“That’s it, Shillings,” Mole said, slapping his back. “You’re all right.”

George continued to cough, spewing water on the floorboards. “What happened?” he asked, when at last he found his breath.

“The tunnel face collapsed and trapped your foot,” Thomas said. “We thought you’d drowned.”

“You did drown,” Bagger said. “When we pulled you from the mine, you were as lifeless as a corpse. But it takes more than a little water to stop us, eh, Shillings?”

“You’re lucky your mates got you out when they did,” Boomer added, mussing up George’s hair.

George’s accusing gaze found Frederick standing back against the wall. “Yeah. Lucky.”

TWENTY-SIX

BAGGER ORDERED GEORGE to rest in the dugout while he and the others began the difficult task of sealing off the flooded chamber and section of the gallery with sandbags and a dam of steel mesh and concrete. Aside from Mole telling the boys the job would take several shifts and the help of rotating crews to complete, no one spoke as they worked. When the next crew arrived, Bagger and the other men headed into the trenches, while the boys shuffled back to the dugout. George was sleeping quietly when they arrived, so they ate in silence, too exhausted to form thoughts or words, and then they retired to their bunks.

Thomas woke an hour later to the creak of George lowering himself off his bunk and the padding of his stockinged feet leaving the dugout. When George didn’t return after five minutes—the time it usually took him to smoke a cigarette—Thomas rolled off his bunk and went looking for him. He found George just outside the tunnel entrance, seated on the ground with his bony knees pulled to his chest and his face cradled in his hands.

Thomas took a tentative step toward him. “George? Everything all right?”

George lifted his head and looked up at Thomas. The confident smirk that normally curled his freckled lips sagged, and the mischievous glint that always shone from his green eyes had dimmed. “I’m alive, which is as good as it gets out here, eh, Tommy?” He took a cigarette and match from his pocket. Cuts and splinters from clawing at the timbers in his desperate attempt to escape the flooded tunnel covered his hands. On his right hand, the nail of his pointer finger was missing. He tried to strike the match against a floorboard but dropped it when his raw fingers grated against the wood.

Thomas picked up the match, struck it on a beam, and lit George’s cigarette.

George took a long drag and let his head fall back against the sandbags. “Thanks.”

“What are you doing out here?” Thomas asked, sitting down beside him.

George stared unblinking at the opposite wall. “I couldn’t sleep, and that is crazy because I don’t think I’ve ever been more tired, which if you knew my life, is saying a lot.”

“It’s not crazy. After my carbon monoxide poisoning, I couldn’t sleep either,” Thomas admitted. “I was afraid if I closed my eyes, I’d never wake up. I guess it’s normal to fear death. Everyone does.”