.

That little sonofagun! he exclaimed as he put the big law books back on the shelf where they belonged.

*    *    *

True to his word, the squire got little Charlie a job in the union mine. It was an eight-hour day and the few dollars he made as wages beat working for pennies a day.

Charlie saved almost every last cent he made after paying the union dues and pitching in for the checkweighman. He did however, splurge and buy himself some new work clothes. He had grown so much in one year that his suspenders had been extended as far as they’d go and his highwaters kept riding up in the crotch making it uncomfortable for him to walk and high near impossible to bend over.

On the squire’s advice, Charlie bought his pants, shirt and underwear big enough to grow into. The squire gave him an old leather belt and a pair of shoes donated to him by the church.

What did the squire need with a pair of shoes doing nothing but gathering dust on the shelf. The one good work shoe he wore would last him a lifetime. All he had to do was resole it once in awhile. Resoling shoes was another of his vocations.

Though the squire demanded no compensation for the articles he gave to him, Charlie repaid him by carrying in the wash water on Sunday nights for Mrs.Caspary to put in the large galvanized tub on the stove. By heating it all night, the water was nice and hot for doing laundry on Monday morning. Washday.

On one particular Sunday night, Mrs. Caspary called to Charlie to hurry she had something she wanted to show him.

Lookeehere, little Charlie. Look what I just bought for myself.

When Charlie was done fetching the water and pouring it into the tub, he looked to see just what it was the squire’s wife had to show him that she was so excited about.

Ain’t at sumpn? It’s ma new worsher. Alls I have to do is crank at handle and it worshes the clothes all by itself.

Charlie looked the new machine over good but he didn’t say anything.

And lookee here.

What’s em big rollers for? asked Charlie.

Them’s to wrench ma clothes. It’s called a wringer. See alls I gotta do is push ma clothes through this here roller, wind the handle, and the machine squeezes out all the water, almost all the water. Better’n I could do by hand.

Your arms is gonna git tarred from all at crankin’ and pushin’, said Charlie.

Nowhere’s near as tarred as rubbin’ them on the worshboard and wrenchin’ by hand. Another thing, with most of the water wrenched out, the clothes’ll dry faster, said Mrs. Caspary. Many’s a time I done a big worshload and hung it out and before it was dry it was covered with that black dirt from the mill.

Yep. Well, I gotta git goin’, said Charlie, and headed in the direction of home.

You’re a good boy, little Charlie. Thanks for gitten’ in ma water for me, Mrs. Caspary called after him.

*    *    *

On a Sunday in early October, the squire went down to sit and chew the rag with little Charlie as he often did since he got the boy the job in the Felicity mine.

Ho there, Charlie! he called from the yard.

Come right on in the house, squire, answered Charlie from inside.

What’s at you’re doin’ there, Charlie, he asked, seeing full well what Charlie was doing.

I’m makin’ apple butter but first I gotta cut up all these apples and take out the seeds. Apple seeds is poison, ya know, said Charlie.

Where’d you learn to make apple butter, Charlie? said the squire.

My sister. We had a orchard, he said.

Do you ever hear from your people? asked the squire.

Not since my pap died.

Don’t you get homesick for them once in awhile?

Nup. Too busy workin’.

You got some sugar for that there apple butter?

Yep, said Charlie.

I had a chance to meet Phil Murray at a meetin’ the other night. He says that all workers is gonna have to stand together if they want to make a better life for theirselves, said the squire.

Who’s Phil Murray? asked Charlie, continuing to cut up the apples.

He’s the president of District 5. That’s your district, Charlie.

He’s the union man? I don’t know a whole helluva lot about the union.

Don’t the men talk about the union in the mine?

Yeah, but not to me. I think they think I’m a company spy cause you got the job for me, said Charlie.

You oughtta study up on the union, Charlie, you’re a strong man but you’re calm and quiet. More a man of action than words so to speak. The union is in for some bad times if they want to get a decent standard of livin’ for the workingman. Accordin’ to Murray, the coal operators and mill owners has more money than they know what to do with. Murray says that the workingman’s got a right to a bigger share of them profits. He’s all for the workingman and I think he’s gonna get somewhere. He’s worked in the mine hisself, he knows what it’s like, said the squire.

Mehbe.

How old are you, Charlie?

I’m – a – nineteen, he said.

I know that’s what you told the boss at the mine but I don’t believe it.

I’ll be seventeen my next birthday, said Charlie, lifting his pan full of chopped apples and setting them on the stove.

What areya collectin’ all them river stone for, Charlie?

I’m gonna make a wall clean around ma house once I get enough stones. Then I’m gonna plant a big garden.

Is that what they do in New Castle?

Some do, the ones that live up on the hill. I been studyin’ on the wall around the front porch and I’m pretty sure I can do it. He stirred the apples with his fork, smooshing them against the sides of the pan.

When they were soft enough, he added the sugar and stirred some

more.

You got cinnamon? asked the squire.

Don’t need it.

The squire got up to leave.

You think about what I told you about the union, little Charlie, he said as he swung out the door and down the steps.

Yeah, said little Charlie.

*    *    *

So Charlie worked hard in the mine and on the squire’s advice learned as much as he could about the mine operation and the need for a strong union.

Since miners were dependent upon the mining skills of one another to keep the mine operating safely and profitably, and since Charlie was a careful able worker, the miners gave up the idea that he was a company spy and treated him with the respect due him as a fellow worker.

The squire on the agreement that Charlie would pay the squire in installments until they were paid for furnished his tools for him. The equipment needed was a pick and shovel, an auger, a tamping bar, squibs, a needle, black powder and an oil lamp.

Charlie worked in a ‘drift’ mine, a mine that had its opening in the hillside and went straight back into the hill for a great distance. At the opening, or the ‘drift mouth’, was a coal tipple where the coal was drawn out in cars by a mule, weighed and shipped out on a rail car. Cross tunnels or ‘monkey drifts’ provided the only ventilation.

Because he was tall, Charlie worked bent over all day. It was almost a relief when he had to lay on his side to open a new seam, that is to undercut the face of the coal with the pick until it was a deep enough gouge, three or four feet, to blast the coal loose. There was always the danger of falling coal while this was being done, so the cutting at the bottom of the seam had to be done precisely, based solely on the miner’s knowledge of the condition of the coal. After that came the blasting to loosen the coal which had to be done economically since wasting powder would reduce what little money Charlie had made that day.

Once the coal was loosened, shoveling it into the cars was fairly routine. It was important to keep up, one miner with the other, and Charlie paced his work so that he was always ready for his car and he never was the cause of the flow being interrupted.

Charlie liked the fact that his success in the mine was largely dependent upon his own skill as a miner. But he resented having to do the blasting, loading, timbering, track laying, and sometimes ‘taking up bottom’ that is removing dirt from the floor of the mine to enable the cars to fit. All hard and time-consuming work for which he received nothing, for he was only paid for the coal sent out to the tipple, which was weighed and credited to him by the weighmaster. This usually amounted, if the work was good, to four or five tons or about five dollars a day. ‘Bug dust’ or coal powder in the car earned zilch.

Once the weighmaster’s cut was taken out, the powder paid for and the funeral donation deducted there wasn’t much left over to spend.

Work was never steady enough to get ahead.

Charlie was lucky to have his own place to live and not have to pay to live in company housing. He did have to buy at the company store, though. To do otherwise would run the risk of his being fired. Unlike the men with families, Charlie always had cash left over after the company took out money for his store bill. His grocery bill was nominal since he lived on bread and mustard sandwiches, coffee and Cutty Pipe, which he chewed.

Coal mining seemed to come natural to Charlie. The dark closed-in workspaces and the long hours of working hunched over presented no bother to him. He didn’t worry about dangers or what might happen to him. He never let his mind wander from the job at hand.

Charlie had a good ear. A good ear was a valuable asset in a mine. Charlie knew instinctively how much coal could be taken from a room without weakening the ceiling. He could tell by the working and muffled rumbling of the earth above him. He could tell by the splintering of the support posts.

Not all men, as it turned out, were quite so keen. In spite of everything, sometimes there were cave-ins. Miners who caused such cave-ins if they lived to tell about it, had to leave and hope to get another job in another mine. But miners were like gypsies anyhow.

When work slowed in one mine, they’d pick up their families and move on.

Not too many months after Charlie took the job in the Felicity mine, a ‘seasoned’ miner was taken on and assigned to Charlie’s crew.

The man worked hard. He never complained or whined. In fact, he said very little, speaking only when he was spoken to. That he knew mining was evident and he took out his fair share of coal. His ‘butties’ liked and trusted him. Charlie liked him. The fellow worked at a pace above the rest, though, and that gnawed at Charlie with a deep profound gnawing that Charlie couldn’t dismiss.

This ‘gut warning’ compelled Charlie to keep ‘his good eye’ on the man. It was not to divide Charlie’s attention but to be included as another aspect of the danger in the hole.

The miner’s name was Andy.

It was late in the shift and Andy was working at ‘robbing’ the last bit of coal. He was trying to get out a good run by cutting through a support pillar of coal and working it back. It was a common practice.

Andy’s work was steady and rhythmic, a ‘labor lullaby’ that conveyed to the others that the job was going well.

There was no warning for what was about to happen.

The rhythm of the toil was carrying the day’s workload along with speed and efficiency when without any of the usual signals and sounds from the roof, came a sudden thunderous collapse of the strata of slate above that splattered against the floor where Andy was working, narrowly missing him and the men who were working alongside him.

With catlike nimbleness, the men jumped out of the way to avoid the slide and to give the dust a chance to settle. They listened intently for further shifting or sliding of the rock.

The earth above was silent. Within the confines of the room, random coughing could be heard among the men. That was all. When it appeared that nothing else was going to happen, the men assumed that the room was secure and would probably remain secure for several more weeks. That was the usual course under these conditions.

One by one they resumed their work. They concentrated on the picking and clanking cadence of the tools against the hard innards of the tunnel. Nobody uttered a word. The only other sound in the tunnel was the scurrying of mine rats, their hard claws scraping against the metal track.

After several minutes of working, Charlie stopped his work and inclined his ear to one particular area of the ceiling.

Hold on ere, boys, I think I hear me a sound I don’t like, he said.

The chinking of metal against the coal ceased immediately. The men became very still. So still they could hear their heartbeat. Then Joe, a longtime miner exclaimed in a very low, controlled voice, free of panic, I heared it. Comin’ from over ere a piece.

Charlie affirmed Joe’s reading on the mine sound and spoke softly to the men. Git yer equipment, boys, we’re goin’ out. If I’m right, the whole damn roof’s comin’ down. Shake a leg, boys, we ain’t got no time to lose.

But time was shorter than he figured. Before the miners were able to gather their tools and lunch buckets, a large portion of the ceiling between themselves and the mine entrance fell in, drawing a stream of dust and small rocks with it. Right on the heels of this cave-in, came another, larger collapse of the earth. After that, came another smaller one.

Unbeknownst to the miners who would have no way of knowing unless they had dug into it, the coal seam was buttressed by a vertical layer of rock. Following the second and third collapse of the roof a gigantic boulder had been dislodged and had tumbled into the tunnel opening sealing it off like a Roman tomb. The men were trapped.

They were trapped and they knew they were trapped.

As this run was tunneled off the main shaft, it didn’t have an alternate escape, a safety feature required of the main shaft.

The trapped men sat in silent resignation listening with the possibility that the men working close to the drift or on the tipple had heard the roar of the cave-in and would imminently come to free them.

In the choking darkness they were at home with their own thoughts. At the sudden pressure of the cave-in the lamps had gone out as swiftly as if they had been candles on a birthday cake.

No sound was heard but an occasional whispering of tiny grains of rock seeping into a resting place between the larger ones.

The men waited. The darkness thickened. Coal dust clung to their dry mouths. I wisht I had me a chew, said Joe.

Hard cold damp air blocked the black dusty surface of the floor. Unseen rats scuttled away from the intrusion of bodies huddled together against the jagged pillar of partly worked coal. Then again the stifling black silence!

Each miner had an emergency drawer in his mind marked danger that he preferred to keep shut tight. Here is where he kept his supply of private words and private thoughts. When fear unlatched the door, the thoughts came out and were displayed inside his head like the flickering images on a movie screen. ‘How long could they last without ventilation? How much time did they have before the build-up of gases would strangle them? Were they all about to die? Were they going to suffocate? What of their families? Would they ever see their families again?’

Probably the worst dread of the miners was that they would suffocate. If not suffocation, then a spark igniting the long ribbon of combustible gas that would send them to a fiery death. Either way it was unspeakable.

After awhile these horrific images would fade and the drawer would be closed leaving only the unspoken words that told of the hopelessness the trapped men felt.

Almost peacefully, time drifted by. It was time too slow if they were to be rescued, too swift if they were to die.

Then in the damp, silent darkness a strange new sound was heard. It was not the sound of the earth or that of an animal. It was the song of a man.

It was Charlie. He was sitting on the black bottom of the floor, knees up, hands and head resting on his knees, and he was humming softly.

Before too long, the humming evolved into a barely audible song. A doodling song.

This impromptu singing under the circumstances perplexed the other miners.

I never heard a body do that before. The poor lad is so scaird he’s asingin’, said one of the miners.

Hell, I like music and dancin’ as good as the next fella, but this ain’t the time nor the place for it, said another.

Ahh, the boy’s ascaired.

We’re all ascaired. Sooner or later we’re gonna die in his hellhole.

Charlie stopped his doodling song as abruptly as he’d begun it. Before anyone had an opportunity to say anything, Charlie spoke quietly and softly to the men. You boys git on down there on the other enda the shaft, down away from the cave-in. Can youense see enough to do that?

After only a brief moment, a gentle shuffling told Charlie that the men had done as he’d asked. So he gave them another order, Now youense put yer arms across yer eyes and keep yer head down.

The men could not see Charlie. Neither could he see them. But there was an understanding and trust that had bonded the men with Charlie