Tommy Remington's Battle

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

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.