Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines

“Try your luck in Botallack,” said Joe Tonkin, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, preparatory to quitting the place, “that’s my advice to ’ee, booy.”

“I’ve half a mind to,” replied Maggot, rising; “if that theere cargo I run on Saturday do go the way the last did, I’ll ha’ done with it, so I will. Good-hevenin’, Un Jilly.”

“Good-hevenin’, an’ don’t ’ee go tumblin’ down the owld shafts,” said the worthy hostess, observing that her potent brandy had rendered the gait of the men unsteady.

They laughed as they received the caution, and walked together towards St. Just.

“Lev us go see if the toobs are all safe,” said Maggot, on reaching the common.

Tonkin agreed, and they turned aside into a narrow track, which led across the waste land, where the search for the baby had been so diligently carried on all that day.

Night had set in, as we have said, and the searchers had gone up to the town to partake of much-needed refreshment, and obtain torches, so that the place was bleak and silent, as well as dark, when the friends crossed it, but they knew every foot of the ground so thoroughly, that there was no fear of their stumbling into old holes. Maggot led the way, and he walked straight to the old shaft where his hopeful son lay.

There were three noteworthy points of coincidence here to which we would draw attention. It was just because this old shaft was so well concealed that Maggot had chosen it as a place in which to hide his tubs of smuggled brandy; it was owing to the same reason that the town’s-people had failed to discover it while searching for the baby; and it was—at least we think it must have been—just because of the same reason that baby Maggot had found it, for that amiable child had a peculiar talent, a sort of vocation, for ferreting out things and places hidden and secret, especially if forbidden.

Having succeeded in falling into the hole, the urchin naturally discovered his father’s tubs. After crying himself to sleep as before mentioned, and again awakening, his curiosity in respect to these tubs afforded him amusement, and kept him quiet for a time; perhaps the fact that one of the tubs had leaked and filled the lower part of the old shaft with spirituous fumes, may account for the baby continuing to keep quiet, and falling into a sleep which lasted the greater part of the day; at all events, it is certain that he did not howl, as might have been expected of him in the circumstances. Towards evening, however, he began to move about among the tubs, and to sigh and whimper in a subdued way, for his stomach, unused to such prolonged fasting, felt very uncomfortable. When darkness came on baby Maggot became alarmed, but, just about the time of his father’s approach, the moon shone out and cast a cheering ray down the shaft, which relieved his mind a little.

“Joe,” said Maggot in a whisper, and with a serious look, “some one have bin here.”

“D’ee think so?” said Tonkin.

“Iss I do; the bushes are broken a bit. Hush! what’s that?”

The two men paused and looked at each other with awe depicted on their faces, while they listened intently, but, in the words of the touching old song, “the beating of their own hearts was all the sound they heard.”

“It wor the wind,” said Maggot.

“Iss, that’s what it wor,” replied Tonkin; “come, lev us go down. The wind can’t do no harm to we.”

But although he proposed to advance he did not move, and Maggot did not seem inclined to lead the way, for just then something like a sigh came from below, and a dark cloud passed over the moon.

It is no uncommon thing to find that men who are physically brave as lions become nervous as children when anything bordering on what they deem supernatural meets them. Maggot was about the most reckless man in the parish of St. Just, and Tonkin was not far behind him in the quality of courage, yet these two stood there with palpitating hearts undecided what to do.

Ashamed of being thought afraid of anything, Maggot at last cleared his throat, and, in a husky voice, said,—“Come, then, lev us go down.”

So saying he slid down the shaft, closely followed by Tonkin, who was nearly as much afraid to be left alone on the bleak moor as he was to enter the old mine.

Now, while the friends were consulting with palpitating hearts above, baby Maggot, wide-awake and trembling with terror, listened with bated breath below, and when the two men came scrambling down the sides of the shaft his heart seemed to fill up his breast and throat, and his blood began to creep in his veins. Maggot could see nothing in the gloomy interior as he advanced, but baby could see his father’s dark form clearly. Still, no sound escaped from him, for horror had bereft him of power. Just then the dark cloud passed off the moon, and a bright beam shone full on the upper half of the baby’s face as he peeped over the edge of one of the tubs. Maggot saw two glaring eyeballs, and felt frozen alive instantly. Tonkin, looking over his comrade’s shoulder, also saw the eyes, and was petrified on the spot. Suddenly baby Maggot found his voice and uttered a most awful yell. Maggot senior found his limbs, and turned to fly. So did Tonkin, but he slipped and fell at the first step. Maggot fell over him. Both rose and dashed up the shaft, scraping elbows, shins, and knuckles as they went, and, followed by a torrent of hideous cries, that sounded in their ears like the screaming of fiends, they gained the surface, and, without exchanging a word, fled in different directions on the wings of terror!

Maggot did not halt until he burst into his house, and flung himself into his own chair by the chimney corner, whence he gazed on what was calculated to alarm as well as to perplex him. This was the spectacle of his own wife taking tea in floods of tears, and being encouraged in her difficult task by Mrs Penrose and a few sympathising friends.

With some difficulty he got them to explain this mystery.

“What! baby gone lost?” he exclaimed; “where away?”

When it was told him what had occurred, Maggot’s eyes gradually opened, and his lips gradually closed, until the latter produced a low whistle.

“I think that I do knaw where the cheeld is,” he said; “come along, an’ I’ll show un to ’ee.”

So saying, the wily smith, assuming an air of importance and profound wisdom, arose and led his wife and her friends, with a large band of men who had prepared torches, straight to the old shaft. Going down, but sternly forbidding any one to follow he speedily returned with the baby in his arms, to the surprise of all, and to the unutterable joy of the child’s mother.

In one sense, however, the result was disastrous. Curious persons were there who could not rest until they had investigated the matter further, and the tubs were not only discovered, but carried off by those who had no title to them whatever! The misfortune created such a tumult of indignation in the breast of Maggot, that he was heard in his wrath to declare he “would have nothin’ more to do with un, but would go into the bal the next settin’ day.”

This was the commencement of that series of events which, as we have stated at the beginning of this chapter, were brought about by that wonderful baby—the baby Maggot.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Describes Setting-Day at the Mine, etcetera

That very evening, while Maggot was smoking his pipe by the fireside, his son Zackey referred to the bunch of copper which Penrose had discovered in the mine. After a short conversation, Maggot senior went to the wounded man to talk about it.

“’Twas a keenly lode, did ’ee say?” asked Maggot, after he had inquired as to the health of his friend.

“Yes, and as I shall not be able to work there again,” said Penrose sadly, “I would advise you to try it. Zackey is entitled to get the benefit of the discovery, for he was with me at the time, and, but for his aid, dear boy, I should have been suffocated.”

Maggot said no more on that occasion about the mine, being a man of few words, but, after conversing a short time with the wounded man, and ascertaining that no hope was held out to him of the recovery of his sight, he went his way to the forge to work and meditate.

Setting-day came—being the first Saturday in the month, and no work was done on that day in Botallack, for the men were all above ground to have their “pitches” for the next month fixed, and to receive their wages—setting-day being also pay day.

Some time before the business of the day commenced, the miners began to assemble in considerable numbers in the neighbourhood of the account-house. Very different was their appearance on that occasion from the rusty-red fellows who were wont to toil in the dark chambers far down in the depths below the spot where they stood. Their underground dresses were laid aside, and they now appeared in the costume of well-off tradesmen. There was a free-and-easy swing about the movements of most of these men that must have been the result of their occupation, which brings every muscle of the body into play, and does not—as is too much the case in some trades—over-tax the powers of a certain set of muscles to the detriment of others.

Some there were, however, even among the young men, whose hollow cheeks and bloodless lips, accompanied with a short cough, told of evil resulting from bad air and frequent chills; while, on the other hand, a few old men were to be seen with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks which indicated constitutions of iron. Not a few were mere lads, whose broad shoulders and deep chests and resolute wills enabled them to claim the title, and do the work, of men.

There were some among them, both young and old, who showed traces of having suffered in their dangerous employment. Several were minus an eye, and one or two were nearly blind, owing to blast-holes exploding in their faces. One man in particular, a tall and very powerful fellow, had a visage which was quite blue, and one of his eyes was closed—the blue colour resulting from unburnt grains of powder having been blown into his flesh. He had been tattooed, in fact, by a summary and effective process. This man’s family history was peculiar. His father, also a miner, had lived in a lonely cottage on a moor near St. Just, and worked in Balaswidden Mine. One night he was carried home and laid at his wife’s feet, dead—almost dashed to pieces by a fall. Not long afterwards the son was carried to the same cottage with his right eye destroyed. Some time later a brother dislocated his foot twice within the year in the mine; and a few months after that another brother fell from a beam, descended about twenty-four feet perpendicularly, where he struck the side of the mine with his head, and had six or seven of his teeth knocked out; glancing off to one side, he fell twenty feet more on the hard rock, where he was picked up insensible. This man recovered, however, under the careful nursing of his oft and sorely tried mother.

Maggot was present on this setting-day, with a new cap and a new blue cloth coat, looking altogether a surprisingly respectable character. A good deal of undertoned chaffing commenced when he appeared.

“Hallo!” exclaimed one, “goin’ to become an honest man, Maggot?”

“Thinkin’ ’bout it,” replied the smith, with a good-humoured smile.

“Why, if I didn’t knaw that the old wuman’s alive,” said another, “I’d say he was agoin’ to get married again!”

“Never fear,” exclaimed a third, “Maggot’s far too ’cute a cunger to be caught twice.”

“I say, my dear man,” asked another, “have ’ee bin takin’ a waalk ’pon the clifts lately?”

“Iss, aw iss,” replied the smith with much gravity.

“Did ’ee find any more daws ’pon clift?” asked the other, with a leer.

There was a general laugh at this, but Maggot replied with good-humour,—“No, Billy, no—took ’em all away last time. But I’m towld there’s some more eggs in the nest, so thee’ll have a chance some day, booy.”

“I hope the daws ain’t the worse of their ducking?” asked Billy, with an expression of anxious interest.

“Aw, my dear,” said Maggot, looking very sad, and shaking his head slowly, “didn’t ’ee hear the noos?”

“No, not I.”

“They did catch the noo complaint the doctor do spaik of—bronkeetis I think it is—and although I did tie ’em up wi’ flannel round their necks, an’ water-gruel, besides ’ot bottles to their feet, they’re all gone dead. I mean to have ’em buried on Monday. Will ’ee come to the berryin, Billy?”

“P’raps I will,” replied Billy, “but see that the gravedigger do berry ’em deep, else he’ll catch a blowin’ up like the gravedigger did in Cambourne last week.”

“What was that, booy? Let us hear about it, Billy,” exclaimed several voices.

“Well, this is the way of it,” said Billy: “the owld gravedigger in Cambourne was standin’ about, after mittin’ was over, a-readin’ of the tombstones, for he’d got a good edjication, had owld Tom. His name was Tom—the same man as put a straw rope to the bell which the cows did eat away, so that he cudn’t ring the people to mittin’. Well, when he was studdyin’ the morials on the stones out comes Captain Rowe. He was wan o’ the churchwardens, or somethin’ o’ that sort, but I don’t knaw nothin’ ’bout the church, so I ain’t sure—an’ he calls owld Tom into the vestry.

“‘Now look here, Tom,’ says the captain, very stern, ‘they tell me thee ’rt gettin’ lazy, Tom, an’ that thee do dig the graves only four fut deep. Now, Tom, I was over to St. Just t’other day to a berryin’, and I see that they do dig their graves six fut or more deeper than you do. That won’t do, Tom, I tell ’ee. What’s the meanin’ of it?’

“This came somewhat suddent on owld Tom, but he wor noways put out.

“‘Well, you do see, Cap’n Rowe,’ says he, ‘I do it apurpose, for I do look at the thing in two lights.’”

“‘How so?’ asked the captain.

“‘Why, the people of St. Just only think of the berryin’, but I do think of the resurrection; the consekince is that they do dig too deep, an’ afore the St. Just folk are well out of their graves, ours will be a braave way up to heaven!’”

The laugh with which this anecdote was received had scarcely subsided when the upper half of one of the account-house windows opened, and the fine-looking head and shoulders of old Mr Cornish appeared.

The manager laid an open book on the window-sill, and from this elevated position, as from a pulpit, he read out the names, positions, etcetera, of the various “pitches” that were to be “sett” for the following month. One of the mine captains stood at his elbow to give any required information—he and his three brother captains being the men who had gone all over the mine during the previous month, examined the work, measured what had been done by each man or “pare” of men, knew the capabilities of all the miners, and fixed the portion that ought to be offered to each for acceptance or refusal.

The men assembled in a cluster round the window, and looked up while Mr Cornish read off as follows:—

“John Thomas’s pitch at back of the hundred and five. By two men. To extend from the end of tram-hole, four fathom west, and from back of level, five fathom above.”

For the enlightenment of the reader, we may paraphrase the above sentence thus:—

“The pitch or portion of rock wrought last month by John Thomas is now offered anew—in the first place, to John Thomas himself if he chooses to continue working it at our rate of pay, or, if he declines, to any other man who pleases to offer for it. The pitch is in the back (or roof) of the level, which lies one hundred and five fathoms deep. It must be wrought by two men, and must be excavated lengthwise to an extent of four fathoms in a westerly direction from a spot called the tram-hole. In an upward direction, it may be excavated from the roof of the level to an extent of five fathoms.”

John Thomas, being present, at once offered “ten shillings,” by which he meant that, knowing the labour to be undergone, and the probable value of the ore that would have to be excavated, he thought it worth while to continue at that piece of work, or that “pitch,” if the manager would give him ten shillings for every twenty shillings’ worth of mineral sent to the surface by him; but the captain also knew the ground and the labour that would be required, and his estimate was that eight shillings would be quite sufficient remuneration, a fact which was announced by Mr Cornish simply uttering the words, “At eight shillings.”

“Put her down, s’pose,” said John Thomas after a moment’s consideration.

Perhaps John knew that eight shillings was really sufficient, although he wanted ten. At all events he knew that it was against the rules to dispute the point at that time, as it delayed business; that if he did not accept the offer, another man might do so; and that he might not get so good a pitch if he were to change.

The pitch was therefore sett to John Thomas, and another read off:– “Jim Hocking’s pitch at back of the hundred and ten. By one man. To extend,” etcetera.

“Won’t have nothin’ to do with her,” said Jim Hocking.

Jim had evidently found the work too hard, and was dissatisfied with the remuneration, so he declined, resolving to try his chance in a more promising part of the mine.

“Will any one offer for this pitch?” inquired Mr Cornish.

Eight and six shillings were sums immediately named by men who thought the pitch looked more promising than Jim did.

“Any one offer more for this pitch?” asked the manager, taking up a pebble from a little pile that lay at his elbow, and casting it into the air.

While that pebble was in its flight, any one might offer for the pitch, but the instant it touched the ground, the bargain was held to be concluded with the last bidder.

A man named Oats, who had been in a hesitating state of mind, here exclaimed “Five shillings” (that is, offered to work the pitch for five shillings on every twenty shillings’ worth sent to grass); next instant the stone fell, and the pitch was sett to Oats.

Poor James Penrose’s pitch was the next sett.

“James Penrose’s late pitch,” read the manager, giving the details of it in terms somewhat similar to those already sett, and stating that the required “pare,” or force to be put on it, was two men and a boy.

“Put me down for it,” said Maggot.

“Have you got your pare?” asked Mr Cornish.

“Iss, sur.”

“Their names?”

“David Trevarrow and my son Zackey.”

The pitch was allocated in due form at the rate of fifteen shillings per twenty shillings’ worth of mineral sent up—this large sum being given because it was not known to be an unusually good pitch—Penrose having been too ill to speak of his discovery since his accident, and the captain having failed to notice it. When a place is poor looking, a higher sum is given to the miner to induce him to work it. When it is rich, a lower sum is given, because he can make more out of it.

Thus the work went on, the sums named varying according to the nature of the ground, and each man saying “Naw,” or “Put me down,” or “That won’t do,” or “I won’t have her,” according to circumstances.

While this was going on at the window, another and perhaps more interesting scene was taking place in the office. This apartment presented a singular appearances. There was a large table in the centre of it, which, with every available inch of surface on a side-table, and on a board at the window, was completely covered with banknotes and piles of gold, silver, and copper. Each pile was placed on a little square piece of paper containing the account-current for the month of the man or men to whom it belonged. Very few men laboured singly. Many worked in couples, and some in bands of three, five, or more. So much hard cash gave the place a wealthy appearance, and in truth there was a goodly sum spread out, amounting to several hundreds of pounds.

The piles varied very much in size, and conveyed a rough outline of the financial history of the men they belonged to. Some large heaps of silver, with a few coppers and a pile of sovereigns more than an inch high, lying on two or more five-pound notes indicated successful labour. Nevertheless, the evidence was not absolutely conclusive, because the large piles had in most cases to be divided between several men who had banded together; but the little square account-papers, with a couple of crowns on them, told of hard work and little pay, while yonder square with two shillings in the centre of it betokened utter failure, only to be excelled by another square, on which lay nothing.

You will probably exclaim in your heart, reader, “What! do miners sometimes work for a month, and receive only two shillings, or nothing as wages?”

Ay, sometimes; but it is their own seeking if they do; it is not forced upon them.

There are three classes of miners—those who work on the surface, dressing ore, etcetera, who are paid a weekly wage; those who work on “tribute,” and those who work at “tut-work.” Of the first we say nothing, except that they consist chiefly of balmaidens and children—the former receiving about 18 shillings a month, and the latter from 8 shillings to 20 shillings, according to age and capacity.

In regard to “tributers” and “tut-workers,” we may remark that the work of both is identical in one respect—namely, that of hewing, picking, boring, and blasting the hard rock. In this matter they share equal toils and dangers, but they are not subjected to the same remunerative vicissitudes.

When a man works on “tribute” he receives so many shillings for every twenty shillings’ worth of ore that he raises during the month, as already explained. If his “pitch” turns out to be rich in ore, his earnings are proportionably high; if it be poor, he remains poor also. Sometimes a part of the mineral lode becomes so poor that it will not pay for working, and has to be abandoned. So little as a shilling may be the result of a “tributer’s” work for a month at one time, while at another time he may get a good pitch, and make 100 pounds or 200 pounds in the same period.

The “tutman” (or piecework man), on the other hand, cuts out the rock at so much per fathom, and obtains wages at the rate of from 2 pounds, 10 shillings to 3 pounds a month. He can never hope to make a fortune, but so long as health and strength last, he may count on steady work and wages. Of course there is a great deal of the work in a mine which is not directly remunerative, such as “sinking” shafts, opening up and “driving” (or lengthening) levels, and sinking “winzes.” On such work tutmen are employed.

The man who works on “tribute” is a speculator; he who chooses “tut-work” is a steady labourer. The tributer experiences all the excitement of uncertainty, and enjoys the pleasures of hope. He knows something, too, about “hope deferred;” also can tell of hope disappointed; has his wits sharpened, and, generally, is a smart fellow. The tut-worker knows nothing of this, his pay being safe and regular, though small. Many quiet-going, plodding men prefer and stick to tut-work.

In and about the counting-room the men who had settled the matter of their next month’s work were assembled. These—the cashier having previously made all ready—were paid in a prompt and businesslike manner.

First, there came forward a middle-aged man. It was scarcely necessary for him to speak, for the cashier knew every man on the mine by name, and also how much was due to him, and the hundreds of little square accounts-current were so arranged that he could lay his hands on any one in an instant. Nevertheless, being a hearty and amiable man, he generally had a word to say to every one.

“How’s your son, Matthew?” he inquired of the middle-aged man, putting the square paper with its contents into his hand.

“He’s braave, sir. The doctor do say he’ll be about again in a week.”

Matthew crumpled up his account-current—notes, gold, silver, copper and all—in his huge brown hand, and, thrusting the whole into his breeches pocket, said “Thank ’ee,” and walked away.

Next, there came forward a young man with one eye, an explosion having shut up the other one for ever. He received his money along with that of the three men who worked in the same “pare” with him. He crumpled it up in the same reckless way as Matthew had done, also thrust it into his pocket, and walked off with an independent swagger. Truly, in the sweat, not only of his brow, but, of every pore in his body, had he earned it, and he was entitled to swagger a little just then. There was little enough room or inducement to do so down in the mine! After this young man a little boy came forward saying that his “faither” had sent him for his money.