Work Song
Ivan Doig
a cognizant v5 release august 31 2010
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Acknowledgements
ALSO BY IVAN DOIG
FICTION
The Sea Runners
English Creek
Dancing at the Rascal Fair Ride with Me, Mariah Montana
Bucking the Sun Mountain Time Prairie Nocturne
The Whistling Season
The Eleventh Man
NONFICTION
This House of Sky
Winter Brothers
Heart Earth
RIVERHEAD BOOKS
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Copyright © 2010 by Ivan Doig
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Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Doig, Ivan.
Work song / Ivan Doig. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18833-0
1. Single men—Fiction. 2. Miners—Fiction. 3. Butte (Mont.)—Fiction. 4. Mine rescue work—Fiction. 5. Montana—History—20th century—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3604.O415W
813’.6—dc22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Carol Doig, for all the harmony
1
Morgan, did you say your name is? Funny things, names.” The depot agent, an individual so slow I thought I might have to draw a line on the floor to see him move, was gradually commencing to hunt through the baggage room for my trunk, shipped ahead. “Any relation to old J.P., Mister Moneybags himself?”
I sighed as usual over that. His remark could hardly have been farther from the mark. Nonetheless, I couldn’t resist dishing back some of the same.
“Cousins, thrice removed. Can’t you tell by looking?”
The railway man laughed more than was necessary. “That’s about as removed as it gets, I’d say.” Poking into one last cluttered corner, he shook his head. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Third Cousin, that trunk of yours took a mind of its own somewhere between there and here. You could put in a claim, if you want.”
So much for a storybook Welcome back! to the Treasure State, as Montana liked to call itself. While waiting for some sign of life in the agent, I already had been puzzling over the supposed treasure spot in plain view out the depot window—the dominant rise of land, scarred and heaped and gray as grit, which was referred to in everything that I had read as the Richest Hill on Earth, always grandly capitalized. Had I missed something in the printed version? As far as I could see, the fabled mining site appeared rightly christened in only one obvious respect. It was a butte, called Butte.
“You definitely have left me in want.” I reacted to the agent’s news with honest dismay, equipped with only the battered satchel that accompanied me everywhere. “The bulk of my worldly possessions are in that trunk.”
Squinting at me, he tossed aside his agent’s cap and donned a businesslike green visor. “Possessions like that do tend to bulk up when the claim form comes out, I’d say.” He slipped the pertinent piece of paper onto the counter in front of me, and I filled it out as expected, generous to myself and not the railroad.
The most precipitous chapter of life always begins before we quite know it is under way. With no belongings to speak of, I gathered what was left of my resolve and stepped outside for my first full look at where I had arrived.
Everything about Butte made a person look twice. My train journey had brought me across the Montana everyone thinks of, mile upon hypnotic mile of rolling prairie with snowcapped peaks in the distance, and here, as sudden and surprising as a lost city of legendary times, was a metropolis of nowhere: nearly a hundred thousand people atop the earth’s mineral crown, with nothing else around but the Rocky Mountains and the witnessing sky. The immediate neighborhood on the skirt of land out from the depot, as my gaze sorted it out, seemed to hold every manner of building from shanty to mansion, church to chicken coop, chop suey joint to mattress factory, all mixed together from one topsy-turvy block to the next. Butte stood more erect as the ground rose. In the city center, several blocks on up the slope, lofty buildings hovered here and there waiting for others to catch up, and the streets also took on elevation, climbing the blemished hill until workers’ cottages mingled with mines and dump heaps along the top of the namesake butte. Up there, the long-legged black steel frameworks over the mineshafts populated the skyline like a legion of half-done miniatures of Eiffel’s tower.
So, in some ways Butte appeared to me to be the industrial apotheosis of that proverbial city built upon a hill, and in other aspects the copper mining capital of the world showed no more pattern than a gypsy camp. I have to admit, I felt a catch at the heart at how different the whole thing was from the solitary homesteads and one-room school I had known the last time I tried my luck in this direction. Everything I knew how to part with I’d left behind in a prairie teacherage. But an urge can spin the points of a compass as strongly as the magnetism of ore, and in spite of all that happened back then, here I was once more in that western territory at the very edge of the map of imagination.
While I was busy gazing, a couple of bull-shouldered idlers in the shade of the depot eyed me with too much curiosity; somehow I doubted that they were sizing me up for any family resemblance to J. P. Morgan of Wall Street. With barely a glance their way, I squared my hat and hastened past as though I had an appointment. Which could be construed as the truth of the moment. The Richest Hill on Earth and I—and, if my hope was right,
its riches—were about to become acquainted.
FIRST THINGS FIRST, though. I set out up the tilted city streets in search of lodging. In the business district ahead, proud brick buildings stood several stories above a forest of poles and electrical wires, another novelty I had not encountered in earlier Montana. But the world of 1919 was not that of a decade before in hardly any other way either; the Great War and four years of trenches filled with mud and blood had seen to that.
“Red-hot news, mister? Can’t get any newer!” A boy with a newspaper bag as big as he was came darting to my side. I handed him a coin and he scampered off, leaving me with a freshly inked Butte Daily Post. The front page could barely hold all the calamitous items there were to post. ATT’Y GENERAL WARNS OF DOMESTIC BOLSHEVIKS . . . BUTTE BREWERY SHUTTERED BY ‘DRY’ LAW . . . WILSON CAUTIONS AGAINST ‘WINNING THE WAR, LOSING THE PEACE’ . . . BOSTON POLICE THREATEN TO STRIKE . . . America in that agitated time; not merely a nation, but something like a continental nervous condition.
There was little time left in my day for such thoughts: I needed a place for the night. The airy accommodations I could glimpse in the lofty blocks ahead were beyond the reach of my wallet. I dreaded the sort of fleabag hotel that I would have to resort to without my trunk—even the most suspicious hostelry, in my experience, unblinkingly provided a room if the luggage was prosperous enough. While I was studying the lay of the city and trying to divine my best approach, a sign in the bow window of a hillside house with a spacious yard caught my eye.
CUTLETS AND COVERLETS
OR, IF YOU’RE NOT WELSH:
BOARD AND ROOM
Intrigued, I headed directly to the blue-painted front door.
My knock was answered by a woman a good deal younger than I expected a boardinghouse mistress to be. She was compact, in the manner of a dressmaker’s form, shapely but with no excess. A substantial braid the color of flax tugged the upper lines of her pleasant face toward quizzical, as though she were being reined by some hand unseen. Whatever proportion of the world had knocked on this door, she seemed freshly inquisitive about a caller such as myself, well-dressed but not well-heeled. Her violet eyes met mine in mutual appraisal. “Madam,” I began with a lift of my hat, “I feel the need—”
“I’ve heard that one before from half the men in Butte. I’m not a madam,” she said, cool as custard, “and this is not a house of ill repute. For your information, that’s on the next block over.” The door began to shut in my face.
“Let me start again,” I amended rapidly. “With night overtaking me in a city where I don’t know a soul, I feel the need of warm quarters and a solid meal. Your sign appears to offer those.”
“Ah, Griff’s latest masterpiece. It caught your eye, did it.” She peeped around the doorframe to consider the freshly painted words, a lilt coming into her voice. “He’d turn this into Cardiff West if he could. Step on in, please, Mr.—?”
“Morgan. Morris Morgan.”
“Griff will approve, you sound as Welsh as a daffodil.” She extended a slender but work-firmed hand, and I noted the less-than-gleaming wedding band on her other one. “Grace Faraday, myself.” Appraising the newspaper under my arm and the satchel I was gripping, she paused. “Are those all of your belongings?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, as if that explained everything.
The upstairs room she showed me was neat and clean, with subdued wallpaper. On the bed was a coverlet of an old style with an embroidered dragon rampant; it would be like sleeping under a flag of Camelot. I can be picky, but I liked everything I had met up with under this roof so far.
As I toggled the switch to make sure the overhead electric bulb worked—another innovation—my landlady-to-be similarly checked me over. “Drummer, are you?”
It took me a moment to recall that the term meant a traveling salesman, one who drums up business. “No, life has given me other rhythms to march to, Mrs. Faraday. My family originally was in the glove trade, until circumstances did that in. I now do books.”
“Poetry?” she asked narrowly.
“Ledgers.”
“Then you’ll appreciate my own bookkeeping, which starts with a week’s rent in advance.”
“Very wise,” I said with composure, although coming up with the sum took nearly every bit I had. Now I really had to hope opportunity of some sort presented itself without delay.
“Welcome to Butte, Mr. Morgan,” my new landlady said with a winning smile, complete with dimple, as she pocketed my cash. “Supper’s at dark this time of year.”
THE DINING TABLE WAS LAID for four when I came down a few minutes early to scout the premises. There was no wax fruit nor fussy display of doilies on the sideboard, a good sign. Instead, under the blaze of the modest but efficient electrical chandelier, a wedding photograph was propped in the spot of honor. Grace Faraday, even more fresh-faced than now, smiled out as capriciously as if the white of her bridal gown were a field of ermine, while beside her in a suit of approximate fit stood a foursquare fellow I took to be the prominently mentioned Griff. He at least had good taste in women and mustaches, as he wore a full-lipped Rudyard Kipling version not unlike my own.
Just then my hostess popped out of the kitchen with a bowl of boiled potatoes and nodded to where I was to sit, saying, “Make yourself to home, the other pair will be right along. Griff had to stoke the furnace and I told him to go wash up or eat in the street—ah, here’s the thundering herd.”
Through the doorway limped two scrawny half-bald figures that made me think I was seeing double. Both wore work overalls that showed no evidence of work, both held out knobby hands for a shake, and both were grinning at me like leprechauns, or whatever the Welsh equivalent might be.
The nearer one croaked out: “I’m Griff. Welcome to the best diggings in Butte.”
“Same here,” echoed the other. “I’m Hoop.”
Was it humanly possible? I wondered, doing my best not to glance in the direction of the wedding photo during the handshake exchange with the wizened Griff. What manner of marriage could deplete a man from that to this?
With a twinkle, the lady of the house rescued me from my confusion. “These specimens are Wynford Griffith and Maynard Hooper, when no one is looking. They’ve been part of the furniture here since my husband passed on and I’ve had to take in boarders.” As the duo took their places like old Vikings at a feast, she delivered the sufficient benediction: “We all three could be worse, I suppose.”
“I’ll try to fit in, Mrs. Faraday.”
“Start by saving words and call me Grace, even though this pair of old Galahads refuses to.”
“Wouldn’t be right, Mrs. Faraday,” Griff or Hoop said.
“Manners is manners,” said Hoop or Griff.
“I go by Morrie.” I dealt myself in, and formalities fell away in favor of knives and forks.
“Didn’t I tell you, Hoop?” Griff said as he sawed at his meat.
“That new sign works like a charm. What part of Wales do your people hail from, Morrie?”
“Chicago.”
“Before they crossed the pond,” he persisted.
“Griff, I am sorry to say, the exact family origins are lost in the mists of ”—I searched the gazeteer of my mind—“Aberystwyth and Llangollen.”
“The grand old names,” he proclaimed, adding a spatter of unintelligible syllables that could only have been Welsh. “ ’Tis the language of heaven.”
“Why nobody talks it on earth,” Hoop explained.
By then I was on about my third bite of the meat and ready to ask. “Venison?”
“Close,” Grace allowed guardedly. “Antelope.”
“Ah.” I looked down at the delicate portion. “What a treat to be served cutlets.” I emphasized the plural. “Are there seconds?”
She mulled that. “Tonight there are.” Off she went to the kitchen stove.
While we awaited replenishment, the history of my tablemates came out. Now retired—“at least the tired
part”—the pair had been miners, to hear them tell it, practically since the dawn of Butte. Which was to say, since copper became a gleam in the world’s eye. The Hill, as they called it, held the earth’s largest known deposit of the ore that wired everything electrical. Much of this I knew, but there was a tang to hearing them recite it with the names of mines such as Orphan Girl and Moonlight and Badger. The crisscross of their conversation about life deep underground was such that I sometimes had to remind myself which was Griffith and which was Hooper. Although they looked enough alike to be brothers, I figured out that they had simply worked together so long in the mineshafts that the stoop of their bodies and other inclinations had made them grow together in resemblance as some old married couples do.
“So, Morrie, you’ve latched on in life as a bookkeeper, Mrs. Faraday says,” Griff was holding forth as Grace appeared with the replenished meat platter, rosettes from the cookstove heat in her attractive cheeks. It was surprising how much more eye-catching she was as the Widow Faraday.
“Except when the books keep me.” Both men bobbed quizzically and Grace sent me a glance. Offhand as my comment was, it admitted to more than I probably should have. With rare exceptions, my stints of employment had been eaten away by the acid of boredom, the drip-by-drip sameness of a job causing my mind to yawn and sneak off elsewhere. One boss said I spent more time in the clouds than the Wright brothers ever dreamt of. I had found, though, that I could work with sums while the remainder of my brain went and did what it wanted. “But, yes,” I came around to Griff’s remark about bookkeeping, “I have a way with numbers, and Butte by all accounts produces plentiful ones. First thing in the morning, I’ll offer my services at the office of the mining company, what is its name—Anaconda?”
