Robbing the Pillars
“Two hundred fifty tons!” Tom said, sweeping his hands in front of him to indicate how little coal was left in their breast.
“I don’t know,” said Coyne. “Two fifty’s a lot for a coupla beginners.”
Mike sloshed closer, examining the face. Tiny cascades trickled from cracks in the ribs and ceiling. Droplets plunked his head and frigid water seeped into his boots. The musty odor of black powder lingered in the air. One mistake now and they could hit a pocket, flood themselves, bring the overburden down on their heads. He wished they had already moved on to a new breast, far away, and were finished here forever. His old fear of riding the cage seemed absurd, pathetic, in comparison.
“Ye think that little of us?” Tom flexed his biceps. “Feel that? Solid steel!”
“Alright.” Coyne laughed. “So ye got some guns on ye. Just keep ’em to yourself or you’ll wind up in jail with McKenna. Every time he gets soaked, he nearly kills someone.”
“Don’t worry.” Tom patted his biceps. “We ain’t like McKenna. We only use ours for good. Right, Mikey? Ten buggy-loads a day for the past month.”
“Psst.” Mike grabbed a spade and started shoveling. “Look who’s coming.”
Rhys emerged from the crossheading, hunched over, his face knotted up as though he was trying not to puke. “Dag blame you, Coyne! How long you been shirking here with the kids?”
“Seconds.” Coyne frowned. “Shoofly just left.”
“I’ve already been at it for hours, ye scoundrel. Plenty of coal for you to load. And when you’re done, I want you to finish her off.”
“Rob the pillars?”
Rhys moved closer, until he was inches from Coyne’s face. “Exactly.”
Mike dropped his spade. Tom had backed into the face, as if that would save him from the coming disaster.
“You’re mad!” Coyne protested. “Side pillars are already too thin. Won’t be able to bear the extra weight. It’s suicide!”
Rhys pushed even closer to Coyne, until their chests were nearly bumping. “Gotta be done.”
Coyne took a step back. “Remember what happened last time? Want two more dead lads on your conscience?”
“Your choice, Coyne. Plenty of men would gladly take your job if you don’t want it.”
Mike had known this time would come; he just wasn’t expecting it so soon. Every day, as they burrowed deeper, the pillars got thinner and they had to add more timbers and props to support the roof. Cutting away a pillar was like removing a wall of a house while still inside, just to recover a few nails. A good miner could sometimes pull it off. Other times there’d be a chain reaction. Neighboring breasts would collapse, crushing everyone in the vicinity. Coyne always said the owners should just abandon the breasts when they reached this point, but they seldom did, especially not in desperate little coll’ries like Plank Ridge, where the process had been on the rise ever since the Depression began.
“Tell ye what,” Coyne said. “If ye do it, I’ll haul the entire load myself. If it collapses on your head, I’ll dig ye out first, then load it all up.”
“I’ll tell you what. You can follow orders or leave. But don’t bother coming back.”
Coyne picked up a spade. Mike thought he was going to bash Rhys over the head, but he just tossed it to him. “Better unemployed than dead.”
“Blast it, Coyne!” Rhys threw the spade back at his feet and stomped away.
Coyne leaned closer to Mike and Tom, stone-faced. “Keep your eyes and ears open, lads. If the overburden comes down next door, ye could still get it on the noggin in here.”
Mike’s fingers were ice cold. He wanted to leave.
“What about Jimmy? He in any danger?”
“Don’t think so.” Coyne cleared his throat. “But I’ll warn him on my way out.”
Tom took a chew of tobacco and passed it to Mike. “This don’t feel right.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Mike’s mouth filled with saliva and he spat. His skin itched with sweat, even though they hadn’t started working. He reached for a pick, but knocked all the spades over. “Dammit! Let’s just leave. Coyne wouldn’t’ve quit if the risk wasn’t serious.”
“Ye think we’ll still have jobs tomorrow?”
“Probably not.”
Michael Dunn
Michael Dunn writes Working-Class Fiction from the Not So Gilded Age. Anywhere But Schuylkill is the first in his Great Upheaval trilogy. A lifelong union activist, he has always been drawn to stories of the past, particularly those of regular working people, struggling to make a better life for themselves and their families.
Stories most people do not know, or have forgotten, because history is written by the victors, the robber barons and plutocrats, not the workers and immigrants. Yet their stories are among the most compelling in America. They resonate today because they are the stories of our own ancestors, because their passions and desires, struggles and tragedies, were so similar to our own.
When Michael Dunn is not writing historical fiction, he teaches high school, and writes about labor history and culture.
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