Billy Creekmore Page 11

  “Nothing your aunt can’t stitch up for me. One of the rocks flying through caught my forehead. How are you, lad? Where were you when it happened?”

  “I was in the stables. Clayton here helped me out.”

  “Oh, thank you, Clayton, thank you.”

  He shook Clayton’s hand, bloody and all, then he asked, “What about Clyde? Where was he today?”

  “He was workin’ the trap near the old tunnel,” I answered.

  Even behind the blood stains and the coal on his face, I could see Uncle Jim’s expression fall. A sense of dread fell over me, and I suddenly felt weary, like my bones was collapsing. Somehow, in that second, I knew Clyde was dead.

  Uncle Jim must have read my thoughts, for he did his best to recover himself. “Let’s not worry yet, lad. We’ll ask around to see if anyone has seen him.”

  By now women and children were running up from the village looking for their men. Aunt Agnes was first among ‘em, carrying her doctor’s bag. Her face was set in a grim expression, but she sighed with relief when she saw us. She didn’t say a word, just buried her head in Uncle Jim’s shoulder and pulled me to the two of ‘em.

  “Well, now, what have you done to yourself?” she said once she broke away and got a look at Uncle Jim. She cleaned his wound and stitched it up. Then she was off to tend anyone else who needed her.

  It was near dark, and the rescuers was still digging through the rubble. They brought out the dead on planks of wood and set up a little morgue right on the snow. Clyde’s mother was there, too, but I couldn’t bear to look at her. She was stricken with worry, and I kept my eyes down whenever she was near.

  There were too many folks for Belton, so he was up the mountain, watching and hiding. I caught sight of him darting from one tree to another. For some reason, he warn’t wearing coat or shoes. He was just a thin, white figure in the bare trees, and it made me think of Meek Jones disappearing into the woods the night he drowned.

  An hour went by, maybe more, but in the end, the rescue workers brought out poor Clyde on a plank of wood. His body was whole, but one side of his little head was crushed. Mrs. Light fell to her knees in the snow. Belton came running, but the rescuers wouldn’t let him near. It made me angry when folks said Belton didn’t have no sense. He knew his brother was dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  UNCLE JIM AND I POSTPONE

  REPAIRING THE BARN

  and

  ONCE AGAIN

  I Do Some Spying

  at Night

  “Pass me the pencil, lad.”

  It was cold in the barn, and the lantern hanging on the bent nail above us hardly gave enough light. But we kept working. The job had to be done by morning. We stamped our feet to keep the feeling in ‘em. Aunt Agnes gave me a pair of her gloves with the fingertips cut off so I could hold the nails easier.

  Uncle Jim held up a plank of wood against me and measured my height. He gave it another few inches since I was shorter than Clyde. The company store had run out of coffins. Besides, Mrs. Light didn’t have the money for one. Coppers’s stall and the gate to the barn would have to wait another year.

  I hammered the sides together, trying to make it match just right for Clyde.

  “Do you think we’ll have time to paint it white?” I asked.

  “We’re going to try, lad. The night’s on our side, for it’s crisp and dry without a threat of snow.”

  All the Polish miners, plus a foreman and Clyde died in the collapse—nineteen total, the biggest mining accident in Holly Glen’s history. I thought for sure the town would fold up and disappear, but it didn’t. After the rescue team pulled out all the bodies, another crew went in to clean up the rubble and set up some new timbers, and the mine was open in another day. The whistle blew at dawn, and we headed off with our lunch pails. Markel stomped with pleasure when he saw me. I gave him some dried apple from my lunch pail and scratched him good and long between the ears. It was a regular day, as if nothing at all had happened and no one had died. The whistle blew again and we headed home. The only thing out of the ordinary was the announcement posted at the entrance—out of respect for the dead and their families, Mr. Newgate had cancelled the annual Christmas party. And even though my twelfth birthday was soon, I didn’t feel much like celebrating that either.

  After the paint dried, Uncle Jim and I carried the coffin to the boardinghouse. Aunt Agnes was there, helping Mrs. Light wash Clyde’s body and get it ready for the funeral. I didn’t want to see his body again, so when Uncle Jim went inside to help ‘em place Clyde in his coffin I waited outside.

  Seemed to me I’d seen enough of death. It scared me more than the spirits I felt, since it could come up on you with such violence and suddenness. I sat on the front steps of the boardinghouse and looked up at the sky. It stared back at me, cold and blank.

  All Holly Glen turned out for the funeral of the nineteen dead. Their coffins filled the front half of the church, and everyone but the families had to stand outside to pay their respects. Folks were wailing and crying, or else all stiff in their bones, as if they was afraid if they let themselves soften they’d fall apart and break.

  When it was my turn to walk by Clyde’s little white coffin, I placed my hand over where I thought his heart might be. Neva Shyrock said the newly dead were awful sad, but I couldn’t feel any sadness coming from Clyde.

  What’s it like bein’ dead? I asked him. But he didn’t answer, and all I could feel was how the paint was still sticky, and the smell of it filled up my nose as I walked past. There warn’t nothing of Clyde there in that chapel, nothing that I could feel or sense in any way. Then it occurred to me that maybe Clyde’s spirit warn’t so sad after all. Maybe he was already with his daddy.

  One night after the funeral, when Aunt Agnes was still tending to Mrs. Light and Belton, Mr. Moon and some other men come after supper. They sat by the stove, smoking pipes and talking in whispers. No one told me to leave or paid any attention to me at all, so I hid in the shadows of the corner of the room and listened.

  “There warn’t no reason for those men to die,” said one.

  “Don’t forget the boy—he warn’t twelve years old, his head crushed by the rubble. All because the company refused to bring in new timbers.”

  It was snowing outside, and the wind was howling. It rustled through the shingles of the cabin, and I shivered in the draft.

  “It was Newgate’s greed that killed those men and that boy,” said Mr. Moon. “We’ve got to strike, men. We’ve got to close down the mine so we hit Newgate where he hurts. Make him lose some of his precious money! That’ll make him listen!”

  “Aye,” said one of the Welshmen, angry and fierce, “but the Russians won’t stand with us, and the Italians won’t either. They’re too terrified of losing their jobs since they’re new to this country and don’t know where else to go for work. So, it’s just us and the coloreds, and I don’t know that I trust them.”

  “Save your fury,” said Uncle Jim. “The gentleman from the UMW will be there tonight. Let’s hear what he has to say before we jump.”

  Mr. Moon pulled out his pocketwatch. “It’s time to go, chaps. The meeting is about to start.”

  The men forgot I was there. Uncle Jim didn’t say good-bye or tell me to go to bed. He put on his coat and hat like the others and went out in the night.

  I felt awful curious. I wanted to follow the men to the meeting and hear what the man from the UMW had to say. I figured I’d trail ‘em to wherever they was meeting, then hide under a window and listen. It was one of my old tricks, and I wasn’t at all scairt. I was good at spying in the night. I slipped onto the porch without slamming the door or stomping too hard, but quiet and easy as you please.

  I sprinted up the hillside into the woods, parallel to the men so I could keep up with ‘em without being noticed. Others joined them till there was twenty or more heading toward the far end of town. Up the mountain in the last row of houses was a little house set off from the others with
two lanterns burning in the window. Someone knocked on the door, and when the last man was inside, I run down there, silent and quick. I crept around the back of the house and looked through the window.

  There was arguing and fighting, but I couldn’t make out what was being said because everyone was speaking their own language and no one was listening to anyone. The Italians was yelling in their language, and the Romanians was yelling in theirs. One of the colored fellas pushed over his chair, and the Welshmen was huddled together and nodding but keeping quiet for now. It seemed like all hell was gonna break loose till the man from the United Mine Workers took off his cap and stood up. He was tall and slim, and he waited till everyone was quiet to speak. He spoke in a full voice, and even though it was muffled some by the window, I could make out every word.

  “It’s one big union. Not a separate one for colored and another for Italians and another for Welsh. It’s a union of workers, because that’s what we are—workers. Those of you who are white and native born and think Mr. Newgate is like you are wrong. He ain’t like you. He ain’t like anyone here. He’s like the coal baron in Beckley and the coal baron in Eccles. He’s like the bank owners in Charleston and New York and Boston, but he ain’t like you. He don’t care about your children. He don’t care about your wives. He don’t care if you lose a leg in the mine, or an eye, or your life. He don’t care if your ten-year-old son goes to school, or if he has to work in the mine because you can’t haul as much coal anymore and there ain’t enough food on the table. All he cares about is the coal you shovel out of his mountain….

  “Now, the union does care about you, but it don’t care where you was born. And it don’t care what color your skin is, what type of prayers you say, or whether you pray at all. It don’t care if you load ten tons a day or if you load two.”

  “But when does the strike begin? And how long till the UMW comes through with the tents and the rations?” It was Clayton, standing straight and tall as any grown man there. “For you know that we won’t be on strike more than half a day before Mr. Newgate sends the Baldwin-Felts guards in and they’ll drive out our families with guns. I’ve got my mother to take care of….”

  Once the word “strike” was uttered, folks started interrupting again and calling out to be heard. One of the Italian miners was translating to his friends, and it was right impossible to hear who was saying what. So I hitched myself up on the windowsill best as I could, only I slipped and pitched forward, and my head banged the window. Some folks heard it and told everyone to hush up. Men turned in their seats and looked toward me. I figured I’d better heel it outta there, but Clayton had already run out the front door. He grabbed me by the neck of my coat and hauled me into the house.

  “Look who I got here! My apprentice, Billy Creekmore!”

  “Billy!” yelled Uncle Jim. “What are you doing here, lad? Go home now and leave us alone.”

  “He might be a spy!” said one of the men. “We better question him.”

  The union man walked up to me and looked me in the eye. “Are you a spy, Billy Creekmore? Or are you a union man?”

  “I ain’t no spy!” I said. “I came to learn about the union. I wanna be a union man.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I BECOME

  A UNION MAN

  and

  We Face Our First Battle with

  MR. NEWGATE

  AND HIS GUARDS

  The men gave me a big hurrah for joining, but a minute later they went back to their arguing. Folks had different ideas about what should go first on our list of demands. Most miners hated cribbing more than anything else, but others wanted the company to make the job safer. Mr. Moon had the idea that the company should send in inspectors every morning to check for gases and the timbers. Others said that cave-ins and explosions were all part of being a miner and that we should set our minds on getting more money. Round and round it went, and nothing much was accomplished.

  Still, it felt awful important being there with the men. I didn’t say anything, just spent my time listening, but I felt respected just the same. I was a union man, with a full vote and the chance to speak my mind if I wanted.

  We left in groups of threes and fours, moving swiftly and keeping our voices low.

  “No need to call attention to ourselves,” Uncle Jim said when I asked why we were going home this way. “It’s best not to wake up the mine boss in his fine house over there.”

  We got home and both of us were surprised to see Aunt Agnes. She was sitting by the stove, rocking back and forth.

  “Well,” she said to us as we walked in.

  Uncle Jim hung up his hat and coat. “How’s Margaret and Belton?”

  “They’re sleeping, thank Heaven. Resting at last. I see Billy’s with you.”

  “That’s right,” he nodded.

  Aunt Agnes turned to me. “Well, I expect you’re nearly of age, now. Doing a man’s job, aren’t you, Billy?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon …”

  “So I guess you’re making a man’s decisions….”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well …” She looked at me standing for another moment, then turned back to the fire.

  And that was all. She never scolded Uncle Jim for letting me join the union or going to meetings.

  A few days later, as we was walking to the mine, Uncle Jim and I saw a crowd of miners gathered by Luther Spence and his family. They was out in the street, huddling against the cold. Snow was falling on their bare heads, and the older child was barefoot, trying to crawl up into his daddy’s arms. Men with guns were inside his home, throwing out chairs and clothes.

  “It’s the Baldwin-Felts agents,” said Uncle Jim. “They’re Mr. Newgate’s hired guards. Don’t let them see you.”

  He pushed me behind him, but I poked my head around anyway to get a look. Ida Spence had her newborn twins in her arms. Both of ‘em was crying from cold, and the snow was falling in their little pink faces. The Baldwin-Felts men didn’t pay no mind to the crowd watching. They kept loading the wagon with every single thing the Spences owned, breaking dishes by their feet to scare ‘em and make the little boy cry harder.

  “Get outta their house!” someone yelled. I looked over to see who was yelling. It was Clayton.

  A Baldwin-Felts man came out the door and stood on the porch. “This house is the property of the Newgate Coal Company, and Mr. Spence, here, has broken the terms of his lease by joining the United Mine Workers.”

  “Well, let him keep his things! Don’t break up his dishes like that!” yelled someone in the crowd.

  The other guard walked out of the cabin with Ida’s kettle in his hand. “We’re claiming this here property as payment for the fines Mr. Spence incurred by joining the union.”

  “You guards ain’t nuthin’ but thugs!” yelled someone else. More folks started calling the guards ruffians, bullies, and thieves. Next thing you know, someone in the crowd threw a rock. Then someone else did, and someone else, until one of the guards reached in his pocket and pulled out a pistol. I don’t know how many times he shot it into the air. Folks jumped and ran for cover, and the crowd dissolved into nothing. Uncle Jim pulled me behind one of the houses nearby, ‘cause I was too shocked to move my feet or know which way to turn.

  Some folks run off. Others, like Uncle Jim and me, hid behind houses to see what would happen next. When the house was empty, the Baldwin-Felts men walked the family to the depot where a train had just pulled in. They had their guns out the whole way, and one of ‘em nudged Luther in the ribs with the barrel as he boarded the train to be dumped in a different coal town somewhere in Mingo County. They didn’t have nothing but the clothes on their backs—no food or bottles for the babies, not a pot to cook in, nor a penny in a pocket. When the train pulled away, the guards headed back off to the boardinghouse, laughing and cussing.

  None of us talked or moved till they was inside and the door closed. Slowly we came out, mumbling ‘bout what happened, but keeping o
ur voices low as we walked up the hill to the mine. Clayton caught up to me and Uncle Jim.

  “There must be a spy, Mr. Berry,” he said. “He’s taking names at our meetings and passing them on to Mr. Newgate. Those guards are picking on Luther to give us all a scare.”

  “That’s right, lad. You and Billy have to keep your ears open. Pay attention to any chap who keeps talking to you about the meeting or asks you to remind him of what we talked about and who was there. The spy will try to get information from the two of you. He’ll figure you’re too young to know what he’s after.”

  Later on, when the whistle blew and we come outta the mine, we walked into a whole different world. There was Baldwin-Felts guards everywhere. They was on the loading platforms just outside the entrance, scattered along the hillside and the streets of the town. They carried rifles over their arms or walked bloodhounds back and forth. Some of the miners cursed and shook their fists at ‘em. But I was all quivery, near shaking in my boots when I passed.

  “Don’t be afraid, lad,” whispered Uncle Jim. “That’s what they want, to make us afraid.”

  It was a gray evening, without wind or early stars, and the sky was dissolving into snow. It covered up our steps as we walked home. I heard something going pat-pat-pat ever so softly, but I didn’t know if it was the snow hitting the ground or the blood pulsing in my ears.

  The next morning, the Baldwin-Felts guards filled the town like an army, watching us as we walked to work, looking for any reason at all to shoot or set the dogs on us. They hung outside the company store and walked up and down the village streets. Their dogs leapt when we passed, pulling against their leashes, barking and snarling like they’d just as soon rip us to pieces.

  When we came outta the mine that evening, Mr. Newgate himself was there, surrounded by guards. There was eight of ‘em, holding rifles, and the two front guards was leading a bear on a leash! A bear! It walked ahead of ‘em about five feet or so. They whooped at the bear to make it stand up and take a few steps. It tossed its head and growled, swiping at air with its claws. This made the dogs go crazy. They lowered down on their forelegs, their hackles raised and teeth bared, barking and howling till I wondered if maybe I had died and gone to the hell the snake-handling preacher at the orphanage warned us about.