PENNSYLVANIA

Scylla and Charybdis

(Part 6)

Sorting and loading coal required no tools and no skills other than a strong back. It was hot, dirty, tedious and soulless work in crowded, airless conditions; the atmosphere cluttered with noise and black coal dust. It held no promise for the future and offered no joy and scant satisfaction. Ben found that it suited his mood perfectly.

He had started his new job - new life, really - with a vengeance that morning, not long after he had turned Adam over to Barbara Chesterfield. He had barely slept the remainder of the night - the emptiness of the small attic room seemed to mock and jab at him, allowing him no rest. A thousand tumbled images danced before his eyes - a pale but smiling Elizabeth, proudly showing him their son shortly after his birth; Adam's first, faltering steps; that terrifying day when Mrs. Callahan had gone on to Philadelphia and Adam had become solely his responsibility. And now Adam was gone. How could such a small person leave such a gaping hole in his heart?

He's not gone forever, he scolded himself. It's just temporary. Necessary. But "temporary" was so meaningless when you were two years old. What had Adam thought when he had woken up to find, not his father, but Miss Chesterfield? Had he been angry? Confused? Perhaps it would have been better to wait until morning and try to explain…but there was really no way to make Adam understand at this age, and he had dreaded a heart-rending scene - both from Adam and from himself. No, he was sure he could not have gone through with it with Adam crying or clinging to him. He smiled bitterly. Or with him clinging to Adam. He sorted through the stack of jagged black lumps viciously.

It wasn't forever. He needed to keep remembering that. They would be reunited and soon, too, if he kept his head about him and his back to his work. Of course…Adam probably wouldn't know him when he saw him again. Probably those whole two first years would have faded…maybe he would need as much help to understand the concept of "Papa" as he did that of "Mama". Maybe the next time he looked at a family picture he would think it was Grandpa, Baby, and Nurse.

"Hey, hey - ease up, friend! You keep going at it like that and there'll be no more coal to work by lunch time!"

Ben looked up to meet the eyes of the man working the cart next to him. His thoughts must have shown in his eyes because the man's smile faltered, and he turned away, muttering something about "no offense meant." He heard him further extol the man on his other side to watch out for the new fellow - looked to be violent.

Ben sucked in a deep breath and rubbed at the small of his back. Eh, dear. Probably he should apologize. Not their fault. On the other hand, he didn't plan to be around long enough to make friends and emotional ties sounded like an exhausting thing right now - having them afraid of him wasn't the worst thing that could happen. He would collect his pay for the day and stay at the Griffin Tavern tonight, then be on his way to Ohio. A day's work here should bring enough money to get him some provisions - living off the trail would not be a problem now that he didn't have to worry about…he felt a sudden rush of moisture fill his eyes and dropped his head, clutching the edge of the coal bin like a lifeline. Oh, God. Oh, God, what had he done?

He wasn't sure how long he stood there - a while, probably, because someone, his friendly neighbor, it turned out, touched him tentatively on the back. "You all right, mister?"

He managed another deep breath through lungs pinched tight with pain and straightened slowly. "Yes," he said at last, wishing that his voice didn't sound so gruff - wishing that he cared enough to try harder to be civil. "I'm fine. This cart's ready - take it away."

The morning passed in a blur of rote motion, Ben sorting and lifting coal with eyes that barely noted what he was doing. Adam had grown so much in even the last few months - how much would he have grown by the time he saw him again? How much would he have changed? What else would he have learned? Abel was getting old - would he have the patience to go through books with him? To answer his endless questions? To explain to him why many sheep was still "sheep" and not "sheeps"? He felt the tears suspiciously near the surface again and ferociously forced them back.

No. He had made his decision. He had not made it lightly and now torturing himself about it would do no good - it would not help Adam, and it would not help him. By now Adam was on his way to Boston and Abel, and he needed to accept that - to go ahead and build a home and make it all right for both of them again. He looked at the coal before him and slowed his frenzied pace a little, his mouth quirking at the sight of his palms. He'd be looking like a real miner in no time, now.

A shrill whistle blew somewhere, and he looked up in surprise. The neighbor, evidently the stubborn sort, clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the lunch whistle!" he shouted. "Time to take a break!"

Ben blinked, barely comprehending. The neighbor and the man at the cart next to him exchanged a speaking glance. The neighbor cleared his throat. "Say, mister, " he began casually, "Can't help but see you got no lunch pail. Now, Jerry and me - we generally got more than enough to share, if you don't mind his wife's cookin'…" He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

Ben rubbed the back of his hand over his nose, the ice edging his insides thawing a little for the first time. Really, he didn't deserve their generosity…"You're very kind," he said at last, meaning it. "I'd be very grateful."

As they spread out their meager meals, Ben was painfully aware that there was very little to share, but the miners were proud, and he wouldn't have hurt their feelings by refusing for the world. He accepted the bread smeared with some kind of spread with a smile and settled down next to them to eat. "I'm Ben Cartwright," he offered, a little diffidently, since he had been less than friendly earlier.

"Ed Plummer - " his persistent neighbor jerked his head towards the third man. "Jerry Thurlow. Ain't I seen you at the Tavern? Why you working here now?"

Ben's face darkened. "Yes, I - the money is better here. I'm in fairly urgent need of money." Both men nodded phlegmatically - nothing unusual about that. Ben cleared his throat. "About earlier - I - "

Jerry waved a careless hand at him. "Eh, forget it. Ain't like we ain't never had sorrows of our own."

Ben nodded, grateful that he didn't have to explain. The whistle blew again, and he raised his brows. "Short lunch."

Ed shrugged, punching the lid onto his lunch pail. "Don't want us to get fat or nothin' - won't fit in the tunnels." He laughed at his own witticism.

Ben smiled slightly in return, rising to his feet, but his voice was lost in a sudden muffled "whump" of sound that shook the ground under him. The sun disappeared in a rainstorm of black ash, and the whistle sounded again - three short, sharp blasts this time - almost like a woman's scream. Ben started to ask what was happening, but the ground buckled and heaved more violently underneath him and for a moment all he could think about was keeping his feet. The earth trembled then lurched again stiffly, tossing him like a ship's deck pitching in a storm, throwing him forward. He felt the ground scrape against his palms and for a moment could see nothing in the swirling blackness - his ears were filled with roaring, and he couldn't discern whether the sound was really all around him, or just rattling in his aching head. He opened his mouth to call out again, breathed in a mouthful of ash and choked. He made out another three blasts from the whistle, longer and more urgent this time - and the roaring built, growing and coming closer, like a charging animal. Surely that wasn't in his head? That had to be real? He opened his mouth to ask again, but suddenly the blackness was inside him too, and he knew no more.

BBB

He had probably only been out for a few minutes. When he roused, the air was still swirling with smoke and ash, like some macabre snowstorm, and the roaring had died away to an odd, preternatural quiet. He pushed himself up cautiously, checking for injuries, but he seemed to be mostly unhurt. He managed to climb into a crouch and rubbed the backs of his hands over his stinging eyes, trying to clear them. A pungent scent bit at his nostrils and he sneezed. He noticed his coal cart nearby, tipped on its side, lumps of rough coal spilled everywhere, and he shuddered. That cart had been heavy, heavier still with the ore in it - whatever had knocked it over had been a mighty force. He straightened his knees carefully, pushing to his feet. And if he had been any closer to it, he could have easily been crushed under it. He had been lucky.

He batted ineffectually at the air in front of him, trying to get a look. "Ed?" he called. "Jerry?"

"Here - " he just caught the movement in the shrouded atmosphere - squinted hard, reaching down to grasp the flailing hand. "Ben? Where's - " Ed stopped abruptly, and Ben tried to follow his gaze through the unaccustomed haze. He winced and looked away from Jerry's tipped cart and the dark puddle seeping from underneath it. Jerry had not been lucky.

"What happened?" Ben found his voice hoarse and coughed to clear it. Before Ed could answer there was a sound of feet scrabbling down the slope. Ben recognized the shift foreman by his distinctive red beard, now streaked with black soot, even in the shifting air.

"You fellas all right?" he bellowed, skidding to a stop. His eyes went instinctively to Jerry, then back to the two men trying to pull themselves together before him. "Tunnel collapsed," he said abruptly. "Whole thing. I need you two to run to Fernley - get as many lanterns and blankets as you can from the Company Store - anything else you think will help. Tell Doc Chesterfield to get ready."

Ben nodded and started forward, beating dust uselessly from his clothes. He noticed after a second that Ed wasn't with him and glanced back to find him silently staring at where Jerry had been. Ben gently took hold of his arm and pulled him away from the scene, following the shift foreman. "We'll be as fast as we can…" he hesitated. "How many men…?"

The foreman gave a short, humorless laugh. "About all of them. Hurry."

BBB

Ben was amazed to see how far the black cloud reached - probably right to Fernley, he thought. He kept ahold of Ed's arm, sure the man would stop walking all together if he let go. After they had been walking for a while, Ed finally spoke.

"Had three young'uns, Jerry did. Too young to go into the mines. What'll his missis do now?" Ben was fairly certain that he expected no answer, so he remained silent. "He was a good friend, Jerry was. Used to have me to dinner of a Friday. I got no missis, so he used to…" Ed trailed off. Ben gave his arm a squeeze, using most of his focus to follow the uneven trail, barely visible in the dim and smoky air. The narrow road had buckled in places, and he needed all his attention to negotiate it. That must have been quite a blast, to do this much damage. "Course, if tunnel 26 is gone, who knows how much work there'll be for any of us? Or how many there'll be left to…?" Ben squeezed his arm again, a little absently this time. They were mounting the rise that led to Fernley, and the air was a little clearer here…but still smoke hovered over it - different smoke - not like the detritus from the mine. He paused, trying to orient himself. Something was…had he taken a wrong turn? Lost his way? He stood at the top of the rise overlooking the small table of land where Fernley should be.

No town.

A few scattered buildings…clouds of rising smoke…a peculiar collection of sounds…he must have taken a wrong turn. Ed was still talking - rambling on about Jerry. He turned to tell him that they needed to go back, to correct their way, when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, a shiver rippling over his skin.

A familiar building sat a little further up the slope, overlooking the town - not quite as he remembered, but…he squinted hard through the swirling wisps of smoke. The Griffin Tavern. Tilting to one side, to be sure…one half of the roof suddenly sloping to the ground…he took a tentative step forward, trying to get a better look. The scattered buildings were looking more familiar now, too. That was the owner's house, its chimney lying in ruins beside it, its porch ripping away from the façade. That one down there looked like the pump house, the rickety roof torn off and lying upside down nearby. He took another step, had to catch himself as the ground skittered unexpectedly beneath him. He looked down and felt his stomach lift into his throat. A deep crevasse yawned at his feet. Peeping out over the top of it he could see what remained of a chimney, rising unsteadily over another broken roof, crumpled as though it had been crushed under some giant's foot…he backed up hastily, bumped into Ed, who must have followed him.

"Mother of God," he heard Ed murmur. "It's really happened."

Ben glared at him through eyes swollen from the foul air. "What are you saying?" he demanded. "Where…?" He frowned at the scattered buildings before him, trying to make sense of the scene. "Are you trying to tell me…" He suddenly felt sick. "Is this what all the fighting was about?"

Ed nodded dumbly. "Of course, no one ever really thought…"

Ben clutched at Ed's shoulders trying to resist the urge to shake him, his eyes burning now. "Are you telling me…? You were digging under Fernely? Blasting? Are you saying that the entire town has…" he stared back at the eerie mess before him. The sounds were beginning to distinguish themselves now - moans and groans and cries of dismay, the wails of injured livestock, the crackling of small fires…he dug his fingers into his forehead and rubbed hard, as though that would make the image go away. "Good God."

He looked back at Ed, not really seeing him, and gave him a small push. "Go back to the mine. Tell them what's happened and that we need help here as well. I'm going to look for the doctor and help who I can…bring back as many as they can spare from the cave-in. Remember, there's women and children here…" Ed was still staring past him, his vacant eyes fixed on the broken signs of a town swallowed by the earth. Ben spun him bodily back toward the mine and pushed again - less gently this time. "Go! We have no time to waste!" He watched for a minute to be sure that Ed was really on his way to get help, then slowly, reluctantly, turned back to the sight before him.

Merciful heaven. God forgive them all.

He stepped forward more tentatively this time, watching his feet - ground must be unstable, he'd have to be careful. A burst of smoke and steam belched from in front of him, and he shuddered. The earth was actually hot here, burning the soles of his boots, but that made sense - if the anthracite underground had caught fire then it could burn for…well, for years. What had they been thinking? Why had anything seemed worth such a risk? He tried to block out the cacophony of distress, to focus. He couldn't help everyone at once - he needed a place to start. If he could locate Dr. Chesterfield then at least he would have medical attention to offer anyone who he managed to unearth. He tried to visualize a straight line from the owner's house to where the clinic had once stood and started off, picking his way carefully. It was agonizing to pass by so many sounds and cries of pain and fear and have to leave them, but he had to be practical - first things first. He closed his eyes briefly and promised in his heart to come back and tend to them all - come back with help. God willing, it wouldn't be too late.

He was concentrating so hard on his feet that he nearly ran into the wall that loomed suddenly out of the smoke and stench and had to pull up short. The clinic - for a wonder, still standing, though leaning drunkenly to one side, the sign stating whether the doctor was in or out splintered on the ground in front of it. He rested his hand on the door for a moment and the building gave an ominous groan. He stepped back hastily, biting his lip. He didn't dare pull on that door - if Dr. Chesterfield was still inside, then he risked bringing the whole building down on top of him. He needed to wait for help to come - to help him shore up the walls and make it safe to enter. "Dr. Chesterfield?" his deep voice carried, even over the sounds of chaos. He listened intently. "Charles? It's Ben Cartwright. Are you in there? Are you all right?"

Silence. Ben turned away slowly. He'd have to wait, then. Or…it had been about lunch time. Perhaps the doctor had been at home? He lifted his head to look to where the small, trim house had stood. All that remained was the skewed peak of the roof, lifting itself just out above a hole in the ground. Ben swallowed hard. It was hard to imagine that just a short time ago he had sat in that bright kitchen, sipping tea. He approached the roof cautiously, squatted down to look at it. "Dr. Chesterfield?" God, I hope you weren't in there, Charles…He lifted a board to throw it aside, then another. The inner walls and furniture looked as though they had all been squashed in on each other, as though someone had been trying to squeeze them into a too small space. He yanked a large armchair out of his way, tried to peer more deeply into the compressed depths. "Charles? Charles, are you in there?"

There was so little room - so little space. Surely no living thing could have survived if it had been caught inside? He mindlessly pulled at the inside of a desk, now innocent of its legs and lid, trying to create some order where there could be none. "Dr. Chesterfield?" No. If he had been at home at the time of collapse then he was surely…his hand caught in a length of maroon fabric and he paused. It reminded him of something and, more cautiously, he lifted the remains of a table out of his way. From under the maroon fabric protruded what had once been a neat black shoe. Uneasy now, Ben shifted some boards, uncovered a huddle of greyed and singed fabric, spotted with stiff rust colored blotches…he bowed his head. What must have once been a crisp white shirtwaist…he thought he could just make out the bloodied remains of a human arm…Oh, Barbara. I'm so sorry. He covered his eyes with his hand and said a brief prayer. I'm so sorry - you had so much life in you. I'm sorry it ended this way. Sorry you never got to return to your students. Sorry you never got to see Boston again…

That thought triggered another thought way back in his brain and a slow trickle of ice began at the top of his head, sifting through his veins and making its way down to the bottom of his feet.

Barbara had not made it to Boston.

Barbara had not left at first light as she had planned.

So if Barbara was still here, then where was…?

It was as if the ice in his veins suddenly burst into flame.

"ADAM!"

A huge hand was pushing against his chest, forcing all the air out, not letting any back in.

"ADAM!" A coldness prickled over his skin like a hundred ice needles, itching along his scalp, pricking at his eyes. He grasped at beams of lumber and tore them out as if they were splinters, shoveled at the remains of furniture, ruthlessly shifted Barbara in her terrible makeshift grave, breathing a quick prayer for forgiveness - but life was, after all, for the living first, surely?…let him be living…he MUST be living…a shattered wash stand followed a crushed settee…surely someone small…it would be sure death for an adult, of course, but surely someone small…a little child…could be hidden and protected in a crevasse…between the bits of lumber…it wasn't impossible. It could happen. A baby really only needed a little…a very little…he yanked out a shoring timber, tossed it aside. The rubble within the house gave a warning rumble. He hastened his efforts, dug heartlessly under Barbara, trying to see his way.

He couldn't be far. He wouldn't be. He would be with…he would…his hand closed around a tattered portmanteau and for a second his resolve shook.

No. Barbara was close. The portmanteau was close. So it stood to reason…it only made sense that…the contents of the pit that had been the Chesterfield home shuddered again, then groaned, sifting slowly first, then faster and faster, sliding in upon its center, resettling. The roar was deafening to Ben's ears - the broken furniture and timber slipped back in on itself, filling the space he'd cleared, tighter and more compact than before. Ben stared, his hands hovering uselessly above the remains.

No.

No, he - he had to start again. He had to try again to create a new - to burrow in and…doggedly, he ripped out more timber, tossed it aside. Chair legs. Tableware. Garments. All he needed to do was to get them aside and find…if he just uncovered enough, then he could…he would see…the snarled mass of wood and fabric and pottery didn't even shift under his hands. He tugged more frantically, willing it to loosen. Nothing budged. It was as if it had been welded together – morphed into a whole new creation of solid mass. He scrunched up his face, trying to see through the smoke and looked - really looked - into the pit before him. His knees evaporated beneath him.

He was distantly aware of the rugged ground digging into them…aware in a curiously detached way, because it was really the only thing he could feel. His hands danced again over the melee, almost of their own volition, trying to decide where to start next, and he watched them just as curiously, as though they belonged to someone else. There was no place to start, he told them dispassionately. Because no one…nothing…

Ice filled his chest, freezing and swelling and cracking it apart. Nothing could have…who was he trying to fool? Nothing…his head seemed to release itself and float somewhere above his shoulders.

He was gone.

He had sent him away and now he was gone.

He had made the wrong choice - in his eagerness to spare his child, to protect him, he had actually sent him to his very death.

He heard a high pitched laugh, a terrifying sound - unbalanced almost, tinged with hysteria. It was minutes before he realized the sound was coming from him, and he bit his lip until it bled to stop himself. His head landed back on his shoulders, dropping so abruptly and heavily back onto them that it bowed forward, a leaden weight, careening toward the ground. He grabbed it with his hands before it could bang into the earth, cradled it carefully.

His son was gone. Dead. Another life he had been foolishly charged with had slipped through his fingers. One moment of inattention - one wrong move. He had not been enough to protect and save Elizabeth. He had not been enough to protect and save Adam. Now he had lost them both. He was terribly alone and he deserved to be alone - a man who could not protect his loved ones deserved no better.

Losing his Elizabeth had been devastating - an amputation of his heart…but Adam…the baby entrusted to him…his sweet, tangible momento of his and Elizabeth's love…

He was supposed to be looking out for him. HE WAS HIS FATHER. He pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead, trying to quiet the raucous roaring there.

How could this have happened? So suddenly, so fast? Just like last time - so quickly, before he could do anything about it…he had meant to do well. Meant to do right by Adam. And somehow, he had been wrong. Fatally wrong. The smallest misstep. The smallest mistake. It wasn't Adam's fault that he had been wrong. Why take it out on him? Why make him suffer for his father's failures? How could God allow such…such…wrongness? His hands spread about his head, pressing against his skull, trying to restrain the sanity that was tugging at its fragile moorings, threatening to snap away all together…

"Papa!"

He groaned and shifted his hands to fold them over his ears.

Oh, God. Adam's voice. And now Adam would call to him out of the night - haunt him, just as Elizabeth haunted him. This was his fate, then - to be driven to the ends of the earth pell mell, pursued by the ghosts of those he had wronged. It seemed only right. Wasn't there a man in the Bible like that? Or was it Greek mythology?

"Papa!"

He eased his hands from his ears. Maybe it was worth it - maybe the pain was worth it - to hear the beloved voice once more. Maybe that was better.

"Ben!"

His head lifted a touch at that, his brows raised, listening.

Now, that seemed somewhat unreasonable, on the other hand; that Lillibelle should also haunt him.

He turned his head stiffly. It seemed to creak on his neck. There was a shadow coming toward him in the shifting smoke - he rested his eyes on it possessively. It looked like some wild mythological creature - a woman with two heads and many flailing limbs - a crazed mop of seaweed for hair…

"Ben, thank God."

He frowned. It still sounded like Lillibelle. And now that he could see it better, it didn't have two heads at all…or rather it did, because…his knees stiffened and lifted him back to his feet of their own accord. It was a woman carrying a child. A child with one grotesquely long and deformed arm…no, a child waving something…a child…despite the chill numbness that had enveloped his skin, he felt his eyes moisten.

His child.

His last look…he cocked his head curiously, staring. The shadow had almost reached him now, barely recognizable with its face coated with ash and its hair a witch's wig.

"I was afraid you were…" It stopped, as though waiting for something from him.

The child it carried had no such compunctions and leaned out of her arms, reaching for him. "Papa!"

Ben's arms rose automatically and the ghost-child hopped the distance into them, grinning. He looked enormously pleased with himself.

Ben gazed at him, bemused. The slight body felt solid and real in his arms, his weight familiar and recognizable. It was odd, he mused, how you could recognize your own child's cry, even in a roomful of children – know the feel of your own child in your arms, even in the pitch dark… A smudge of soot across the small face darkened the cleft in his chin and traveled down his neck to cover his shirt. Ben reached up tentatively and touched the cleft with one finger - brushed a hand lightly through the stiffened hair. He glanced down at his fingers, now blackened with fresh soot and smoke. Ghosts couldn't do that, could they? When you touched them, you couldn't get stained, could you?

The specter flapped his right arm at him to get his attention, proudly displaying the tattered remnants of cloth he was clutching. "Papa!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Book!"

Ben trembled. A sob exploded from his chest, shaking him like an ague flu. He tightened his arms convulsively, dropping his head onto the smaller one and squeezing until Adam finally let out a squeak. Ben released his grip marginally, and Adam pushed back to look at him, eyes large and solemn, puzzled by his reaction.

Ben chuckled and hugged him to him more gently this time, if no less fiercely. He'd thought he'd never get to see that look again.

The chuckle seemed to settle Adam's mind, because he kicked his legs and announced, "Down!"

Ben shook his head, holding him closer, trying to speak through the sobs that rattled his frame, gasping instead, laughing and crying spasmodically until he couldn't tell one feeling from the other.

"I'm sorry, Ben…" Lillibelle's voice filtered through just barely. "I looked for you as soon as I could. Found him sitting on the steps when I opened the doors late this morning - waiting for his Papa, he told me. Wouldn't budge, and Henry said you were down in the mines…was about to send word to you through Jake when all hell broke loose. Figured the best thing to do then was just keep us both alive and look for you after. I know I ain't yer first choice for that but…"

Ben astonished her into silence by bending over and kissing her resoundingly on one grubby cheek.

TBC