Call Me Kate: Meeting the Molly Maguires
Molly Roe
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Molly Roe
INTRODUCTION
The tensions of the Civil War era, a turbulent time in American history, pitted immigrants against nativists, management against labor, and pro-slavery factions against abolitionists. In many northern states, support for the war was weak. President Lincoln had to draft soldiers to fight.
When the Northern draft was enacted in October of 1862, resistance built up in regions where the common people’s interests were in jeopardy. Riots broke out in several states, including Pennsylvania. The coal region and farmlands were hotbeds of resistance since losing a breadwinner threatened the survival of the family. The outbreaks of hostility in Pennsylvania were not as large or as violent as the ill-famed New York riot of 1863, but they highlight the lack of northern unity regarding the war. The slogan “rich man’s war, poor man’s fight” became popular among the masses.
Immigrants resented the hostile reception they received from the Know Nothing Party and other nativist groups who opposed the influx of workers from Europe. At the same time, the country was experiencing a surge of growth in industry and needed cheap labor to mine coal for the production of steel for railroads and other businesses.
Northeastern Pennsylvania had a particularly high percentage of immigrant workers. Irishmen who were recruited for mine work were usually poor unskilled laborers, not certified miners who commanded a higher wage. They performed strenuous and dangerous tasks and were paid by the miner from his earnings. The cultural and religious differences between English and Welsh bosses and Irish and German workers worsened already strained labor relations.
Pay was based on filling coal cars with good clean anthracite, so important safety considerations, like shoring up the roof and clearing rubble, were often neglected in order to fill the cars. Colliery owners were known to pay workers in scrip which could only be used at the Company store, limiting their buying power and their independence.
Mine workers suffered when there were strikes or stoppages, but also when overproduction caused the price of anthracite to drop. Work injuries and deaths were common, and without public welfare agencies, the families had to rely on themselves, their churches, and their benevolent societies. The draft was a flame set to the tinderbox that was the coal region in 1862.
Benjamin Bannan, editor of The Miners Journal of Pottsville and Schuylkill County draft commissioner during the Civil War, blamed the “Molly Maguires” for voter fraud, political defeats, the draft riots, violence at the mines, and murders. He contributed to the anti-Irish hysteria of the era by associating the Molly Maguires with the Ancient Order of Hibernians, a benevolent association.
While Katie’s adventures are fictional, the events of Call Me Kate depict the common experience of those turbulent days.
CHAPTER 1
Coal Mining Crisis — November 1860
“S’ter, s’ter, I need to see Katie right away!” The disheveled boy who burst into our classroom was my friend and former classmate, Con Gallagher. He bent to catch his breath beside the well-polished teacher’s desk.
Twenty pairs of horror-filled eyes turned in my direction, then darted back toward the frowning nun, expecting the worst. Sister Mary Charles never tolerated disruptions, especially to her beloved literature class. I was in for it unless Con had a darn good reason to be here.
Ink splashed from the inkwell as I jumped up from my desk, but Sister was even faster. Accompanied by the rattle of rosary beads, she dragged Con into the corridor by a sooty sleeve and told me to return to my seat. I hesitated, then plopped back down. What in the world was happening?
My friend Annie leaned across the aisle and whispered, “This better not be one of Con’s pranks or you’ll both get paddled.”
“Shhh!” Everyone strained to hear the conversation in the hall, but whatever was said did not take long.
“Miss McCafferty, go to the cloakroom and get your belongings please.” Sister Mary Charles’s no-nonsense voice was tinged with kindness, usually reserved for the Latin scholars.
Since I expected a scolding, Sister’s concerned tone bewildered me completely. As I stepped forward, the piercing breaker whistle split the air. A mine accident!
The frightening sound spurred chaotic movement. Girls hugged each other and cried, then one by one my classmates slid to their knees. My whirling thoughts fixed on a terrifying conclusion. Please God, no. Please no.
I ran into the hallway without stopping for my shawl and screamed, “Con, what happened?”
Con caught me by the elbows. His blue eyes met mine. “The coal face your father was working collapsed. His legs are pinned. But he’s alive, Katie!”
I broke from his grasp and dashed out of the schoolhouse into the cold gray November morning, a day as bleak as Con’s news.
“Does my mother know?” Strands of my unruly auburn hair escaped its pins and stuck to my tear-dampened cheeks. I rubbed it back with my palms.
“Bad news travels fast. She may have run to the scene already, I don’t know. I went right to school to tell you to get home.”
“HOME? I’m going to the mine!”
“No Katie, go to your house. Someone needs to be there. Dinny went to get Gram and her remedy kit so she’ll be set to treat your da’ when he arrives. I’ll help you tear cloth for bandages and boil the water that Gram will need to clean your father’s wounds. Your da’ may even be home by now.” Con’s words made sense so I bolted down the alley, a shortcut to the house.
As we reached the side porch, I heard a measured clopping sound echo down Front Street. My heart clenched and missed a beat. The hoofbeats of the Black Mariah, that omen of misery and death, was headed to the mine. Panic flooded through my veins.
There was no sign of life at our house. I opened the back door and called for my mother. Hollow silence met my call. Down the cellar!
I ran out to the rear of the house while Con went to check with the neighbors. When I lifted the heavy door to the storm cellar, I heard Mother singing a cheerful tune as she sealed jelly jars in a pot of boiling water. She looked up, startled, as I dashed down the steps.
“Katie, what’re you doing home before lunch?”
“Didn’t you hear the whistle? Hurry, Father’s injured!”
The surprise on her face turned to horror. She ran up the stairs, using her apron to wipe her steam-flushed brow as she raced outside. “How do you know?”
“Con came to school to tell me. Father’s pinned in the chamber. The men are clearing the entrance to free him.”
“Oh God, oh God!” My mother wrung her hands and looked helpless.
I ran inside and got mother’s woolen shawl and my old cape. By the time I returned, Con was there, reassuring her that help was coming. “My grandmother is on the way in case her skills are needed.”
Con had left before anyone knew how bad Father’s injuries were, but the huge fall of rock had killed Johnnie Pat, the young nipper working the doors.
Mother and I set off for the colliery. Con didn’t argue this time. He offered to stay behind to read’ up for his grandmother. Mrs. Gallagher was a stickler for cleanliness, and her sickbed requirements were well known to Con and his brother Dinny.
A huge crowd had gathered at the mine entrance. Friends rushed up and offered sympathy and news. I turned my back on the large black coach and dark horses hitched nearby. The gloomy-looking Black Mariah reminded me of a large crow hovering over a dying rabbit.
Mother composed her face and stiffened her spine as she came to grips with the situation. I tried to imitate her restraint, even though I felt like sobbing. Our outward courage was shattered an hour later when an ear-piercing scream tore through the crowd.
Johnnie Pat’s mother saw her son’s body carried out on a litter. He was covered from neck down with sailcloth, but blood from his saturated shirt had seeped through the canvas, and smudge marks marred his still, marble-white face. The younger children, clinging to Mrs. McFadden’s skirts, began to howl, echoing their mother’s cry. She collapsed next to the litter, sobbing bitterly. Her elderly father comforted her, then turned to beckon to our parish priest.
Father Maloney, wearing a violet stole over his black cassock, anointed Johnnie’s forehead while intoning in Latin “Si es capax.” If thou art alive. No one here had any doubt that Johnnie was dead.
I automatically translated the Latin prayer. Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee of whatever sins or faults thou hast committed. Johnnie’s faults were minor -quarreling with his older sister, teasing his little brothers, maybe pocketing a few mints from the barrel at the Company store. Johnnie Pat had been in my younger sister’s class until he went to work in the mines. If God is just, then Johnnie’s place in Heaven will be higher than the biggest boss’s here on Earth. Where would the owners stand on Judgment Day?
The women of the Patch surrounded the boy’s heartbroken mother. They cared for the other McFadden children while their brother’s body was whisked away. In the Patch, giving comfort to the grief stricken was a well-cultivated skill.
I held my mother’s elbow to steady her as Father was brought out. Although he was alert, no one knew just how serious his injuries were. The priest once again stepped forward, this time to perform the last rites in full. Father clasped a crucifix while the priest anointed his eyelids, ears, nostrils, lips, hands, and feet. Mother moaned once, then bit her clenched fist to keep from sobbing.
After the blessing, the company men carried Father to the waiting coach. Mother and I kept pace alongside as best we could, but fell behind the horse-drawn vehicle on the steep incline of Ridge Street. I was glad Con had stayed behind to wait.
By the time we reached the house, the workers had taken Father from the tall black carriage and lowered his mangled body onto the splintery porch floorboards. Mother choked back a cry at the sight of his gray, pain-filled face and awkwardly twisted torso. She knelt and caressed his bruised hand.
“Here’s Gram,” said Con, leaping the bannister to help the white-haired woman who trudged across our yard carrying a bundle. Old Mrs. Gallagher, Con and Dinny’s grandmother, was renowned as a healer and herbalist. Her daughter-in-law, Deirdre, was right behind her, toting a large satchel. Dinny, Con Gallagher’s identical twin, arrived with a basket of supplies as the workers hurried off to deliver the next accident victim to his grieving family. Directions flew as the old woman went into action.
“Dinny, go over street and get Catharine McCall and Aggie McCafferty.” Dinny dashed off to get my grandmother and great-aunt who lived across town.
“Con and Katie, take hold of one side of this sheet and help lift Jack. Deirdre, you and Mary take the other side. Careful now!”
We shuffled our way into the parlor and placed Father on a pallet on the floor. Mrs. Gallagher opened her bag and took out several items.
“Katie, I need soap and water, and clean rags.”
Quickly cutting off Father’s shredded pants legs, she expertly removed scraps of fabric and embedded coal from the wound, then pressed it to stop the bleeding.
As she began sewing up the wounds, I frowned, sensing something strange. Father was not screaming with pain. He did not wince at the cleaning of the wounds or stitching of his flesh. Mrs. Gallagher shook her head and glared at me when I opened my mouth.
“Katie, take these soiled rags to the burner and bring fresh.” She shoved a bowl of blood- drenched cloth at me with a meaningful look. I scrambled to obey, but by the time I returned the procedure was finished.
“Rest and quiet are what Jack needs now. Go on, all of yeh, and let him sleep off the shock.”
Deirdre and my mother began cleaning the parlor while Mrs. Gallagher lifted Father’s head to give him sips of willow tea. Con and I went out on the porch where I asked the questions that were pounding inside my head.
“Tell me how the accident happened. Were you right there? Who else was hurt?”
“Hold on, Katie. Calm down. I’ll tell you what I know, if you’re sure you’re ready to hear it.”
I inhaled deeply and sat on the railing, hugging the post. “Tell me.”
“I was outside in the gangway loading coal while Sam Davison and his buttie were in the chamber preparing to blast the coalface. Your father had just taken a hand augur into the room for Sam to drill a hole for the powder when there was the creaking sound of a squeeze. I only had time to cover my head and crouch. It was pure luck that the coal car protected me from the shower of rock.” Con shook his head at his miraculous escape.
“Poor Johnnie Pat wasn’t lucky. He only started as door keeper last month, and he didn’t recognize the warning sounds. The rock slide shattered the beams, and Johnnie was hit by a flying splinter.” Con stopped and rubbed his forehead, screening his eyes from my sight before continuing.
“When I heard him scream, I ran to help, but the stake was lodged solid in his chest. I couldn’t do anything but pillow his head with my jacket.” Con’s voice cracked. “The poor lad cried out ‘Mama! Mama!’... then he died in my arms.” Con hid his face in the crook of his elbow.
“I’m so sorry for making you relive the horror, Con. Please forgive me.”
“No, I want to tell what happened.” Back in control, Con recounted the rest in a near monotone. Once started, he seemed incapable of stopping his recitation.
“I yelled into the blocked chamber and your father answered. He, Sam, and Packy were all injured. The only entry was blocked so I couldn’t get to them.”
“Thank God they weren’t suffocated,” I said. “Why aren’t there two exits?”
“We’ve been trying to convince the owners that there should always be two shafts sunk every time a new mine is opened, but they say the cost is too great.”
My sorrow simmered into rage at the operators’ neglect.
“When the rescuers came to free the men, I ran to school to get you.”
“Oh no, Sarah and Maymie! No one went to their classroom.”
“It’s better that your sisters stay in school until your mother is settled and your grandmother’s here. Maymie, especially, is too young to help, and she’d be horrified by the blood. Thank God she didn’t see Johnnie as we saw him today.”
That day permanently changed our lives. Father’s wounds healed, but he did not regain use of his legs. Everyone in the family assumed new chores, and a feeling of insecurity fell upon us. Then the Christmas season arrived, and the busyness of the holidays helped take our minds off the future. The money that Sarah, Maymie and I had saved to buy candy and small gifts for each other was put toward the household accounts, but no one complained. The best Christmas gift was that Father was still with us.
Our family income was at its lowest point. Father had been earning only part-time wages since late spring. The mines had just started up full time for the winter heating season when the tragedy occurred.
We sold Father’s tools and made a tidy sum, but much of the money went toward medical needs. Our family buckled down and made cuts in the budget.
December 1860 was a time of change for the whole country, not just our family. Distant events would have far-reaching consequences for almost everyone in the Patch.
The week before Christmas, my mother and I ran into Annie O’Donnell and her family at the Company Store. Annie and I were whispering about the handsome stock boy when the tone of our mothers’ conversation caught our attention. Mrs. O’Donnell held a newspaper with a banner headline that read, “The Union Dissolved.”
My mother frowned and said, “South Carolina has finally broken away?”
“Yes, Lincoln’s election gave South Carolina the reason it was looking for.” Mrs. O’Donnell looked disgusted. “This will mean war. President Buchanan will have to defend federal property in South Carolina.”
“Why do they want to leave the Union?” asked Annie.
“They’ve been threatening for years now, but the election of Lincoln set a flame to the slavery issue,” sighed Mother.
“At least South Carolina is far away,” I said.
Mrs. O’Donnell declared,“Not far enough. Even though no shots have been fired, my boys are already talking about going off to soldier.”
CHAPTER 2
Company’s Coming — March 1861
“Catharine Agnes McCafferty, get off that culm bank and come in here. Now!” Grammam McCall’s voice bellowed from the kitchen window.
“Ah, drat.” The early March day was sunny and mild, and I hated to miss the games that my friends, Dinny and Con, had organized. Mine holidays were rare, but today the whole country was celebrating the inauguration of our new president, Honest Abe Lincoln.
It was fun competing against the boys who were usually working in the mines, but I knew that when Grammam used my full name, she meant business.
I reluctantly clambered from my perch as king of the hill, and skittered down the last few feet of the bank in a cloud of sooty coal dust. I brushed the black powder from my hem while trying to ignore the taunts of “Aaagggie, yer mother’s callin’.” Dinny shouted a few rude comments before turning back to the game.
“Ah, cork it, you blatherskite, or you’ll be sorry when I get back.” I yelled toward the patched britches scrambling back up the heap.
My smudgy gingham dress was hiked above my ankles in a way which always annoyed my relatives. I didn’t purposely provoke my mother and grandmother, but it was impossible to stay clean and neatly dressed with so many opportunities to romp with the other children of Murphy’s Patch. The looming culm bank behind our house was only one temptation. The woods and tumbling streams on the south side also beckoned to my adventurous spirit.
The Patch, tucked in the eastern Pennsylvania mountains, looked unappealing to outsiders, but my friends and I enjoyed its limitless possibilities: building tree houses, racing homemade sailboats in Panther Creek, and swinging into the lake on the far side of Hauto Mountain on a sling made of scraps salvaged from the colliery. If Gram and Aunt Aggie heard about my adventures, I’m sure they’d advise my parents to send me away to a convent.
By the time I reached our lane, I was breathless, but I swished my skirt with a snap, stomped the dirt from my high-laced brogans, and bounded through the door. Standing on a sturdy dooley box at the wash sink was my younger sister Sarah, scouring a heavy iron skillet. Gram stood near the kitchen table where pounds of potatoes lay unpeeled.
“How can yeh be so feckless, goin’ off on a lark while Sarah’s stuck here doing all of yer chores? I’ve never seen the beat of yeh,” Gram sputtered.
I lowered my head and muttered, “Sorry, Grammam.”
“Y’know yer poor mother’s in a state, worryin’ about yer father since his accident. She’s exhausted from struggling to make ends meet, baking and putting up preserves to sell.”
“Yes, M’am.”
“Can’t you act like a well-behaved young lass instead of a hooligan? Now look at the condition of yer clothes! Hurry to the pump and wash up, put on your shawl, and wait on the porch for yer mother.”
“Where did Mother go?”
“She’s at the Company Store buyin’ baking soda for this week’s bread orders. She’ll be back any minute, and she’ll be wantin’ to ask yeh somethin’.”
I tried to escape Gram’s scolding, but couldn’t avoid her final pointed remarks.
“And do something about that wild mop of hair!”
With an apologetic look at my sister, I went to do as Grammam asked. It was bad luck that Gram came across the yards and found Sarah doing my job. I knew my pious sister was upset at being caught up in my dishonesty. I mentally promised to give Sarah my new plaid hair ribbon.
Sarah, Maymie, and I were very different. Neither of my two sisters angered the old biddies the way I seemed to do. Gram hinted that I was a changeling that the fairies put in the McCafferty cradle.
Gram’s stories about fairies, leprechauns and changelings entertained us on long winter evenings. Many of the tales were amusing, but Gram, Aunt Aggie and Old Mrs. Gallagher also told bloodchilling stories. The Coach-a-Bower sounded like the Black Mariah, except that it was driven by a headless driver! The tales of the other world prickled my arms with goosebumps, especially since I knew the women believed every word they uttered.
The old ones warned my sisters and me to leave tokens out for the fairies, and to listen for the banshee’s cry. I often thought that if there were fairies, they wouldn’t bother seeking us here in Pennsylvania. After all, why would they leave Ireland and their fragrant blackthorn trees and buried gold to come here where the only thing to dig up was lumpy black coal?
I splashed cold water on my face, tidied up, then bounced onto the sturdy wooden swing Father made before the mine accident. Everything was fine before that dark November day. The memory of the piercing mine whistle was seared into my mind. The entire Patch had rallied to help our family, but even with everyone’s assistance it had been an uphill battle.
I clenched my fists in frustration. If only I’d been born a boy! Then I could take father’s place as breadwinner. At fourteen, I could work as a mule driver with a long whip and earn almost as much as a grown man. My friends, Dinny and Con, had earned money as nippers and breaker boys since they were nine.
I would’ve been named John Patrick, after my grandfather, instead of Catharine Agnes. Then I wouldn’t have had to suffer from taunts likening me to the dreadful Aunt Aggie. When I wasn’t compared to my bossy great-aunt, I was contrasted with my two younger sisters, Sarah and Maymie. “They’re ladylike girls,” the old biddies always informed me. Neither of my sisters ever got in trouble in school, and both were fastidious in their dress. At least they weren’t tattletales, or I’d really be in trouble at home.
My unruly red hair betokened my personality, according to our teacher, Sister Mary Charles. Maybe she was right. Or maybe I was just accident prone. One day while playing hide-and-seek at recess, Annie O’Donnell and I accidentally toppled a life-size statue from the grotto onto the grass. Luckily the Madonna wasn’t damaged, but all our efforts could not replace her on the pedestal before the nuns arrived to march us back to class. Everyone kept mum through the afternoon of interrogations that followed. Children in the Patch learned from an early age that there was nothing worse than a squealer.
A murmur of voices interrupted my wandering thoughts. I spragged my feet to halt the swing and craned my neck to see past the porch post. Mother and Mr. Breslin, the fire boss at the mine, chatted as they approached the house.
Breslin was a bachelor, so I supposed he was here to buy some of Mother’s delicious baked goods. He was pretty old, at least 30, but since his mam had passed away, I guessed he needed looking after. We certainly needed the extra money - if that was why he came. Every little bit counts, Mother always said.
I wondered if his visit was the reason Gram told me to freshen up. An uncomfortable notion entered my mind seeing them stroll down the path, especially since Grammam said Mother had something important to ask me. The uneasy feeling grew stronger as I remembered the hushed conversation I’d interrupted on the porch last night. As soon as I’d crossed the door sill, the older women switched to Irish so I couldn’t understand the conversation. Putting two and two together, I entertained a truly horrible idea. My stomach started to churn ... they were arranging a marriage behind my back! Glory be, not that old man!
My face blazed scarlet with temper, and my mother eyed me with concern as she stepped onto the porch in front of Mr. Breslin. My disposition was considered unpredictable.
“Hello, Katie darling, I’m sure you remember Mr. Breslin who was so good to your father after the accident.” I grudgingly bobbed a curtsy in respect for his support, but I was only willing to go so far for kindness sake!
“I’m glad you’re here, Katie,” Mother continued, “because Mr. Breslin and I have an idea we want to put to you.” Oh Lord, it’s true. The churning turned into a knot of dread in my stomach.
“You’ll remember that Mrs. Breslin, God rest her soul, was laid to rest last month.”
We nodded our heads to acknowledge the memory. It had been a fine wake and funeral, for Mrs. Breslin was one of the oldest residents of the Patch, and her son was respected for his position in the Company. Everyone able to walk followed the hearse to the new cemetery on Big Mine Hill.