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Dark as a Dungeon

Contributed by Rivka Jacobs on 30/03/10

24 April, 1910

My dearest Berenice,

How are you, my sweet cousin? What news from Richmond? How is your mother? I am amazed to say I have completed my first month as camp doctor here in Mingo County, West Virginia.

This has not been an easy assignment. The gentlemen who manage the War Eagle Coal Company have treated me with the utmost respect and courtesy, yet I find myself in constant disagreement with them. The living and working conditions of the miners in the coal camp and their families residing in the company shacks, are too horrible to describe to you. I do the best that I can to alleviate their suffering. The poor people themselves are a mix of languages and customs. The largest minority group here are the Hungarians. They are a people with very high standards, and strong values; many of them are men separated from wives and parents in Hungary, trying to earn money to send back home. They are much put upon by the local population, however, and all immigrants from Eastern Europe are called “hunkies,” as a general disparaging term.

It seemed like dusk when the two-dozen men trudged from the squared hole in the side of the mountain that was the entrance and exit of War Eagle Coal’s Mephisto mine. They wore thick boots and heavy clothes that were saturated with darkness. Their faces were so smudged with coal dust and grime that it was impossible to distinguish race or age or country of origin Their hats came in different sizes and shapes but each one had a small brass oil lamp secured above the brim. Every man clutched in one fist the handle of a dingy metal lunch bucket, lid tightly closed.

They walked through a lifeless, avernal landscape of denuded and blasted hills. They moved tired legs past scraps of wood and large chunks of prop timber, piles of scrabble and slate, rusting rails, and assorted pieces of trash.

It was late afternoon, but the sun was already blocked by the mountain that rose a thousand feet above them. The men silently began to descend a rocky and dusty road tinged a reddish hue, heading for the War Eagle sub-camp that sat along Gilbert Creek at the foot of the mountain. Beside them on the left gurgled Turkey Creek, and along the other side of the water ran the spur lines of the Norfolk and Western Railroad. The rail lines stretched from the town and main camp of War Eagle on the Tug Fork, up the Turkey Creek branch, and back, traversed by powerful Climax-geared steam locomotives with three stacks that pulled empty gondolas to the coal tipples along the side of the mountain, and returned to the Tug Fork loaded with coal.

Their foreman, Barnett, was several feet behind them observing them as he always did, every step of the way home. It was against the law for more than three miners to congregate or even appear as if they were speaking to one another, and Barnett was there to make sure that no Union “mischief” was being plotted.

In front of the group was thirty-year-old Simon McCarty, from Kentucky, and right behind him walked the teenage Alvis and J.C. Ball, brothers from Williamson. The sliding gravely sounds of their footsteps echoed sharply in the lengthening shadows.

The air was filled with the ringing bell and whistle from the compact eleven-ton locomotive as it left the mine behind them on its way to the conveyor, pulling a string of squeaking mine-cars filled with the recently hewn coal. As the noise diminished, McCarty stopped short, causing the men immediately behind him to collide with him and each other.

“What the hell….” the oldest of them, George Farmer said loudly.

“Keep it moving there,” Barnett shouted as he caught up.

“I thought I heard something peculiar,” Simon McCarty said without turning. He moved to the side of the packed dirt, and peered downward into the deep and twisting creek bed. ”I heard some whinin’ and whimperin’ and cryin’,” he added, craning his neck and trying to focus.

“And we have all the time in the world to get home, wash up, eat dinner, play with our children, and get some sleep before getting up again at five in the morning,” George grumbled, but then he too tilted his head slightly and listened. “What the blazes is that?”

Herman Cline, tall and lean, and the cherubic looking William Mullins joined the Ball brothers, McCarty and Farmer as they balanced on the embankment, scanning the murky underbrush and the budding shrubs and small trees below for the source of the sounds.

“I see it, I see someone,” Alvis abruptly shouted, and pointed to a point near some shiny rocks in the middle of the rushing water about twenty feet downstream to their right.

Barnett jostled his way through the men. He rubbed one end, then the other of his handlebar mustache, a sign that he was agitated. “”Alvis,” he ordered, “you skedaddle on down there and see what it is.”

Four Hungarian workers had broken off from the rest of the men as the latter continued towards their homes. They paused a few feet back, behind the commotion on the Turkey Creek embankment, but remained on the road.

It is late now, close to midnight. I hope to get this letter finished before the morrow! My beloved Berenice, I miss you so much. This evening has been unnerving and distressful for me, or even more so than usual in War Eagle. Remember when I first arrived here, I wrote you about some bizarre and grizzly occurrences that were causing deep dissatisfaction and unrest among the miners and their families? Well, keep those accounts in mind. A few hours ago — it was close to seven o’clock — I heard a vigorous banging on my front door. When I went to see who it was, I found two of the local miners carrying a semi-conscious young man who by the looks of him was near death, covered with scratches and caked with dried blood.

“There’s a man down,” Alvis called up to the foreman and his friends in the gathering twilight. He stood shin-deep in the ice-cold current, then squatted beside a totally naked, shivering figure bent in fetal position on the rounded stones of the creek bed. “He’s got no clothes on, and he’s a mess,” the eighteen-year-old shouted.

Barnett ordered McCarty and Mullins to go take a look; the two set their lunch buckets carefully on the roadside, and then slipped over the rim of the embankment and lowered themselves, maneuvered to the water’s edge.

Alvis felt a frisson along his spine, on his arms, as he inspected the stranger, who continued to emit guttural whimpering noises while one black eye stared up from the half-submerged face. In the half-light, Alvis could see that the youth’s build was unnaturally elongated, the hands and feet too large, the wrists and ankles bulbous and protruding backwards. The bone structure in general seemed odd, and the face seemed malformed with heavy brows that met over a jutting, narrow, leathery nose. And the smell — an overpowering, putrid odor wafted around him even after being washed by the rain-swollen creek. Alvis was particularly disturbed by the skin — it was a glossy silvery gray, like nothing he had ever seen before. He reflexively reached out a hand, touched the other’s shoulder, then immediately pulled back his fingers and shook them. “What in the blue blazes?…” Alvis exclaimed.

The figure growled at him.

Alvis bolted to his feet as the two older men reached the bank across from him. “He … he … he ain’t right!” Alvis stuttered, pointing at the other.

McCarty and Mullins both waded into the flowing froth and stood on either side of the young man. “Let’s get him up to the road,” McCarty said. They reached down simultaneously, and carefully lifted the dripping, limp body, hanging him between them with one of his arms across each man’s shoulders.

Alvis Ball splashed to the bank, and began climbing ahead of the group.

Barnett lit his oil lamp, and held it high as he heard the snapping and shaking of vegetation, indicating the men were returning. The four Hungarians walked slowly to stand immediately behind him. Barnett appeared to note their presence for the first time, and he spun around, the lantern in front of him, and confronted them. “So what do you fellas want now? Go on, git on home, the lot of you,” he said, swinging the light in their faces.

“I Geza Karoly, you know me,…” the elder of the four stepped forward and said. “You find a person below? We think he may be one of us, from our country. He not speak English. We help.” The expression on his face wasn’t benevolent or humble; this wasn’t a supplication. All four men appeared tense, pale, and stern under their coating of coal dirt.

Barnett twisted his mouth and tired to control himself. He knew better than to rile up the Hungarians, some of the hardest working miners the company had. “Well, okay, but just don’t sneak up on me like that again,” he finally said.

When I let the first group in I tried to close the door but could not, as they were followed by two other men, and Barnett one of the foremen of the Mephisto mine. And then four of the Hungarian workers whom I was telling you about forced their way in after Barnett. This was not a happy party.

“Dr. Hawthorne,” one of the locals said, I think his name is Simon McCarty, a pleasant looking man when his face is scrubbed.. “We found this boy up on Turkey Creek, half way to the sub-camp.” I directed them to lay the injured individual on my kitchen table while I found two blankets, one of which I placed under like a table-cloth, and the other I draped over the trembling body. From what I could initially see, it was hard to determine if the dried blood that encrusted the victim was his, or that of someone or something else. As I tried to adjust the lamp overhead so I could get a better view, the Hungarians as a group pushed me aside and stepped between me and the table. The locals — Simon, Barnett, William Mullins, Herman Cline, and one of those red-headed Ball brothers — began arguing as if continuing a previous discussion. “Let the doctor do his work,” and, “No, we take care of him,” and, “You damn hunkies,” were some of the English phrases I managed to make out as the nine of them shouted and shoved each other in front of me.

“Gentlemen,” I raised my voice, trying to keep my composure. “This is my house, meager as it might be, and I ask all of you to leave the premises.”

Barnett began bellowing for them all to back off; he was holding a mine lantern that was still burning brightly. He stepped up close to me, mere inches from my face, and said, “Here’s the way it is. Mr. Karoly there, wants to take this boy with him. He says, they take care of their own problems. We say, this injured youngster isn’t a ‘problem,’ he needs a doctor. And maybe we need to call the sheriff in Matewan, as well.”

I asked Barnett if he suspected foul play, which he affirmed, he did. Given the various attacks that occurred on mules and livestock between here and Matewan a month ago, as well as the desecration of graves (which I wrote you about — recall that several family cemeteries in southern Mingo County were defiled and recently deceased loved ones were unearthed and partially devoured), this young man’s state of shock, and his injuries might indicate the beginning of another round of assaults.

It was past dinner time, and Simon McCarty’s stomach rumbled. He wanted a bath. He stood in his blackened work clothes, his hat on with its brass light still affixed. Beside him were Alvis Ball, William Mullins, and Herman Cline, looking messy and out of place in the low-light of Dr. Leander Hawthorne’s immaculate kitchen. The Hungarian men, Stephen Szabo, Janos Matayas, Gyula Kozak, and their spokesman, Geza Karoly remained lined up with their backs to the hefty wood table in the middle of the room where the injured youth they’d found remained prone under a blue, yellow, and white star-pattern quilt.

Their foreman, Barnett, who had been talking to the doctor, turned to them. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go. All of you. You’re violating the law, too many of you in here at once.”

McCarty didn’t much care any more; he was hungry and tired and missed his wife and children. “It’s your problem, Doc,” he said, and pivoted, marched down the Linoleum-paved hall to the front parlor. They heard the door open.

Mullins and Cline stared briefly at one another. “Take care of him, Dr. Hawthorne,” Will Mullins finally said, and he and Herman also exited, treading heavily towards the front door.

The Hungarian quartet, each still clutching his lunch bucket, remained motionless, forming a human shield blocking the patient from view.

Eighteen-year-old Alvis Ball hesitated, frowned, shot a quick glance at his foreman who stood beside the muscular, tall and dark-haired physician dressed in his shirt-sleeves, his stiff button collar and tie removed. Alvis took a step towards Hawthorne, looked over his shoulder at Karoly. “Uh, Doc….” he started to say, with Barnett glowering inches away. “That boy ain’t right. When I got to him, he didn’t look … the same as he looks now. I touched him … it wasn’t skin, it felt like … wet fur….” He hung his head as Barnett puffed out his cheeks and then burst out laughing.

“Get on home, now, Alvis. Your Mamaw will be wondering where you got to,” Barnett said, his voice choking with amusement. He watched as Alvis followed his friends into the hallway.

Dr. Hawthorne studied the Hungarians facing him. They didn’t laugh at what Alvin said. They appeared to stiffen, their eyes narrowed and angry. He exchanged stares with Geza Karloly. “You can go now, Barnett,” he said. The other started to protest, but the doctor held up a hand, his eyes still locked with Karoly’s. “I can handle this. I’ll take care of this. It’s better if you clear out.”

They waited for the sound of Barnett’s exit.

“Let me take care of him,” Dr. Hawthorne said calmly, folding his arms across his chest. “Let me help him.”

Stephen Szasz, the oldest of the four, with a graying squared-off thick mustache, whispered something to Karoly, who inclined his head in the older man’s direction briefly but never took his eyes off the doctor. “We say no. We will take Tibor with us. We have ways to deal with this.”

“Trust me, Mr. Karoly. I graduated from the University of Louisville with a Doctor of Medicine degree.”

Karoly stretched his mouth into a thin and wry smile. He looked almost comical, smeared as his face was with the dirt of 12 hours underground hand-drilling, picking, and blasting coal and slate. “We take this boy now,” he said. “We get blame for everything that happens bad, and this boy will get blame too — more of our people will be beat or killed.”

Dr. Hawthorne’s pleasant face seemed to grow pale and harden. His expression blanked, then mutated quickly into something between contempt and rage. His eyes grew very black and bright. He returned Karoly’s thin smile with a broad and toothy grin.

The eyes of the four men widened. Karoly sucked in his breath, took one step forward, his anger giving him courage. “We take Tibor now. You shouldn’t try to stop us. We will make sure that his infection does not spread. You will not make — what is the term — scapegoat — out of us.”

Hawthorne lifted his chin imperiously, there was a moment of silence, then the doctor unfolded his arms and waved a hand. “Do as you please. Take the young man. I’m sure you have your own folk remedies. He waited while the four men drew the quilt off and tossed it on the floor, then used the underlying cover to wrap the trembling body. Gyula Kozak, the strongest, hefted the youth in his arms.

Karoly backed away from the doctor, continuing to confront him, standing guard as his three friends filed into the hall. He backed after them, with Hawthorne slowly turning exchanging glare for glare. Above the table the hanging oil lamp dimmed then flared.

And so, my dearest cousin, my future wife, my beloved Berenice, you can see what a confusing and exhausting evening this has been. I suppose I should have fought harder to treat the unfortunate victim; did I violate my Hippocratic Oath, giving in and letting those Hungarians carry off my patient? Perhaps they do have a healer amongst them who knows what to do. I felt it the better part to let them have their way, and not instigate a strike or insurrection.

Well, it’s past midnight now. There is a full moon tonight, and it’s beautiful. I look forward to my second month at War Eagle, West Virginia, although I don’t know how long I will be able to remain here. I miss you, my darling, and Richmond and the great State of Virginia. I hope to visit you as soon as I can get away.