The Blind Brother: A Story of the Pennsylvania Coal Mines

The Dryden Mine, in the Susquehanna coal-fields of Pennsylvania, was worked out and abandoned long ago. To-day its headings and airways and chambers echo only to the occasional fall of loosened slate, or to the drip of water from the roof. Its pillars, robbed by retreating workmen, are crumbling and rusty, and those of its props which are still standing have become mouldy and rotten. The rats that once scampered through its galleries deserted it along with human kind, and its very name, from long disuse, has acquired an unaccustomed sound.

But twenty years ago there was no busier mine than the Dryden from Carbondale to Nanticoke. Two hundred and thirty men and boys went by the slope into it every morning, and came out from it every night. They were simple and unlearned, these men and boys, rugged and rude, rough and reckless at times, but manly, heroic, and kindhearted.

Up in the Lackawanna region a strike had been in progress for nearly two weeks. Efforts had been made by the strikers to persuade the miners down the valley to join them, but at first without success.

Then a committee of one hundred came down to appeal and to intimidate. In squads of ten or more they visited the mines in the region, and, in the course of their journeyings, had come to the Dryden Slope. They had induced the miners to go out at all the workings they had thus far entered, and were no less successful here. It required persuasion, sometimes threats, sometimes, indeed, even blows, for the miners in Dryden Slope had no cause of complaint against their employers; they earned good wages, and were content.

But, twenty years ago, miners who kept at work against the wishes of their fellows while a strike was in progress, were called "black-legs," were treated with contempt, waylaid and beaten, and sometimes killed.

So the men in the Dryden Mine yielded; and soon, down the chambers and along the headings, toward the foot of the slope, came little groups, with dinner-pails and tools, discussing earnestly, often bitterly, the situation and the prospect.

The members of a party of fifteen or twenty, that came down the airway from the tier of chambers on the new north heading, were holding an especially animated conversation. Fully one-half of the men were visiting strikers. They were all walking, in single file, along the route by which the mine-cars went.

For some distance from the new chambers the car-track was laid in the airway; then it turned down through an entrance into the heading, and from that point followed the heading to the foot of the slope. Where the route crossed from the airway to the heading, the space between the pillars had been carefully boarded across, so that the air current should not be turned aside; and a door had been placed in the boarding, to be opened whenever the cars approached, and shut as soon as they had passed by.

That door was attended by a boy.

To this point the party had now come, and one by one filed through the opening, while Bennie, the door-boy, stood holding back the door to let them pass.

"Ho, Jack, tak' the door-boy wi' ye!" shouted some one in the rear.

The great, broad-shouldered, rough-bearded man who led the procession turned back to where Bennie, apparently lost in astonishment at this unusual occurrence, still stood, with his hand on the door.

"Come along, lad!" he said; "come along! Ye'll have a gret play-spell noo."

"I can't leave the door, sir," answered Bennie. "The cars'll be comin' soon."

"Ye need na min' the cars. Come along wi' ye, I say!"

"But I can't go till Tom comes, anyway, you know."

The man came a step closer. He had the frame of a giant. The others who passed by were like children beside him. Then one of the men who worked in the mine, and who knew Bennie, came through the doorway, the last in the group, and said,-

"Don't hurt the boy; let him alone. His brother'll take him out; he always does."

All this time Bennie stood quite still, with his hand on the door, never turning his head.

It was a strange thing for a boy to stand motionless like that, and look neither to the right nor the left, while an excited group of men passed by, one of whom had stopped and approached him, as if he meant him harm. It roused the curiosity of "Jack the Giant," as the miners called him, and, plucking his lamp from his cap, he flashed the light of it up into Bennie's face.

The boy did not stir; no muscle of his face moved; even his eyes remained open and fixed.

"Why, lad! lad! What's the matter wi' ye?" There was tenderness in the giant's voice as he spoke, and tenderness in his bearded face as Bennie answered,-

"Don't you know? I'm blind."

"Blind! An' a-workin' i' the mines?"

"Oh, a body don't have to see to 'tend door, you know. All I've to do is to open it when I hear the cars a-comin', an' to shut it when they get by."

"Aye, that's true; but ye did na get here alone. Who helpit ye?"

Bennie's face lighted up with pleasure, as he answered,-

"Oh, that's Tom! He helps me. I couldn't get along without him; I couldn't do any thing without Tom."

The man's interest and compassion had grown, as the conversation lengthened, and he was charmed by the voice of the child. It had in it that touch of pathos that often lingers in the voices of the blind. He would hear more of it.

"Sit ye, lad," he said; "sit ye, an' tell me aboot Tom, an' aboot yoursel', an' a' ye can remember."

Then they sat down on the rude bench together, with the roughly hewn pillar of coal at their backs, blind Bennie and Jack Rennie, the giant, and while one told the story of his blindness, and his blessings, and his hopes, the other listened with tender earnestness, almost with tears.

Bennie told first about Tom, his brother, who was fourteen years old, two years older than himself. Tom was so good to him; and Tom could see, could see as well as anybody. "Why," he exclaimed, "Tom can see every thing!"

Then he told about his blindness; how he had been blind ever since he could remember. But there was a doctor, he said, who came up once from Philadelphia to visit Major Dryden, before the major died; and he had chanced to see Tom and Bennie up by the mines, and had looked at Bennie's eyes, and said he thought, if the boy could go to Philadelphia and have treatment, that sight might be restored.

Tom asked how much it would cost, and the doctor said, "Oh, maybe a hundred dollars;" and then some one came and called the doctor away, and they had never seen him since.

But Tom resolved that Bennie should go to Philadelphia, if ever he could save money enough to send him.

Tom was a driver-boy in Dryden Slope, and his meagre earnings went mostly to buy food and clothing for the little family. But the dollar or two that he had been accustomed to spend each month for himself he began now to lay aside for Bennie.

Bennie knew about it, of course, and rejoiced greatly at the prospect in store for him, but expressed much discontent because he, himself, could not help to obtain the fund which was to cure him. Then Tom, with the aid of the kindhearted mine superintendent, found employment for his brother as a door-boy in Dryden Slope, and Bennie was happy. It wasn't absolutely necessary that a door-boy should see; if he had good hearing he could get along very well.

So every morning Bennie went down the slope with Tom, and climbed into an empty mine-car, and Tom's mule drew them, rattling along the heading, till they reached, almost a mile from the foot of the slope, the doorway where Bennie staid.

Then Tom went on, with the empty cars, up to the new tier of chambers, and brought the loaded cars back. Every day he passed through Bennie's doorway on three round trips in the forenoon, and three round trips in the afternoon; and every day, when the noon-hour came, he stopped on the down-trip, and sat with Bennie on the bench by the door, and both ate from one pail the dinner prepared for them by their mother.

When quitting time came, and Tom went down to the foot of the slope with his last trip for the day, Bennie climbed to the top of a load, and rode out, or else, with his hands on the last car of the trip, walked safely along behind.

"And Tom and me together have a'most twenty dollars saved now!" said the boy exultingly. "An' we've only got to get eighty dollars more, an' then I can go an' buy back the sight into my eyes; an' then Tom an' me we're goin' to work together all our lives. Tom, he's goin' to get a chamber an' be a miner, an' I'm goin' to be Tom's laborer till I learn how to mine, an' then we're goin' to take a contract together, an' hire laborers, an' get rich, an' then-why, then Mommie won't have to work any more!"

It was like a glimpse of a better world to hear this boy talk. The most favored child of wealth that ever revelled seeing in the sunlight has had no hope, no courage, no sublimity of faith, that could compare with those of this blind son of poverty and toil. He had his high ambition, and that was to work. He had his sweet hope to be fulfilled, and that was to see. He had his earthly shrine, and that was where his mother sat. And he had his hero of heroes, and that was Tom.

There was no quality of human goodness, or bravery, or excellence of any kind, that he did not ascribe to Tom. He would sooner have disbelieved all of his four remaining senses than have believed that Tom would say an unkind word to Mommie or to him, or be guilty of a mean act towards any one.

Bennie's faith in Tom was fully justified. No nineteenth century boy could have been more manly, no knight of old could have been more true and tender, than was Tom to the two beings whom he loved best upon all the earth.

"But the father, laddie," said Jack, still charmed and curious; "whaur's the father?"

"Dead," answered Bennie. "He came from the old country first, an' then he sent for Mommie an' us, an' w'en we got here he was dead."

"Ah, but that was awfu' sad for the mither! Took wi' the fever, was he?"

"No; killed in the mine. Top coal fell an' struck him. That's the way they found him. We didn't see him, you know. That was two weeks before me an' Tom an' Mommie got here. I wasn't but four years old then, but I can remember how Mommie cried. She didn't have much time to cry, though, 'cause she had to work so hard. Mommie's al'ays had to work so hard," added Bennie, reflectively.

The man began to move, nervously, on the bench. It was apparent that some strong emotion was taking hold of him. He lifted the lamp from his cap again and held it up close to Bennie's face.

"Killed, said ye-i' the mine-top coal fell?"

"Yes, an' struck him on the head; they said he didn't ever know what killed him."

The brawny hand trembled so that the flame from the spout of the little lamp went up in tiny waves.

"Whaur-whaur happenit it-i' what place-i' what mine?"

"Up in Carbondale. No. 6 shaft, I think it was; yes, No. 6."

Bennie spoke somewhat hesitatingly. His quick ear had caught the change in the man's voice, and he did not know what it could mean.

"His name, lad! gi' me the father's name!"

The giant's huge hand dropped upon Bennie's little one, and held it in a painful grasp. The boy started to his feet in fear.

"You won't hurt me, sir! Please don't hurt me; I can't see!"

"Not for the warld, lad; not for the whole warld. But I must ha' the father's name; tell me the father's name, quick!"

"Thomas Taylor, sir," said Bennie, as he sank back, trembling, on the bench.

The lamp dropped from Jack Rennie's hand, and lay smoking at his feet. His huge frame seemed to have shrunk by at least a quarter of its size; and for many minutes he sat, silent and motionless, seeing as little of the objects around him as did the blind boy at his side.

At last he roused himself, picked up his lamp, and rose to his feet.

"Well, lad, Bennie, I mus' be a-goin'; good-by till ye. Will the brither come for ye?"

"Oh, yes!" answered Bennie, "Tom al'ays stops for me; he aint come up from the foot yet, but he'll come."

Rennie turned away, then turned back again.

"Whaur's the lamp?" he asked; "have ye no licht?"

"No; I don't ever have any. It wouldn't be any good to me, you know."

Once more the man started down the heading, but, after he had gone a short distance, a thought seemed to strike him, and he came back to where Bennie was still sitting.

"Lad, I thocht to tell ye; ye s'all go to the city wi' your eyes. I ha' money to sen' ye, an' ye s'all go. I-I-knew-the father, lad."

Before Bennie could express his surprise and gratitude, he felt a strong hand laid gently on his shoulder, and a rough, bearded face pressed for a moment against his own, and then his strange visitor was gone.

Down the heading the retreating footsteps echoed, their sound swallowed up at last in the distance; and up at Bennie's doorway silence reigned.

For a long time the boy sat, pondering the meaning of the strange man's words and conduct. But the more he thought about it the less able was he to understand it. Perhaps Tom could explain it, though; yes, he would tell Tom about it. Then it occurred to him that it was long past time for Tom to come up from the foot with his last trip for the day. It was strange, too, that the men should all go out together that way; he didn't understand it. But if Tom would only come-

He rose and walked down the heading a little way; then he turned and went up through the door and along the airway; then he came back to his bench again, and sat down.

He was sure Tom would come; Tom had never disappointed him yet, and he knew he would not disappoint him for the world if he could help it. He knew, too, that it was long after quitting-time, and there hadn't been a sound, that he could hear, in the mine for an hour, though he had listened carefully.

After a while he began to grow nervous; the stillness became oppressive; he could not endure it. He determined to try to find the way out by himself. He had walked to the foot of the slope alone once, the day Tom was sick, and he thought he could do it again.

So he made sure that his door was tightly closed, then he took his dinner-pail, and started bravely down the heading, striking the rails of the mine car-track on each side with his cane as he went along, to guide him.

Sometimes he would stop and listen, for a moment, if, perchance, he might hear Tom coming to meet him, or, possibly, some belated laborer going out from another part of the mine; then, hearing nothing, he would trudge on again.

After a long time spent thus, he thought he must be near the foot of the slope; he knew he had walked far enough to be there. He was tired, too, and sat down on the rail to rest. But he did not sit there long; he could not bear the silence, it was too depressing, and after a very little while he arose and walked on. The caps in the track grew higher; once he stumbled over one of them and fell, striking his side on the rail. He was in much pain for a few minutes; then he recovered and went on more carefully, lifting his feet high with every step, and reaching ahead with his cane. But his progress was very slow.

Then there came upon him the sensation of being in a strange place. It did not seem like the heading along which he went to and from his daily work. He reached out with his cane upon each side, and touched nothing. Surely, there was no place in the heading so wide as that.

But he kept on.

By-and-by he became aware that he was going down a steep incline. The echoes of his footsteps had a hollow sound, as though he were in some wide, open space, and his cane struck one, two, three, props in succession. Then he knew he was somewhere in a chamber; and knew, too, that he was lost.

He sat down, feeling weak and faint, and tried to think. He remembered that, at a point in the heading about two-thirds of the way to the foot, a passage branched off to the right, crossed under the slope, and ran out into the southern part of the mine, where he had never been. He thought he must have turned into this cross-heading, and followed it, and if he had, it would be hard indeed to tell where he now was. He did not know whether to go on or to turn back.

Perhaps it would be better, after all, to sit still until help should come, though it might be hours, or even days, before any one would find him.

Then came a new thought. What would Tom do? Tom would not know where he had gone; he would never think of looking for him away off here; he would go up the heading to the door, and not finding him there, would think that his brother had already gone home. But when he knew that Bennie was not at home, he would surely come back to the mine to search for him; he would come down the slope; maybe he was, at that very moment, at the foot; maybe Tom would hear him if he should call, "Tom! O Tom!"

The loudest thunder-burst could not have been more deafening to the frightened child than the sound of his own voice, as it rang out through the solemn stillness of the mine, and was hurled back to his ears by the solid masses of rock and coal that closed in around him.

A thousand echoes went rattling down the wide chambers and along the narrow galleries, and sent back their ghosts to play upon the nervous fancy of the frightened child. He would not have shouted like that again if his life had depended on it.

Then silence fell upon him; silence like a pall-oppressive, mysterious and awful silence, in which he could almost hear the beating of his own heart. He could not endure that. He grasped his cane again and started on, searching for a path, stumbling over caps, falling sometimes, but on and on, though never so slowly; on and on until, faint and exhausted, he sank down upon the damp floor of the mine, with his face in his hands, and wept, in silent agony, like the lost child that he was.

Lost, indeed, with those miles and miles of black galleries opening and winding and crossing all around him, and he, lying prostrate and powerless, alone in the midst of that desolation.

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