The Fire Down Below
To the residents of Middleburg, Pennsylvania, a town in the anthracite region of the Appalachian Mountains, the morning of October 17, 1868 was no different than any other. There was a chill in the air, and the last of autumn's brown and gold leaves were desperately clinging to the branches of the deciduous trees despite the brisk wind that threatened to rip them off and send them gliding to the ground.
Just after seven in the morning, Father Gerald McCarty, the pastor at St. Timothy's, was walking from the rectory to the church when he heard shots ring out. The priest was not disturbed by the sound since it was not uncommon for the coalminers to supplement their family's diet with venison or wild turkey. Still, Father McCarty glanced down from the steps of the church, which, perched high atop a hill, gave him an excellent view of Middleburg.
All looks peaceful, he thought, experiencing the familiar sense of affection he felt whenever he looked at the town below.
St. Timothy's was not the only church in the area. There was a Methodist church, a Russian Orthodox church, an Episcopal church and a Lutheran church, but since a large percentage of the miners were Irish immigrants, the town's Catholic church had the largest congregation.
Father McCarty was a godly priest, as dedicated to his parishioners as he was to his Holy Father. The son of a coalminer himself, he sympathized with the men's plight. They worked long hours, under dangerous conditions, for low pay. Many of them would die before their fiftieth year, either from a mine-related accident or from coal workers' pneumoconiosis, more commonly known as black lung disease.
Although as a priest he was supposed to remain neutral in any disagreement between the coalminers and the mine owners, he secretly supported those who sought to better the conditions of the workers. While he did not condone violence, he sympathized more with such groups as the Molly Maguires than he did with the wealthy owners, whose only concern was compounding their fortunes.
When he entered the church, Father McCarty knelt before the altar and, as was his daily custom, he said a prayer for his town and the people who lived in it. For more than twenty years, the priest had said the same prayer, and during that time he firmly believed God had answered it. Before the day ended, however, Father McCarty would wonder if his prayers were still being heard.
* * *
The sun was just beginning to dip below the western horizon that October evening when the first group of miners returned to the surface and began heading back to their homes. Exhausted, hungry and blackened with coal dust, Delbert Farley and Ike Maloney were walking in a heavily wooded area of town when they noticed a pool of blood by the side of the road.
"What d'ya suppose happened here?" Delbert asked.
"Maybe some animal got hurt and crawled off into the woods," his companion replied.
"Must have been a big animal, like a deer or a bear."
Delbert noticed the undergrowth near the pool of blood was flattened, as though something heavy had trampled it down.
"There's more over here," he declared and cautiously followed the trail of blood into the woods.
"Be careful," Ike warned. "Injured animals can be mighty mean."
For the next several minutes the only sound was that of breaking branches and crunching leaves. Then Farley's scream rent the air.
"Are you all right?" Ike called, afraid to leave the safety of the road.
Delbert didn't answer; he was too busy running. Moments later he emerged, breathless, from the woods.
"What in the hell is wrong?" Ike asked.
"He's ... been ... murdered," Delbert replied, laboring to catch his breath.
"Murdered?" Ike repeated with horror. "Who's been murdered?"
"Wendell Keeley. Looks like someone shot him. We have to get the police."
Ike Maloney was too stunned to react. Wendell Keeley was the engineer who first explored the area for the Mid-Atlantic Mining Company. It was Keeley who built the first house in Middleburg and settled there with his wife and children. Although he was the appointed agent of the owners, he was a fair man who had the respect and admiration of all those beneath him. His death was sure to be a terrible loss to the community.
* * *
Word of Keeley's murder spread quickly through the Pennsylvania mining town. Rumors concerning the identity of his killers spread nearly as fast. The local police believed Wendell had been robbed since it was known that he had been carrying the miner's payroll at the time.
The mine owners were not satisfied with this conclusion and called in the Pinkerton Detective Agency to investigate the murder. In an astonishingly short period of time, Pinkerton operative Mason Lamont claimed members of the Molly Maguires had killed the agent.
When Father McCarty learned of the outcome of the investigation, he was frankly skeptical.
"I'm more prone to believe the robbery theory," the elderly cleric told the people gathered inside the town hall.
"We've already ruled out that motive," Lamont brusquely informed him.
"I don't see why," the priest persisted. "Isn't it true Keeley was carrying the payroll money?"
"Yes," the detective replied, "but ...."
"And the money wasn't found on his body?"
"I said we've ruled out robbery as a motive."
"I don't see how you can."
"Because I've uncovered irrefutable proof that it was the Molly Maguires who killed Keeley. They'd do anything to undermine the owners' authority and disrupt the smooth operation of the mines."
"So you've apprehended the guilty parties?" Father McCarty pressed.
Lamont was trying hard to maintain his temper despite the priest's persistent questioning.
"Not yet, but I'm confident we'll have them in custody shortly."
"Exactly what proof do you have against them?"
"I'm not at liberty to say. You'll have to wait until the trial to learn that. Now, I've got to get back to Philadelphia. I have other business to attend to as I'm sure you have, Father."
"None as pressing as this."
"Well, I do," the detective said and rudely pushed past the cleric.
* * *
As Detective Mason Lamont had foreseen, just four days after the discovery of Wendell Keeley's remains, three young men were arrested for his murder. All were miners who, while not proven to be actual members of the Molly Maguires, were known to be sympathetic to their cause. All three suspects were also from Irish immigrant families who attended St. Timothy's.
Father McCarty was appalled when he heard the news.
"Those boys couldn't have killed anyone," he angrily declared to the sheriff. "I've known them for years, and they're honest, decent, law-abiding young men."
"I'm not so sure, Father," the sheriff admitted. "Detective Lamont claims to have an eyewitness who can place them in the vicinity of the crime that morning."
"And has your Pinkerton man found the gun that killed Wendell?" the priest asked.
"No. The murder weapon hasn't turned up yet."
"What about the money Keeley was carrying when he was killed? Did any of the three men have a large sum of cash on them or in their homes?"
"I don't believe so," the sheriff sheepishly replied.
"Then you haven't got any real evidence that these men are killers."
"Lamont also claims he can prove they all belong to the Molly Maguires."
"And even if they do, that doesn't make them murderers," the priest reasoned.
"No, but it does give them a motive, and if they were at the scene of the crime it does seem mighty suspicious."
"They didn't do it," Father McCarty steadfastly maintained. "I know they didn't."
"Then you best pray the jury up in Bloomsburg agrees with you because those three men are going to stand trial for murdering Wendell Keeley."
Since there was little else he could do, Father McCarty took the sheriff's advice. He returned to St. Timothy's, knelt at the altar and prayed.
For four months Father McCarty repeated the act. Just as he prayed for the safety of the people of Middleburg every morning, he prayed that the accused killers would receive a fair trial. At the end of the fourth month, the priest received word from Bloomsburg: all three men had been found guilty and were sentenced to hang.
* * *
A somber group of family, friends and supporters accompanied Father McCarty to Bloomsburg on the day of the execution. The mothers of two of the men and the wife of the third tried to comfort each other during the journey. The fathers and brothers of the condemned were barely able to contain the rage they felt.
"My boy ain't a killer," one of the fathers swore between clenched teeth.
"I know he's not," the priest agreed.
"Then why is he going to hang?"
"It's God's will," his wife replied, wiping her tears with her handkerchief.
"I can't see why a merciful God would want my son to die for a crime he didn't commit," the father said angrily.
His wife nudged him and nodded in the direction of the priest. The man was instantly contrite.
"Sorry, Father. I didn't mean to be disrespectful of the lord."
"I understand your feelings. Sometimes God's will is hard for us to bear."
As the train pulled into Bloomsburg station, the passengers from Middleburg fell silent. With long faces, they filed out of the passenger car single file and huddled together on the platform, unsure of which way to turn.
"The courthouse is this way," Father McCarty announced and then led them toward the center of the city.
After walking a short distance, the priest noticed a crowd of people gathered outside the courthouse. He heard a muffled sob from the young wife in his group and knew she had seen the gallows that had been constructed for her husband's execution. Compassion swelled in his breast as he took her hand in his and gripped it tightly.
"God is with you," he said, hoping to give her strength.
Father McCarty continued to hold her hand as the condemned men were led out of the courthouse and up the steps of the gallows. When the noose was placed around her husband's neck, the distraught young woman broke down in tears. The priest held her tightly against his chest, and she cried on his shoulder. While the three men prepared to meet their deaths, he closed his eyes, lifted his head toward heaven and began to pray.
* * *
After the hanging, the friends and family of the executed men silently headed back to the railroad station. As he awaited the train's arrival, Father McCarty saw a familiar face step up to the ticket window. He excused himself from the mourners and crossed the platform. The man turned, and a look of displeasure appeared on his face.
"Ah, Father McCarty," Detective Mason Lamont said with caution. "I had a feeling you would be here today."
"Those men were members of my congregation, as are their families," Gerald explained. "I wanted to be with them in their time of need."
"That's noble of you. Are you going to take the bodies back to Middleburg?"
"Yes."
"Well, you have a safe trip back," the detective said, eager to get away from the accusing eyes of the priest.
Father McCarty, however, was not about to let him off the hook so easily.
"You know those boys were innocent," he said—a statement, not a question.
"That's not true. I happen to think they murdered Wendell Keeley, not that it matters what I believe. The jury found them guilty."
"There was no real evidence against them, and you know it."
"Look," the detective said, losing his patience with the older man, "what's done is done. Why argue over the verdict? The men are dead."
"Because I'm a priest. I'm in the business of saving souls."
"Then go back to Middleburg and pray for the souls of your three lost sheep."
"Oh, their souls are not in need of my prayers," Father McCarty declared. "God already knows they were innocent and will welcome them into His kingdom. The disposition of your soul, on the other hand, is uncertain. If you sent those miners to their graves knowing they didn't murder Wendell Keeley, then it is as black as the coal that comes out of the mines."
"How dare you!" Lamont exclaimed. "I don't need some goddamned Catholic priest to pass judgment on me! You just tend to your flock of potato peelers and leave me be."
"You think you're better than us Irish, is that it? Is that why you cast those three men as scapegoats? How can you be so unfeeling toward them? Have you no compassion in your black heart?"
"I work for the owners of the mine, and my loyalty lies with them, not with a bunch of foreigners."
"You needn't act so high and mighty because you're on a path straight to hell!"
Lamont spit at the foot of the priest.
"That's what I think of you and your church, McCarty," he cried. "It's you and the coalminers that can go to hell. The Middleburg Mines will be standing long after you, your congregation and St. Timothy's are gone."
"Damn you!" the enraged priest shouted, not caring that a crowd had gathered around the two men. "Damn you! And damn your bosses who profit at the expense of the good, hardworking men and women of Middleburg. I swear in the name of the almighty God that it is St. Timothy's that will survive. It will be standing on the mountain long after the mines have vanished!"
"Please!" the recently widowed young woman from Middleburg cried as she gently pulled on the priest's arm. "Three men died today. Let us go home and mourn our loss and leave the fighting for another time."
Father McCarty looked down at the tear-stained face and squeezed her hand.
"You're right, my dear. Let's return to Middleburg and give these poor men a Christian burial."
* * *
Father Terrence Lenahan pulled into the gravel driveway of St. Timothy's rectory, turned off the engine of his 1957 Chevy Bel Air and stepped out of the car. As the son of one of Philadelphia's distinguished Main Line families, he had been educated at the finest schools, and after his ordination he was given his own church rather than having to serve as a curate, assisting a more experienced priest. While he was pleased—he didn't want to use the word proud since pride was frowned upon in ecclesiastical circles—with his appointment, he was far from overjoyed at the prospect of having to live and work in Pennsylvania's anthracite region. He had hoped to be assigned to a more urban area.
The neophyte priest walked toward the church and unknowingly stood in the same spot where Father McCarty had gazed down on his town on that fateful morning of October 17, 1868. Unlike St. Timothy's first priest, Father Lenahan felt no kinship with the people below. He had no sense of belonging to Middleburg, which was only natural since he had never been there before.
This is most likely the bishop's way of teaching me humility, he thought with a sigh and then turned away from the town and walked into the church.
On the wall to the right of the door was a portrait of Father Gerald McCarty, who had passed away in 1882. Next to the portrait were four brass plates with the names of the priests who had succeeded him as pastor of St. Timothy's.
I suppose my name will eventually go up there, Father Lenahan thought.
After a cursory inspection of the building, the ambitious young priest returned to his Chevy, removed his suitcases from the trunk and went inside the rectory.
A somewhat plump, middle-aged woman with graying red hair piled on top of her head in a bun was working in the kitchen.
"Hello. You must be the housekeeper," the priest said.
"That I am. My name is Kate Rourke," she answered jovially, "and you must be Father Lenahan. We've been expecting you. Are you hungry after your long drive?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Good. I've made a pot of beef stew and a fresh-baked loaf of soda bread."
"Tell me, Mrs. Rourke, is your husband a coalminer?" the priest asked as he took a seat at the rectory dining table.
"Didn't anyone tell you, Father? The mines are no longer in operation."
"No, I wasn't aware of that."
"My Walt works for Yuengling Beer over in Pottsville. My father worked in the mines, though, as did Walt's."
"Why did the mines close?"
"Back before the First World War, a hundred million tons of anthracite were mined in the United States each year. When we entered the war, there was a labor shortage because most of the able-bodied men enlisted and went overseas to fight. Although production picked up once the war ended, overall, there was less coal being mined in America. Then the Stock Market crashed in '29, and the owners closed the mines."
"They were closed that long ago?"
"No. Some of them opened about six years later, once the nation's economy began to improve. But then we had another world war."
"Didn't Middleburg experience a postwar boom like most other areas of the country?"
"By that time fuel oil had become the preferred way of heating homes. The mines eventually closed again, never to reopen."
"You certainly are a wealth of information on Middleburg. Were you a school teacher by any chance?"
"No," the housekeep laughed. "But my family always took pride in the town history. You see, I'm a direct descendent of Wendell Keeley, the mining engineer who first settled the town."
"Then it must have been quite a blow to you when the mines closed."
"Yes, but who knows? Maybe someday science will find another use for anthracite, and Middleburg will be restored to its former glory."
"That's the spirit, Mrs. Rourke," Father Lenahan said encouragingly. "Always have a positive outlook on life."
"Father, I've lived to see an Irish Catholic president in the White House! I firmly believe anything is possible."
* * *
After unpacking his belongings and hanging his clothes in the bedroom closet, Father Lenahan got into his Bel Air and drove down to the center of town. He parked in front of the municipal building, where the statue of a coal miner was prominently placed in the middle of a well-tended lawn.
The Honorable Vance Hardin, the current mayor, was a Methodist, but he looked forward to establishing a good working relationship with the new pastor from St. Timothy's.
"Welcome to Middleburg," Hardin said, warmly shaking the priest's hand.
"Thank you. I'm glad to be here."
The mayor knew the priest was just being polite. Who would want to live in Middleburg, except those whose family roots were firmly planted in the town's soil?
"As you'll see once you've explored the town," Vance Hardin began, "Middleburg is a thriving community. Although our population is only a third of what it was when the mines were open, our citizens are resilient. They've survived through tougher times than these."
"Do you share my housekeeper's optimistic outlook that the mines will reopen in the future?"
"I'm afraid not," the mayor replied. "The mines are a thing of the past. I'm sure a good number of the tunnels have caved in over the years. And we've converted the strip mine pit into a landfill."
Father Lenahan thought it poignant that such an important site of the town's history would be buried under a mountain of garbage.
"Is your family from Middleburg?" the priest asked.
"Not originally," the mayor replied. "My family came from Scranton. My father was a mine inspector for the government. When I was five, my parents bought a house in Middleburg. So, even though I wasn't born in the town, I did grow up here."
"Ah, it seems we both have a little bit of coal dust on the limbs of your family tree."
"Is that so, Father?"
"Yes. The day before I left Philadelphia I received a letter from my maternal grandfather. He wrote to congratulate me on my ordination and assignment to St. Timothy's. He then went on to tell me that his grandfather once worked for the Pinkertons and had investigated the murder of a mine agent here back in the 1860s."
"A murder, you say? That must have been in the days of the Molly Maguires. They caused quite a bit of trouble back then. I'll bet some of the old-timers are familiar with that particular story. You'll find most of them go back four or five generations. The problem is they want to reclaim the past whereas I want to see the town shake off the black dust of the mines and move forward. My goal during my term in office is to attract new industry to Middleburg. I'm tired of seeing so many of our townspeople traveling to Bloomsburg, Pittstown or Hazelton to find work."
"Well, if there's anything I can do to help ...."
"You can convince your parishioners to stay put. There's no reason for people to sell their homes and move. I see great things in store for Middleburg," the mayor predicted, "and it's best everyone remains right here."
Despite the tragic events that would soon unfold, Mayor Vance Hardin optimistically held on to his convictions.
* * *
Like many communities across the United States, Middleburg was proud of its sons and daughters who had joined the armed forces and served in America's wars. To pay honor to its fallen heroes, the town held an annual parade every Memorial Day.
As the 1962 holiday approached, the town began preparing for the scheduled events. The streets along the parade route were swept, and owners of local businesses had their windows washed and their faded signs repainted. Yards of red, white and blue bunting were hung on public buildings, and private citizens put the stars and stripes on display. The Veterans of Foreign Wars placed the photographs of the nine young men from Middleburg who were currently stationed in Vietnam in their glass-enclosed bulletin board. Even Father Lenahan, who believed in a strict separation of church and state, tucked an artificial poppy, courtesy of the American Legion Auxiliary, in his breast pocket.
As the priest crossed Main Street in hopes of speaking to the church organist who worked at the Middleburg Post Office, he encountered Mayor Hardin, who was returning from a meeting of the town's planning commission.
"Terry!" the mayor called. "You're just the man I wanted to see."
"Hello, Vance. What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you would give a short speech at the annual Memorial Day service. Reverend Miller is going to say a few words, and we'd like you to speak, too."
"I'd be honored. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"No. We've got everything under control. All we have left to do is mow the grass at Memorial Park and put flags on the veterans' graves. And, of course, clean up the landfill."
"Clean the landfill?" the priest echoed with surprise.
He had never heard of cleaning a garbage dump.
"It's located next to the park. We don't want the odor of decomposing trash to spoil the ceremony."
"How do you clean a landfill?"
"We set it on fire."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"No," the mayor assured him. "We do it every year. The fire department stands by, and when the fire dies down, they soak the ashes with water. Besides, there are no houses nearby and only a few trees. There's nothing likely to catch fire except the grass, and it's hosed down before the fire is set."
Neither the mayor nor the fire chief ever imagined that the heat of the surface fire would ignite the anthracite in the mines below. Even had they feared such an occurrence, they would never have dreamed what a devastating effect the underground fire would have on the town of Middleburg.
* * *
As Father Lenahan sat at his desk in the rectory, writing his speech for the Memorial Day ceremony, he caught a whiff of smoke. He walked outside and looked down at the town below. He was reassured that there was nothing to worry about. It was only the controlled fire at the landfill.
Father Lenahan had always enjoyed the smell of the burning wood in his family's fireplace, and he fondly remembered the odor of burning leaves in the crisp autumn air. He also recalled the pleasant aroma of his father's pipe when he lit the tobacco. The scent of the burning decayed garbage, on the other hand, made the priest want to gag. He hoped the air would clear by the time he was to give his speech.
As the flames grew higher, however, the odor grew stronger.
Why does the wind have to blow in this direction? he thought, covering his nose with his handkerchief.
Father Lenahan went into St. Timothy's, seeking refuge from the stench. Only after lighting several candles, was he able to tolerate the acrid smell. Unwilling to face the foul air outside, he remained inside his church. Unfortunately, his half-finished speech was in the rectory.
"I suppose I can find something around here to write on."
The pastor walked to the vestibule where he found a selection of reading materials beside a donation box. He eyed the church newsletter, a mimeographed document that listed upcoming events. The rear of the newsletter was blank.
"Ah, this will do just fine," he said, reaching into his pocket for a pen.
As Father Lenahan started to walk toward the rear pew, his eyes were drawn to the portrait of Father McCarty. He stopped and stared. It appeared as though the flames from the fire in the town below were being reflected on the painting.
"That's ridiculous!" he told himself. "The fire is more than a mile away."
The priest blinked, and the eerie reflection vanished.
"It must have been the light from the stained glass windows."
With one more look back at the portrait, Father Lenahan sat down in the last pew and commenced writing his speech.
* * *
As though the mayor had influence over Mother Nature, the weather on Memorial Day was perfect for a parade. The sun shone brightly, and there was not a single cloud above.
Kate Rourke and her husband, who lived in one half of a brick duplex house on Main Street, invited Father Lenahan to watch the parade from their front porch.
Mayor Hardin led the procession, riding in the rear seat of his brand new Cadillac Eldorado convertible. Immediately in his wake came the Middleburg High School marching band, alternately playing "The Star-Spangled Banner," "God Bless America" and "Battle Hymn of the Republic." After the band, came two soldiers who had recently returned from a tour in Vietnam. Behind them were a dozen veterans from Korea and the two world wars. Finally, riding in the place of honor as the town's oldest living veteran, was an octogenarian who fought in the Spanish-American War.
After thirty minutes more of various civic groups, marching bands and patriotic floats, the parade came to an end. Kate gave Father Lenahan a glass of lemonade and a slice of cake, and then the cleric made his way to Memorial Park to deliver his speech.
The priest waited patiently as the mayor spoke at great length about the sacrifice of Middleburg's servicemen and women. Two somewhat shorter speeches followed by the head of the local veterans group and a representative from the American Legion. Finally, a soloist from the high school band played "Taps" on his bugle as an American flag and a floral wreath were placed before the town's granite war monument.
Once the secular portion of the program was completed, it was Reverend Miller's turn to speak. The last speaker of the day, Father Lenahan stepped up to the podium.
"It is written in Psalm 144, 'Blessed be the lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.' We, as Christians, believe when we take up the sword, we do so with the blessings of God. Yet it also says in Ecclesiastes, there is 'a time for war and a time for peace.' Even as we meet here to honor the brave dead, American men and women are fighting in Southeast Asia. Let us pray the time of war will soon be over and that peace will ...."
Father Lenahan's eyes were drawn to a man in the rear of the crowd, and he shivered despite the warmth of the sun beating down on him.
That looks like ....
He stared at the man for a few moments, unable to continue his speech. The people in the audience turned in the direction of the priest's gaze. They saw not the figure that startled Father Lenahan, but smoke wafting up from the landfill.
"I thought the fire was extinguished," the mayor said to the fire chief.
"I thought so, too."
The chief hurried to his car and sped off to the fire station, followed by a half dozen men in the audience who were volunteer firemen. Within minutes the alarm blared throughout town.
No one waited to hear the end of Father Lenahan's speech, nor did the priest care. He was too badly shaken by having seen Father Gerald McCarty in the crowd.
* * *
For the remainder of the day, the Middleburg Fire Department saturated the town landfill. In many low areas there were puddles nearly a foot deep. At midnight, the relieved fire chief pronounced the operation successful.
"The fire is out," he told the weary volunteers. "Everybody go home and get a good night's sleep."
But the next day when the mayor passed the site, he saw wisps of smoke coming from the mounds of charred waste. The fire department returned. Their efforts to put out the fire were aided by the weather. For three days, there was a steady downpour. Yet despite the drenching rain, on the fourth day the smoke returned.
An emergency town meeting was called, and the mayor and council sat at the table with long faces. It was several minutes before someone put voice to the fear that was foremost on all their minds.
"It's not the garbage that's on fire," one of the councilmen, a retired coalminer, declared. "It's the anthracite in the mine below."
"We don't know that for sure," Vance argued, without much conviction.
"I propose we call Harrisburg and have the state bureau of mine safety send an expert here to confirm it."
Mayor Hardin looked out the window at the smoldering landfill and reluctantly seconded the councilman's motion.
* * *
Father Lenahan woke up from a fitful sleep and tried to massage the stiffness out of his lower back. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dresser mirror and noticed his salt-and-pepper hair color had grown decidedly more salt than pepper.
When he had arrived in Middleburg, fresh out of the seminary, brimming with youthful ambition, he imagined spending only a few years in the coal mining community before being reassigned to a more prominent church.
Instead, it's been thirty years, he thought.
They had been thirty years of presiding over weddings, baptisms and funerals; of officiating at communions and confirmations; of conducting Easter and Christmas masses and listening to Saturday afternoon confessions. During his long tenure in Middleburg, he also had to deal with a situation none of his fellow priests had to face. The town of Middleburg was dying, and like a powerless hospice worker, he could do nothing to save it.
Father Lenahan dressed and went down to the dining room for breakfast. Mrs. Adler put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee in front of him. Bella Adler had been cooking and keeping house for the priest for the past three years. Kate Rourke and her husband were just two of the many people who had left Middleburg and moved to areas where smoke did not rise from the ground, where residents did not have to install carbon monoxide detectors in their homes, where roads did not shift or collapse due to subsidence or where little boys did not fall into sinkholes.
"Today's the big day, isn't it, Father?" Mrs. Adler asked.
"Yes. Mayor Hardin is scheduled to meet with Governor Casey in Harrisburg this morning."
The mayor had fought thirty years to breathe new life into the town of Middleburg, but since Memorial Day 1962, his goal had shifted from attracting industry to the town to trying to save it from the fire that raged beneath the ground.
In the state capital, environmentalists, mining engineers and geologists battled with bureaucrats and state accountants in deciding how to best solve the problem. The mayor suggested that the mines be flooded. The mining engineer vetoed the idea.
"It's simply not feasible. There's a vast network of tunnels running beneath the town, far too many to flood. Besides that, experts believe the vein itself has been ignited. The only effective way of combating the fire would be to dig up all the coal that's down there. Not only is there great danger in introducing the gases produced by the burning anthracite into the environment, but the cost of such an undertaking would be prohibitive."
The commonwealth's financial advisors also balked at the idea of fighting the fire, claiming it might cost millions of dollars to dig up the anthracite. In the end, the bean counters determined it was less costly to relocate the people of Middleburg than to extinguish the fire.
Mayor Hardin returned from Harrisburg a defeated man. The governor, he informed his constituents, had declared eminent domain, and all properties within the town borders were to be condemned and purchased by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Father Lenahan was saddened but not surprised by the news. It was, in his opinion, the wisest choice of action. The people who had remained in Middelburg despite the fire raging beneath them and the gases that were poisoning the air they breathed would be given fair compensation for their homes. They could then afford to relocate to safer communities.
Now that Middleburg was about to go through its death throes, Father Lenahan believed his parishioners would need him more than ever.
* * *
For the next ten years, Middleburg, Pennsylvania, experienced a gradual exodus of people. It seemed to Father Lenahan that each day brought with it more Ryder and U-Haul trucks along with more tearful farewells. Once the houses were emptied, entire blocks were demolished. Ground fill was brought in to cover the foundations, erasing all evidence of human habitation. Eventually, only five houses remained, and they, too, were doomed to destruction.
After Bella Adler moved to the Poconos, Father Lenahan was left to fend for himself. He woke early and prepared his own breakfast. Nothing fancy, just coffee and toast. As he sipped his second cup of Maxwell House, he stared at the letter on the table; it was from the bishop. Terrence had finally been reassigned. He was to assume the position of pastor at a church in Philadelphia.
From force of habit, he took his plate and cup to the sink, washed them under the tap, dried them and put them in the cupboard. It was a waste of his time since the rectory, like the houses that once stood in the town below, had been condemned. But it seemed somehow disrespectful to St. Timothy's to leave dirty dishes on the table.
His eyes burning with unshed tears, Father Lenahan picked up his suitcases and walked out of the rectory for the last time. His Chevrolet Bel Air had been replaced by a succession of cars. Now there was a Ford Taurus wagon parked in the driveway. After putting his suitcases in the cargo area, the priest walked to the church and went inside for one final look.
He was surprised to see a fifth brass plate next to the portrait of Father Gerald McCarty. Terrence Lenahan's name would be forever linked with St. Timothy's for as long as it stood—however long that might be.
The tears that had threatened earlier finally slid down his cheeks.
This is goodbye.
When he walked out the door, the pastor stood on the stairs and looked down at the bleak, smoking landscape that was once a thriving community. It was not just buildings and businesses that had been destroyed; it was also human lives.
The most tragic of all was Vance Hardin, who, blaming himself for the fire, put a bullet in his head after watching the municipal building being bulldozed to the ground. Father Lenahan would never forget the last conversation he'd had with the mayor.
"I don't care what anyone says," Vance cried. "I'm the one to blame for the loss of the town, not Father McCarty."
"What does Father McCarty have to do with the fire?" the priest asked.
"Not the fire, the curse. According to Nan Robards, the former town historian, Father McCarty put a curse on Middleburg, claiming St. Timothy's would be standing long after the mines were gone."
"Surely, you don't believe in curses," the priest said. "This is the twentieth century!"
"At one time I would have agreed with you, but look around, Father. There are only a handful of buildings left, and they'll be gone soon, yet St. Timothy's is still standing."
"Because it's on the mountain, away from the fire below."
"You're right, of course. This can't be blamed on Father McCarty. I was the one who ordered the landfill be set on fire."
"Vance ...."
But Mayor Hardin wasn't listening. He turned away and headed home, silently counting down the minutes that remained of his life.
* * *
As Father Lenahan drove down the hill toward the abandoned town, he glanced up at St. Timothy's in his rear-view mirror.
"What?" he cried and slammed on his brakes.
On the church steps, where he himself had stood only minutes earlier, was Father Gerald McCarty.
Father Lenahan wondered if the spirit of the old priest saw the town as he remembered it, or if he saw it as it now was: a barren wasteland ripe with the stench of sulfurous fumes. He wondered if, in death, the old man felt the weight of guilt for his hasty curse, spoken in a moment of anger. Did he, like Mayor Hardin, hold himself responsible?
"I suppose neither one of you is to blame," the priest said. "Anyway, what's done is done. And I can't sit here like Lot's wife, looking back at Sodom. I've got to get to Philly."
Father Lenahan took his foot of the brake, but the Taurus rolled downhill less than ten feet when he heard a loud rumbling sound behind him. He stopped again and looked back. The ground had subsided, creating a cavernous sinkhole. Within moments, St. Timothy's disappeared into the gaping cavern.
The town of Middleburg had taken its last breath.
This story was inspired by events that occured in Centralia, Pennsylvania: the murder of Alexander W. Rea, the mining engineer who first explored and settled the town; the execution of three Molly Maguires for his murder; the alleged curse placed on the town by a Catholic priest; the fire that has been burning out of control since 1962; and the relocation of citizens after Eminent Domain was declared.
I visited Centralia (what's left of it) in 2011. There was a church on the hill, the fire station (ironically) and three cemeteries. Except for the paved roads and occasional driveway that leads nowhere, you would never know a town was ever there.
Salem is a coal expert. He gets it from Santa every year at Christmas!
