Chapter 9 - The Morning the Mountain Groaned
At 2:13 in the morning, Copper Jack Mountain moved again.
Dorothy was kneading dough in Bellamy’s kitchen when the stove pipe rattled.
A bowl slid two inches across the counter.
Then stopped.
Dorothy froze.
Outside, men shouted.
She ran uphill.
The main rescue crew had already evacuated the collapsed passage.
Crowley emerged last.
“Everybody accounted for?”
Vale shouted.
“Yes.”
“What moved?”
“West wall.”
“The water?”
“Still holding.”
“Then get back in.”
Crowley stared at Vale.
“No.”
Everything around them seemed to become quiet.
Vale stepped closer.
“What?”
“I said no.”
“You’re foreman.”
“That passage is unstable.”
“We have twenty-eight men trapped!”
“And sending twelve more to die doesn’t improve arithmetic.”
Vale’s face darkened.
“You work for Copper Jack Mining Company.”
Crowley removed his helmet.
“Not tonight.”
For the first time, Dorothy respected him.
Vale turned toward another crew.
“Jenkins.”
The man looked away.
“Cole.”
Nothing.
Vale’s authority cracked.
Fear had finally become stronger than wages.
Dorothy understood what would come next.
Desperation.
Desperate men made foolish decisions unless someone gave them another one.
“What about another route?” she asked.
Vale snapped.
“There isn’t one.”
Henry spoke.
“Old prospect shaft.”
Everyone turned.
Crowley frowned.
“Collapsed twenty years ago.”
“Partially.”
“You know that how?”
Henry looked frightened.
“My pa showed me old maps.”
Vale stepped toward him.
“Where?”
“Archive room.”
Bellamy appeared.
“You keep old maps?”
Vale ignored him.
They searched.
Thirty minutes later, a faded 1874 survey sheet lay across a table.
A line ran toward Section Four from the north face.
Crowley traced it.
“Old mule prospect.”
“Distance?” Dorothy asked.
“Maybe hundred ten feet.”
“Blocked?”
“Probably.”
“Safer?”
Crowley hesitated.
“Different rock.”
Vale looked at him.
“Could we open it?”
“Maybe.”
“How long?”
“Day. Two.”
Vale swore.
Dorothy stared at the map.
Two routes.
Main passage dangerous but shorter.
Old shaft safer but longer.
Neither guaranteed.
Then tapping came from the ventilation line.
Urgent.
The engineer listened.
Three.
Three.
Three.
Repeated.
“What does that mean?”
Dorothy asked.
“Emergency signal.”
Tom ran forward.
The engineer shouted into the tube.
“WHAT HAPPENED?”
Tapping.
Numbers.
Then a faint voice.
“…water…”
Dorothy’s blood went cold.
“Rising?” Crowley asked.
One knock.
“How fast?”
Numbers came.
No one understood.
Then Caleb’s voice—faint, strained, unmistakable.
“Dorothy?”
She grabbed the pipe.
“I’m here.”
Static.
Someone underground must have reached the vent mouth.
Caleb spoke again.
“Your biscuits…”
A pause.
“Taste terrible.”
Dorothy laughed and cried at the same time.
Around her, men smiled.
“You can complain when you get out.”
“Planning…”
His voice faded.
Then returned.
“Water ankle deep.”
Crowley leaned in.
“Caleb, listen. Where is it entering?”
“West crack.”
“How many injured?”
“Three. Samuel leg. Morgan shoulder. Me.”
Dorothy’s hand tightened.
“What happened to you?”
“Rock hit hip.”
“Can you walk?”
A pause.
“Poorly.”
“Then stop trying.”
“Bossy.”
“Alive.”
Caleb coughed.
“Working on it.”
The engineer pushed Dorothy aside gently.
“Air line must stay clear.”
Communication ended.
But now they knew.
Water rising.
Crowley made the decision.
“Open old shaft.”
Vale objected.
“The main route—”
“Both.”
Crowley pointed at two crews.
“Half on old shaft. Half shore main passage. Nobody advances main route until timbered.”
Vale stared.
Crowley stared back.
Then Vale nodded.
Work began.
Dorothy returned to the kitchen.
She did not have luxury for fear.
Men underground needed food.
Rescuers above needed food.
Families needed coffee.
By sunrise, Bellamy’s kitchen had become the center of Copper Jack.
Women arrived to help.
Dorothy assigned tasks.
“Mrs. Price, potatoes.”
“Mrs. Rusk, coffee.”
“Maria Ortega, bread.”
“Henry, water tubes.”
Bellamy took orders without complaint.
At 8:00, Tom entered.
His face was exhausted.
“You been awake?”
“So have you.”
“Different question.”
“Same answer.”
He held out a folded paper.
“What?”
“Ben sent it.”
“How?”
“Wrapped around return rod.”
Dorothy opened it.
Pencil marks.
Twenty-eight names.
Beside each name, a check.
Alive.
Some checks had circles.
Injured.
Caleb’s name carried one circle.
At the bottom Benjamin had written:
Tell the cook we laughed about the biscuits until the first man got hungry. Nobody is laughing now.
Dorothy read it twice.
Then folded it.
She placed it in her apron pocket.
By noon, the old shaft crew had advanced twenty-two feet.
Main route only seven.
Water below reached mid-calf.
At 2:00, they sent more copper water tubes.
At 4:00, the miners reported the rising water had slowed.
Hope returned.
At 5:30, it accelerated again.
Crowley spread the map.
“Old reservoir must be draining into their chamber.”
“Can they move higher?” Dorothy asked.
“Maybe onto ore platform.”
“Twenty-eight men?”
“Crowded.”
“Do it.”
Instructions went through the pipe.
Twenty minutes later, the answer came.
Most had climbed.
Three injured required lifting.
They managed.
Caleb helped despite his hip.
Dorothy silently cursed him.
Night fell.
Rain began aboveground.
Crowley looked up at the sky.
“No.”
Dorothy followed his gaze.
“What?”
“Rain goes into mountain.”
“How fast?”
“Depends.”
The answer arrived at 11:47.
A roar echoed inside the ventilation tube.
Then frantic tapping.
Water had surged.
One of the copper containers shot backward out of the pipe and clattered onto the ground.
Tom stared.
“What happened?”
The engineer went pale.
“Pressure.”
Dorothy looked toward Copper Jack Mountain as rain intensified.
Below, twenty-eight men clung to a wooden ore platform while black water rose beneath their boots.
Above, rescuers had more than sixty feet of rock left to cross.
And suddenly forty-eight hours was no longer the number anyone feared.
May you like
It was twelve.
---
