THE FIRST SHOT OF THE BATTLE
Tommy Remington, meanwhile, trudged on through the gathering
darkness, his heart big with purpose. Heretofore the mastery of the
art of reading had appeared to him, when he considered the subject
at all, as a thing requiring such tremendous effort as few people
were capable of. Certainly he, who knew little beyond the rudiments
of mining and the management of a mine mule, could never hope to
solve the mystery of those rows of queer-looking characters he had
seen sometimes in almanacs and old newspapers, and more recently on
the circus poster he carried in his pocket. But now a new and
charming vista was of a sudden opened to him. The teacher had
assured him that it was quite easy to learn to read,—that any one
could do so who really tried,—and he rammed his fists deep down in
his pockets and drew a long breath at the sheer wonder of the thing.
It is difficult, perhaps, for a boy brought up, as most boys are,
within sound of a school bell, where school-going begins inevitably
in the earliest years, where every one he knows can read and write
as a matter of course, and where books and papers form part of the
possessions of every household, to understand the awe with which
Tommy Remington thought over the task he was about to undertake.
Such a boy may have seen occasionally the queer picture-writing in
front of a Chinese laundry or on the outside of packages of tea, and
wondered what such funny marks could possibly mean. To Tommy English
appeared no less queer and difficult than Chinese, and he would have
attacked the latter with equal confidence—or, more correctly, with
an equal lack of confidence.
But he had little time to ponder over all this, for a few minutes’
walk brought him to the dingy cabin on the hillside which—with a
similar dwelling back in the Pennsylvania coal-fields—was the only
home he had ever known. His father had thrown away his youth in
the Pennsylvania mines while the industry was yet almost in its
infancy and the miners’ wages were twice or thrice those that
could be earned by any other kind of manual labor—the high pay
counter-balancing, in a way, the great danger which in those days
was a part of coal-mining. Mr. Remington had, by good fortune,
escaped the dangers, and had lived to see the importation of foreign
laborers to the Pennsylvania fields,—Huns, Slavs, Poles, and what
not,—who prospered on wages on which an Anglo-Saxon would starve.
Besides, the dangers of the work had been very materially reduced,
and to the mine-owner it seemed only right that the wages should be
reduced with them, especially since competition had become so close
that profits were cut in half, or sometimes even wiped out
altogether.
It was just at the time when matters were at their worst that the
great West Virginia coal-fields were discovered and a railroad built
through the mountains. Good wages were offered experienced miners,
and Mr. Remington was one of the first to move his family into the
new region—into the very cabin, indeed, where he still lived, and
which at that time had been just completed. The unusual thickness of
the seams of coal, their accessibility, and the ease with which the
coal could be got to market, together with the purity and value of
the coal itself, all combined to render it possible for the miner to
make good wages, and for a time Remington prospered—as much, that
is, as a coal-miner can ever prosper, which means merely that he can
provide his family with shelter from the cold, with enough to eat,
and with clothes to wear, and at the same time keep out of debt. But
the discovery of new fields and the ever-growing competition for the
market had gradually tended to decrease wages until they were again
almost at the point where one man could not support a family, and
his boys—mere children sometimes—went into the mines with him to
assist in the struggle for existence—the younger ones as drivers of
the mine mules, which hauled the coal to “daylight,” the older ones
as laborers in the chambers where their fathers blasted it down from
the great seams.
Tommy mounted the steps of the cabin to the little porch in front,
and paused for a backward glance down into the valley. The mountains
had deepened from green to purple, and the eddying clouds of mist
showed sharply against this dark background. The river splashed
merrily along, a ribbon of silver at the bottom of the valley. The
kindly night had hidden all the marks of man’s handiwork along its
banks, and the scene was wholly beautiful. Yet it was not at
mountains or river that the boy looked. He had seen them every day
for years, and they had ceased to be a novelty long since. He looked
instead at a little white frame building just discernible through
the gloom, and he thought with a strange stirring of his blood that
it was perhaps in that building he was to learn to read and write. A
shrill voice from the house startled him from his reverie.
“Tommy,” it called, “ain’t you ever comin’ in, or air you goin’ t’
stand there till jedgment? Come right in here an’ wash up an’ git
ready fer supper. Where’s your pa?”
“Yes’m,” said Tommy, and hurried obediently into the house. “Pa went
over t’ th’ store t’ git some bacon. He said he’d be ’long in a
minute.”
Mrs. Remington sniffed contemptuously and banged a pan viciously
down on the table.
“A minute,” she repeated. “I guess so. Half an hour, most likely, ef
he gits t’ talkin’ with thet shif’less gang thet’s allers loafin’
round there.”
Tommy deemed it best to make no reply to this remark, and in silence
he took off his cap and jumper and threw them on a chair. Even in
the semi-darkness it was easy to see that the house was not an
inviting place. Perched high up on the side of the hill, it had been
built by contract as cheaply as might be, and was one of a long row
of houses of identical design which the Great Eastern Coal Company
had constructed as homes for its employees. Three rooms were all
that were needed by any family, said the company—a kitchen and two
bedrooms. More than that would be a luxury for which the miners
could have no possible use and which would only tend to spoil them.
Perhaps the houses were clean when they were built, but the grime of
the coal-fields had long since conquered them and reduced them to a
uniform dinginess. Mrs. Remington had battled valiantly against the
invader at first; but it was a losing fight, and she had finally
given it up in despair. The dust was pervading, omnipresent, over
everything. It was in the water, in the beds, in the food. It soaked
clothing through and through. They lived in it, slept in it, ate it,
drank it. Small wonder that, as the years passed, Mrs. Remington’s
face lost whatever of youth and freshness it had ever had, and that
her voice grew harsh and her temper most uncertain.
“Now hurry up, Tommy,” she repeated. “Wash your hands an’ face, an’
then fetch some water from th’ spring. There ain’t a drop in the
bucket.”
“All right, ma,” answered the boy, cheerfully. And he soon had his
face and hands covered with lather. It was no slight task to cleanse
the dust from the skin, for it seemed to creep into every crevice
and to cling there with such tenacious grip that it became almost a
part of the skin itself. But at last the task was accomplished, as
well as soap and water could accomplish it, and he picked up the
bucket and started for the spring.
The air was fresh and sweet, and he breathed it in with a relish
somewhat unusual as he climbed the steep path up the mountain-side.
He placed the bucket under the little stream of pure, limpid water
that gushed from beneath a great ledge of rock, summer and winter,
fed from some exhaustless reservoir within the mountain, and sat
down to wait for it to fill. A cluster of lights along the river
showed where the town stood, and he heard an engine puffing heavily
up the grade, taking another train of coal to the great Eastern
market. Presently its headlight flashed into view, and he watched it
until it plunged into the tunnel that intersected a spur of the
mountain around which there had been no way found. What a place it
must be,—the East,—and how many people must live there to use so
much coal! The bucket was full, and he picked it up and started back
toward the house. As he neared it, he heard his mother clattering
the supper-things about with quite unnecessary violence.
“Your pa ain’t come home yit,” she cried, as Tommy entered. “He
don’t need t’ think we’ll wait fer him all night. I’ll send Johnny
after him.” She went to the front door. “John-_ny_—o-o-o-oh,
Johnny!” she called down the hillside.
“Yes’m,” came back a faint answer.
“Come here right away,” she called again; and in a moment a little
figure toddled up the steps. It was a boy of six—Tommy’s younger
brother. All the others—brothers and sisters alike—lay buried in a
row back of the little church. They had found the battle of life too
hard amid such surroundings, and had been soon defeated.
“Where you been?” she asked, as he panted up, breathless.
“Me an’ Freddy Roberts found a snake,” he began, “down there under
some stones. He tried t’ git away, but we got him. I’m awful
hungry,” he added, as an afterthought.
But his mother was not listening to him. She had caught the sound of
approaching footsteps down the path.
“Take him in an’ wash his hands an’ face, Tommy,” she said grimly.
“Look at them clothes! I hear your pa comin’, so hurry up.”
Johnny submitted gracefully to a scrubbing with soap and water
administered by his brother’s vigorous arm, and emerged an almost
cherubic child so far as hands and face were concerned, but no
amount of brushing could render his clothes presentable. His father
came in a moment later, a little, dried-up man, whose spirit had
been crushed and broken by a lifetime of labor in the mines—as what
man’s would not? He grunted in reply to his wife’s shrill greeting,
laid a piece of bacon on the table, and calmly proceeded with his
ablutions, quite oblivious of the storm that circled about his head.
Supper was soon on the table, a lamp, whose lighting had been
deferred to the last moment for the sake of economy, was placed in
the middle of the board, and Mrs. Remington, finding that her
remarks upon his delay met with no response, sat down behind the
steaming coffee-pot to show that she would wait no longer.
Hard labor and mountain air are rare appetizers, and for a time they
ate in silence. At last Johnny, having taken the edge off his
hunger, began to relate the story of his thrilling encounter with
the snake, and even his mother was betrayed into a smile as she
looked at his dancing eyes. Tommy, who had been vainly striving to
muster up courage to broach the subject nearest his heart, saw his
father’s face soften, and judged it a good time to begin.
“Pa,” he remarked, “there’s a circus comin’, ain’t they?”
“Yes,” said his father; “I see some bills down at the mine.”
“When’s it comin’?”
“I don’t know. You kin ask somebody. Want t’ go?”
Mrs. Remington snorted to show her disapproval of the proposed
extravagance.
“No, it ain’t that,” answered Tommy, in a choked voice. “I don’t
keer a cent about th’ circus. Pa, I want t’ go t’ school.”
Mr. Remington sat suddenly upright, as though something had stung
him on the back, and rubbed his head in a bewildered way. His
brother stared at Tommy, awe-struck.
“Go t’ school!” repeated his father, at last, when he had conquered
his amazement sufficiently to speak. “What on airth fer?”
“T’ learn how t’ read,” said Tommy, gathering courage from his
father’s dismay. “Pa, I want t’ know how t’ read an’ write. Why, I
can’t even read th’ show-bill!”
“Well,” said his father, “neither kin I.”
Tommy stopped a moment to consider his words, for he felt he was on
delicate ground. In all his fourteen years of life, he had never
been so desperate as at this moment.
But his mother came unexpectedly to his rescue.
“Well, an’ if _you_ can’t read, Silas,” she said sharply, “is thet
any reason th’ boy shouldn’t git a chance? Maybe he won’t hev t’
work in th’ mines ef he gits a little book-l’arnin’. Heaven knows,
it’s a hard life.”
“Yes, it’s a hard life,” assented the miner, absently. “It’s a hard
life. Nobody knows thet better ’n me.”
Tommy looked at his mother, his eyes bright with gratitude.
“I stopped at th’ school-house t’ git th’ teacher t’ read th’ bill
t’ me,” he said, “an’ she told me thet anybody kin learn t’
read—thet ’tain’t hard at all. It’s a free school, an’ it won’t cost
nothin’ but fer my books. I’ve got purty near three dollars in my
bank. Thet ort t’ pay fer ’em.”
“But who’ll help me at th’ mine?” asked his father. “I’ve got t’ hev
a helper, an’ I can’t pay one out of th’ starvation wages th’
company gives us. What’ll I do?”
“I tell you, pa,” said Tommy, eagerly. “I kin help you in th’
afternoons, an’ all th’ time in th’ summer when they ain’t no
school. I’ll jest go in th’ mornin’s, an’ you kin keep on blastin’
till I git there t’ help y’ load. I know th’ boss won’t keer. Kin I
go?”
His face was rosy with anticipation. His father looked at him
doubtfully a moment.
“Of course you kin go,” broke in his mother, sharply. “You’ve said
yourself, Silas, many a time,” she added to her husband, “thet th’
minin’ business’s gittin’ worse an’ worse, an’ thet a man can’t make
a livin’ at it any more. Th’ boy ort t’ hev a chance.”
Tommy shot another grateful glance at his mother, and then looked
back at his father. He knew that from him must come the final word.
“You kin try it,” said his father, at last. “I reckon you’ll soon
git tired of it, anyway.”
But Tommy was out of his chair before he could say more, and threw
his arms about his neck.
“I’m so glad!” he cried. “You’ll see how I’ll work in th’
afternoons. We’ll git out more coal ’n ever!”
“Well, well,” protested Silas, awkwardly returning his caress,
“we’ll see. I don’t know but what your ma’s right. You’ve been a
good boy, Tommy, an’ deserve a chance.”
And mother and father alike looked after the boy with unaccustomed
tenderness as he ran out of the house and up the mountain-side to
think it all over. Up there, with only the stars to see, Tommy flung
himself on the ground and sobbed aloud in sheer gladness of heart.