Taking Tales Part 27

Young d.i.c.k Kempson sat all by himself in the dark, with a rope in his hand, at the end of a narrow pa.s.sage, close to a thick, heavy door.

There was a tramway along the pa.s.sage, for small wagons or cars to run on. It was very low and narrow, and led to a long distance. Young d.i.c.k did not like to think how far. It was not built with brick or stone, like a pa.s.sage in a house, but was cut out; not through rock, but what think you? through coal.

Young d.i.c.k was down a coal mine, more than one thousand feet below the green fields and trees and roads and houses--not that there were many green fields, by the bye, about there. The way down to the mine was by a shaft, like a round well sunk straight down into the earth to where the coal was known to be. Coal is found by boring, with an iron rod, one piece screwed on above another, with a place in the end to bring up the different sorts of earth it pa.s.ses through. This shaft was more than a thousand feet deep; some are still deeper. Most people have heard of Saint Paul's, the highest church in England; just place three such buildings one on the top of the other, and we have the depth down which young d.i.c.k had to go every day to his work. In the bottom of this shaft, main pa.s.sages and cross pa.s.sages ran off for miles and miles to the chambers or places where men were digging out the coal.

The door near which d.i.c.k sat was called a trap, and d.i.c.k was called a "trapper." His business was to open the trap when the little wagons loaded with coal came by; pushed, or put, by boys who are therefore called "putters." They bring the coal from the place where the hewers are at work to the main line, where it is hoisted up on the rolleys, or wagons, to be carried to the foot of the shaft. d.i.c.k was eleven years old, but he was small of his age, and he did not know much. How should he? He had pa.s.sed twelve hours of every six days in the week, for three years of his short life, under ground, in total darkness. He had two candles, but one lasted him only while he pa.s.sed from the shaft to his trap, and the other to go back again. He had begun to trap at seven years old, and went on for two years, and then the good Lord Shaftesbury got a law made that no little boys under ten years of age should work in mines; and so he got a year above ground. During that time he went to a school, but he did not learn much, as it was a very poor one.

When he was ten years old, he had to go into the mine again; he had now been there every day for a year. He had heard talk of ghosts and spirits; and some of the bigger boys had told him that there was a great black creature, big enough to fill up all the pa.s.sage, and that he had carried off a good many of the little chaps, once upon a time, no one knew where, only they had never come back again. Poor little d.i.c.k thought that he too might be carried away some day.

Often while he sat there, all alone in the dark, he trembled from head to foot, as he heard strange sounds, cries and groans it seemed. Was it the spirits of the boys carried off, or was it the monster coming to take him away? He dared not run away, he dared not even move. He had been there nine hours, with a short time for meals, when his father had come for him, and he would have to be three more, to earn his tenpence a day. It was Sat.u.r.day, no wonder that he was sleepy, and, in spite of his fears of ghosts and hobgoblins, that he dropped asleep. He had been dreaming of the black creature he had been told of. He thought he saw him creeping, creeping towards him. He felt a heavy blow on his head.

He shrieked out, he thought that it was the long expected monster come to carry him off. It was only Bill Hagger, the putter, with his corve, or basket of coals. An oath came with the blow, and further abuse.

Poor little d.i.c.k dared not complain. He would only cry and pull open his door, and shut it again directly Bill was through.

Bill Hagger was black enough, all covered with coal-dust; but still it was better to have a cuff from him than to be carried off by the big creature, he did not know where, still deeper down into the earth. So he dried the tears which were dropping from his eyes and forming black mud on his cheeks, and tried to keep awake till the next putter and his loaded corve should come by, or Bill Hagger should return with his empty one.

Bill had not far to go to reach the crane, where the corve would be hoisted on the rolley, or wagon, to be dragged by a pony along the rolley-way to the foot of the shaft. d.i.c.k wished that Bill had farther to go, because he was pretty certain to give him a cuff or kick in pa.s.sing, just to remind him to look out sharp the next time. There was another thing he wished, that it was time for "kenner," when his father would come and take him home to his mother. What "kenner" means, we shall know by-and-by.

I said that there were miles and miles of these rolley or main-tramways.

This one was two miles straight, right away from the shaft. As the air in mines gets foul and close, and does not move, it is necessary to send currents of wind into all the pa.s.sages to blow it away. The first thing is to get the wind to come down the shaft, and then to make it move along certain pa.s.sages and so up by another shaft. Only a small quant.i.ty of wind can come down, and if that was let wander about at pleasure, it would do no good. So these traps or doors are used to stop it from going along some pa.s.sages, and to make it go along others, till the bad air is blown out of them. To help this, a large furnace is placed at the bottom of the second shaft, called the up-cast shaft, because the foul air is cast up it.

There are several ways of working mines. This one was worked in squares, or on the panel system. The main roads are like the frame of a window; the pa.s.sages like the wood dividing the panes of gla.s.s; and the ma.s.ses of coal which remain at first like the panes themselves. These ma.s.ses are again cut into, till pillars only remain about twelve feet by twenty-four. These pillars are at last removed, and props of wood placed instead, so that the whole mine is worked-out.

The men who do the chief work in the mine, that is, cut out the coal from the bed or seam, are the "hewers." d.i.c.k's father was a hewer.

They have only two tools--a short pick, and a round-bladed spade; with a big basket, or "corve," into which they put the coal, and a gauze-wire lantern. Suppose a pa.s.sage first cut; then they hew out chambers on either side, each about twelve feet wide. The roof of them is propped up as the hewer works on, till all the coal likely to fall is hewn away.

The hewer's work is very hard; sometimes he kneels, sometimes sits, and sometimes has to lie on his back or side, knocking away with his heavy pick. Often he is bathed in wet from the heat, for it is very hot down in that black chamber, as the wind cannot pa.s.s through it.

In some places, where there is no fear of bad gas, and open lights can be used, the coal is blasted by gunpowder, as rock often is. This, however, cannot often be done; as the bad gas, called fire-damp, may come up any moment, and if set light to, go off like gunpowder or the gas from coal, and blow the chambers and everybody near to pieces.

The cut shows the form of these chambers when the mouth is just being finished. These chambers are in a very wide seam; but some seams are only three feet thick, and the men can in no part stand upright. When all the chambers and pa.s.sages are cut out in a panel, the pillars of coal are removed, and pillars of wood put in their stead to support the roof. Some of the main pa.s.sages run on straight ahead for two miles from the foot of the shaft, and the coal has to be brought all this distance on the rolleys, dragged by ponies or horses sometimes. It might puzzle some people to say how the animals are got down and up again. They are let down in a strong net of ropes, and once down, they do not after see daylight. There are regular stables for them cut out of the coal at the bottom of the mine, and they seem to like the life, for they grow sleek and fat.

In Wallford mine, in which little d.i.c.k worked, there were employed 250 grown men, 75 lads, and 40 young boys. The hewer's dress is generally a flannel s.h.i.+rt and drawers, and a pair of stout trousers, a coa.r.s.e flannel waistcoat and coat, the last long with pockets, a pair of broggers (worsted stockings without feet), and a leathern cap. These at once get as black as coal-dust can make them.

There are different cranes on the rolley-ways, near the side cuttings, and each is under charge of a lad, called a crane-hoister, whose business is to hoist the baskets brought to him by the putters on to the rolleys, and to chalk down the number he cranes on a board. When the train of rolleys reaches the shaft, the full corves are hoisted up, and empty ones let down, which are placed on the rolleys, and carried back for the hewers to fill.

No spirits are allowed in mines, but as the heat and the work makes the people thirsty, tubs of water are placed at intervals, at which they can drink. In their long journeys, the putters stop to "bait," and are well supplied with bread and cheese, and bacon, and cold coffee or tea.

The miner has not only to fear choke or fire-damp, but sometimes water.

A mine has, therefore, to be drained. A well or tank is dug in the lowest level, into which all the springs are made to run. A pump is sunk down to it through a shaft with a steam engine above, by which all the water is pumped out.

It may be seen that the working of a mine requires the very greatest care. If this is not taken, the roof may fall in and crush the labourers; or fire-damp may explode and blow them to pieces, and perhaps set fire to the mine itself and destroy it; or black or choke-damp may suffocate them, as the fumes of charcoal do; or water may rush in and drown them. A lamp, invented by a very learned man, Sir Humphrey Davy, is used when there is a risk of fire-damp. It is closely surrounded with very fine wire-gauze, through which neither the flame of the candle nor the gas can pa.s.s, yet the light can get out almost as well as through the horn of a common lantern.

Before any workmen are allowed to go into the pit in the morning, certain officers, called "over-men" and "deputies," go down through every part that is being worked, to see that all is safe. If anything is wrong, or doubtful, the inspecting deputy places a shovel across the place, or chalks a warning on the blade and sticks it in the ground, that it may be seen by the hewer. As soon as they have found the mine safe, the hewers come down and begin their work; and when they have had time to fill a corve or so, they are followed by the putters and other labourers. Sometimes it is necessary to work all the twenty-four hours, and then the people are divided into three gangs, who each work eight hours; but the poor little trappers are divided only into two parties, who have each to be down in the mine twelve hours together, sitting all alone by the side of their traps, like poor little d.i.c.k, in the dark.

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 2.

Little d.i.c.k's father, Samuel Kempson, was a hewer. He had not been brought up to the mining work, like most of the men; but once, when there had been a strike among the colliers, he and others from a distant county, being out of work, had got employed, and tempted by the high wages, had continued at it. While little d.i.c.k was sleeping at his trap, and getting a cuff on the head from Bill Hagger, Samuel Kempson was sitting, pick in hand, and hewing in a chamber at the end of a main pa.s.sage nearly two miles off. The Davy lamp was hung up before him, and the big corve was by his side. There he sat or kneeled, working with his pick, or filling the corve with his spade. Often he thought of the green fields and hedges and woods of his native county. Though his wages had been poor, and his work hedging or ditching, or driving carts, or tending cattle; and though he had been sometimes wet to the skin, and cold enough in winter, yet in summer he had had the blue sky and the warm sun above him, and he had breathed the pure air of heaven, and smelt the sweet flowers and the fresh mown gra.s.s, and he sighed for those things which he was never likely to enjoy again.

There he was, a hewer of coal, and a hewer of coal he must remain, or run the chance of starving; for he had a large family, and though he had had good wages, three s.h.i.+llings and sometimes four s.h.i.+llings a day, and no rent to pay, and coals for a trifle, he had saved nothing. He had now got into such a way of spending money that he thought he couldn't save. His wife, Susan, thought so too. She was not a bad wife, and she kept the house clean and tidy enough, but she was not thrifty. Both he and she were as sober and industrious as most people, but they had meat most days, and plenty of white bread, and b.u.t.ter and cheese, and good clothes, and other things, which cost money, so that out of twenty-two s.h.i.+llings a week, there was next to nothing to put by. They had, too, a number of children, and some of them were heavy burdens, and were likely to remain so. The eldest boy, Jack, had had a fancy for the sea, and he had gone away when quite a little chap with a captain who had taken a liking to him, and the vessel had never more been heard of. That was before they left their old home in the country and came to live at the coal-pits. Poor Susan often thought of her lost boy, with his laughing blue eyes, and his light hair curling over his fair brow, just as he was when he went away. Mothers are apt to think of their lost young ones.

It is well if a parent can feel sure that her child is with G.o.d in heaven, that she can say, "I taught it early to love Jesus; I know that he trusted in His cleansing blood, in His all-sufficient sacrifice on the cross."

Poor Susan had not that thought to comfort her, but still it did not trouble her. She mourned her lost boy like a loving mother, but not so much for his sake as because she wished again to fold him in her arms, and press once more a kiss on his cheeks.

Her next boy, Ben, worked with his father in the pit, as a putter. He was a rough, wildish lad--not worse than his companions, but that was not saying much for him, and it seemed but too likely that he would give his parents trouble.

The third boy, Lawrence, was a helpless cripple. He had been hurt in the mine three years before, and it seemed likely he would never walk again. He went by the name of Limping Lawry among the people in the village of Wallford. I was going to say companions--but he had not many companions, for he could not move about without pain. Only on a summer's day he limped out and sat on a bench against the front wall of the cottage. He was a pale-faced lad, with large blue eyes and a broad forehead, and did not look as if he could be long for this world; yet he lived on while others seemingly stronger were taken away.

Then there was Nelly. Once she was a bright little thing, but she had fallen on her head, and though she did not seem much hurt at first, she became half-witted, and was now an idiot. As she grew older she was sometimes inclined to be mischievous. Lawry might have watched over her, but she was so active and quick that she could easily get away from him. She knew well that it hurt him to move, so she kept her eye on him, and was off like a shot when he got up to go after her. So poor Lawry could not be of much use, even looking after his idiot sister. He used to hope that he might some day get better, and go to work again in the mine, as a trapper, at all events, which did not require much strength. But the doctor told him that he must not think of it; that the coal-dust and bad air would hurt his lungs, and that he would very soon die if he did. If he ever got strong, he must find work above ground.

The Kempsons were decent people, their neighbours could say that of them, but they were not G.o.d-fearing and G.o.d-loving,--they had no family prayers, no Bible was ever read in their house, and they seldom or never went to a place of wors.h.i.+p; to be sure, the nearest was some way off, and that was their excuse--it was hard, if they did, to get back to dinner, at least to a hot dinner, and that is what they always liked to have on Sundays. Such was little d.i.c.k's family.

He therefore knew very little about G.o.d, or G.o.d's love to man through Jesus Christ. How should he? He had nothing pleasant to think of as to what was past nor what was to come. He knew nothing of heaven--of a future life where all sin and sorrow, and pain and suffering is to be done away--of its glories, of its joy, its wonders. All he knew was that he had sat there in that dark corner trapping for many, many weary hours, and that he should have to sit there many more till he was big enough to become a putter. Then he should have to fill corves with coal, and push them along the tramways for some years more till he got to be a hewer like his father. He only hoped that he might have to hew in seams not less than five feet thick--not in three feet or less, as some men had to do, obliged to crawl into their work on hands and knees, and crawl out again, and to work all day lying down or sitting. But they had light though--that was pleasant; they could move about, and worked only eight hours. He had to work in the dark for twelve hours, and dared not move, so he thought that he should change for the better, that is to say, when he thought at all, which was not often. Generally he sat, only wis.h.i.+ng that it was "kenner" time, that he might go home to supper and bed. The name is given, because, when the time for work is over, the banksman at the mouth of the pit cries out, "Kenner, kenner."

d.i.c.k did not get much play, even in summer. In the winter he never saw daylight, except on Sundays. When he was thinking of what might happen, he could not help remembering how many men and boys he had known, some his own playmates--or workmates rather--who had been killed in that and the neighbouring pits. Some had been blown to pieces by the fire-damp; others had been stifled by the choke-damp; a still greater number had been killed coming up and down the shaft, either by the rope or chain breaking, or by falling out of the skip or basket, or by the skip itself being rotten and coming to pieces. But even yet more had lost their lives by the roof falling in, or by large ma.s.ses of coal coming down and crus.h.i.+ng them. Many had been run over by the corves, or crushed by them against the sides, like his poor brother Lawry; and others had been killed by the machinery above ground. "I wonder," thought d.i.c.k, "whether one of those things will be my lot." Poor little d.i.c.k, what between fancied dangers and real dangers, he had an unhappy time of it.

Still he was warm and dry, and had plenty of food, and nothing to do but sit and open a door. Some might envy him.

d.i.c.k had one friend, called David Adams, a quiet, pale-faced, gentle little boy, younger than himself. He had only lately come to the mine, and been made a trapper. His father had been killed by the falling in of the roof, and his widowed mother had hard work to bring up her family; so, much against her will, she had to let little David go and be a trapper. She had never been down a mine, and did not know what sort of a life he would have to lead, or she might not have let him go.

Sometimes one man took charge of David and sometimes another, and placed him at his trap,--generally the man who was going to hew in that direction. Miners, though their faces look black on week-days, and their hands are rough, have hearts like other men, and all felt for little David. Often Samuel Kempson took charge of David, and carried him home with him; and d.i.c.k and David used to talk to each other and tell their griefs. David could read, and he would tell d.i.c.k all about what he had read on Sundays, and d.i.c.k at last said that he should like to read too, and David promised to teach him. At last David lent him some books, and used to come in on Sundays, and in the evenings in summer, to help him read them, and that made them all greater friends than before.

Well, there sat d.i.c.k at his trap, very hungry and very sleepy and very tired, and longing to hear the shout of "Kenner, kenner!" echoing along the pa.s.sages. He sat on and on; his thoughts went back to the ghosts and spirits he had been told about, and to the tales he had heard of the blowing up of gas, and the sad scenes he had indeed himself witnessed.

How dark and silent was all around! Had he dropped asleep? He heard a deep and awful groan. "I am come to take you off, down, down, down,"

said a voice. Where it came from, d.i.c.k could not tell. He trembled from head to foot, trying to see through the darkness in vain, for no cat could have seen down there. Not a ray of the blessed sunlight ever penetrated into those pa.s.sages. "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!"

said the voice.

"Oh, don't, don't, don't!" cried poor d.i.c.k, in a terrible fright.

He felt a big hand placed on his shoulder. "I've got you, young one, come along with me," said the voice.

d.i.c.k shrieked out with fear. He trembled all over, and the next moment, just as a loud, hoa.r.s.e laugh sounded in his ear, he went off in a faint.

"Kenner, kenner, kenner!" was shouted down the pit's mouth, and echoed along the galleries. Samuel Kempson heard it far away, and, crawling out of the hole in which he had been hewing, threw his pick and spade over his shoulder, and took his way homeward, not over pleasant green fields as labourers in the country have to do, but along the dark, black gallery, lighted by his solitary Davy lamp, which was well-nigh burnt out. He did not forget his boy d.i.c.k. He called out to him, but got no reply. Again and again he called. His heart sank within him, for he loved the little fellow, though he made him work in a way which, to others, might appear cruel. Could anything have happened to the child?

Once more he called, "d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k!" Still there was no answer. Perhaps some of the other men had taken him home. He went on some way towards the pit's mouth, then his mind misgave him, and he turned back. To a stranger, all the traps would have looked alike, but he well knew the one at which d.i.c.k was stationed. He pushed it open, and there, at a little distance from it, he saw a small heap of clothes. He sprang forward. It was d.i.c.k. Was his boy dead? He feared so. The child neither moved nor breathed. He s.n.a.t.c.hed him up, and ran on with him to the foot of the shaft, where several men stood waiting to be drawn up.

The rough men turned to him with looks of pity in their faces.

"Anything fallen on the little chap?" asked one.

"Foul air, may be," observed a second.

"Did a rolley strike him, think you?" asked a third.

"I don't know," answered the father; "I can't find where he's hurt. But do let us get up, he may chance to come to in fresh air."

As he spoke, the "skip," or "bowk," used for descending and ascending the shaft, reached the bottom, and Samuel Kempson and his boy were helped into it, and with some of the other men, began their ascent. The father held the boy in his arms, and watched his countenance as they neared the light which came down from the mouth of the pit; first a mere speck, like a star at night, and growing larger and larger as they got up higher.

An eyelid moved, the lip quivered: "He's alive, he's alive!" he exclaimed joyfully.

As soon as he reached the top, he ran off with d.i.c.k in his arms to his cottage.

Mrs Kempson saw him coming. "What! another of them hurt?" she cried out: "G.o.d help us!"