WITNESS AT HAWKS NEST

Dwight Harshbarger
Mid-Atlantic Highlands Publishing, August 2009
Genre: Historical Fiction

1930 Union Carbide's construction of Hawks Nest (WV) hydroelectric tunnel. Hundreds of workers soon die from acute silicosis and are secretly buried in a cornfield. Employee Orville Orr discovers the deaths didn't have to happen and takes action.

Excerpt From WITNESS AT HAWKS NEST

On June first a letter addressed in a penciled scrawl to Orville Orr arrived at the Kettle, West Virginia, Post Office. Orville read it, pocketed the letter and ran home.

He burst into the kitchen. Bertie, her curly blonde hair wrapped in a scarf, stood by the sink washing dishes.

"Honey, put down that plate. Listen. This letter's from a man over in Fayette County. He was a sergeant with me in France. He says," Orville laughed, "well first he writes about us drinking too much red wine the night we shipped out for home. ‘Orville do you remember...'"

Bertie interrupted, her voice flat, "You can skip that part."

"Then he says, well here, I'll read it to you." In a staccato monotone, his cadence more like a student than a man of thirty-three, he read, "‘I don't know what you are doing for work these days, Orville, but I need the help of a man like you. A man I can trust, with a steady hand and a strong arm. The pay is five dollars a day, six days a week, plus meals and a room.'"

"Five dollars a day!" Bertie yelled, and then added in a subdued voice, "It's a answered prayer." Her brow furrowed pulling her eyebrows into a single line. "What's he want you to do for that kind of money?"

The letter tingled in Orville's hand. He burst into a wide grin, "You'd be a deputy sheriff of Fayette County and report directly to yours truly Delbert McCloud – I'm the chief deputy for Hawks Nest Tunnel, the shack rouster they call me. More about that later. Orville I'm knocking niggers heads every day. Can't do it alone. Need help. I'll furnish the blackjack (ha, ha).' He signs it, ‘Your old Army buddy, Bullhead McCloud.'"

Bertie pointed to a small folded rectangle of newspaper lying on the floor. "What's that? It dropped out of Mr. McCloud's letter."

"Honey, he's not Mr. McCloud. He's Bullhead. I could tell you stories about him…why one time I saw him sneak behind a German machine gun nest, capture the four men in it, then line those killers up in front of their own gun and …"

"Stop! I don't want to hear it." She picked up the square of slightly yellowed newsprint and unfolded it. "It's a article on that tunnel, that Hawks Nest."

"Let me see." Orville took the article from her and read in silence. "Well, I'll be…this clipping is from The Fayette Tribune. It's about the groundbreaking in April for Hawks Nest tunnel. Going to take the New River straight through Gauley Mountain. Nine million dollars – half for the tunnel, half for an electric power plant. Imagine that."

"You want to share or not? I can read too, you know."

He handed her the clipping.

Bertie read aloud, her smooth voice reflecting years of reading Bible passages to Sunday school classes at the Kettle Methodist Church, "When completed, the tunnel will divert the New River through the base of Gauley Mountain and drive turbines that will send power to the Union Carbide metal alloy factory three miles away. The tunnel represents a dream come to life for Mr. O. M. Jones, the project's designer and chief engineer. At the moment when, if it had been a ship's launch a bottle of champagne would have been broken on the vessel's bow, Mr. Jones climbed to the platform of the steam shovel brought in for the occasion. Then he sent the great prongs into the earth to turn the first shovelful of dirt for the tunnel."

Orville whistled. "Think of it, honey – over a million dollars a mile."

Bertie handed the letter and news article to Orville. She stared at the paper messengers and took a step backwards, as if to assess the visitors. Then she sat down at the kitchen table, extended her long legs and sighed, "A million dollars a mile…" she sat up straight, "and we've got just enough money to buy food through Saturday." She stared hard at Orville, her face drawn. "I'm tired, Orville, tired of stretching what we got too little of. Tired of stretching me. I'm about to break."

Orville held the letter at arm's length, his face a mixture of joy and apprehension, then firm with certainty. "Where's my fountain pen? I'll tell Bullhead I'm coming."

Dwight Harshbarger Bio

In transition from life as a psychologist / teacher / consultant to a Southern writer, Dwight Harshbarger has decided life is better as a writer.

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Witness at Hawks Nest, Dwight Harshbarger
Mid-Atlantic Highlands Publishing, August 2009

The preceding excerpt was taken from the book Witness at Hawks Nest with complete approval by the author Dwight Harshbarger and/or the publisher Mid-Atlantic Highlands Publishing. This information may not be re-used or redistributed in any manner.

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