Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines

It was observable that the boys and lads among those who presented themselves in the counting-room, were, as a rule, hearty and hopeful. With them it was as with the young in all walks of life. Everything looked bright and promising. The young men were stern, yet free-and-easy—as though they had already found life a pretty tough battle, but felt quite equal to it. And so they were, every one of them! With tough sinews, hard muscles, and indomitable energy, they were assuredly equal to any work that man could undertake; and many of them, having the fear of God in their hearts, were fitted to endure manfully the trials of life as well. The elderly men were sedate, and had careworn faces; they knew what it was to suffer. Many of them had carried little ones to the grave; they had often seen strong men like themselves go forth in the morning hale and hearty, and be carried to their homes at evening with blinded eyes or shattered limbs. Life had lost its gloss to them, but it had not lost its charms. There were loving hearts to work for, and a glorious end for which to live, or, if need be, to die—so, although their countenances were sedate they were not sad. The old men—of whom there were but two or three—were jolly old souls. They seemed to have successfully defied the tear and wear of life, to have outlived its sorrows, and renewed their youth. Certainly they had not reached their second childhood, for they stepped forth and held out their hands for their pay as steadily as the best of the young ones.

When about one-half of the number had been paid, a woman in widow’s weeds came forward to take up the pay due to her son—her “wretched Harry,” as she styled him. All that was due was seven-and-sixpence. It was inexpressibly sad to see her retire with this small sum—the last that her unsettled boy was entitled to draw from the mines. He had worked previously in the neighbouring mine, Wheal Owles, and had gone to Botallack the month before. He was now off to sea, leaving his mother, who to some extent depended on him, to look out for herself.

The next who came forward was a blind man. He had worked long in the mine—so long that he could find his way through the labyrinth of levels as easily in his blind state as he did formerly with his eyesight. When his eyes were destroyed (in the usual way, by the explosion of a hole), he was only off work during the period of convalescence. Afterwards he returned to his familiar haunts underground; and although he could no longer labour in the old way, he was quite able to work a windlass, and draw up the bucket at a winze. For this he now pocketed two pounds sterling, and walked off as vigorously as if he had possessed both his eyes!

Among others, a wife appeared to claim her husband’s pay, and she was followed by Zackey Maggot, who came to receive his own and Penrose’s money.

“How does Penrose get on?” inquired the cashier, as he handed over the sum due.

“Slowly, sur,” said Zackey.

“It is a bad case,” said one of the captains, who sat close by; “the doctor thinks there is little or no chance for his eyesight.”

Poor Zackey received his pay and retired without any demonstration of his wonted buoyancy of spirit, for he was fond of Penrose, almost as much so as he was of uncle David Trevarrow.

The varied fortune experienced in the mine was exhibited in one or two instances on this occasion. One man and a boy, working together, had, in their own phraseology, “got a sturt”—they had come unexpectedly on a piece of rich ground, which yielded so much tin that at the end of the month they received 25 pounds between them. The man had been receiving “subsist,” that is, drawing advances monthly for nearly a year, and, having a wife and children to support, had almost lost heart. It was said that he had even contemplated suicide, but this little piece of good fortune enabled him to pay off his debt and left something over. Another man and boy had 20 pounds to receive. On the other hand, one man had only 2 shillings due to him, while a couple of men who had worked in poor ground found themselves 2 shillings in debt, and had to ask for “subsist.”

Some time previous to this, two men had discovered a “bunch of copper,” and in the course of two months they cleared 260 pounds. At a later period a man in Levant Mine, who was one of the Wesleyan local preachers, cleared 200 pounds within a year. He gave a hundred pounds to his mother, and with the other hundred went off to seek his fortune in Australia!

After all the men had been paid, those who wished for “subsist,” or advances, were desired to come forward. About a dozen of them did so, and among these were representatives of all classes—the diligent and strong, the old and feeble, and the young. Of course, in mining operations as in other work, the weak, lazy, and idle will ever be up to the lips in trouble, and in need of help. But in mining the best of men may be obliged to demand assistance, because, when tributers work on hopefully day after day and week after week on bad ground, they must have advances to enable them to persevere—not being able to subsist on air! This is no hardship, the mine being at all times open to their inspection, and they are allowed to select their own ground. Hence the demand for “subsist” is not necessarily a sign of absolute but only of temporary poverty. The managers make large or small advances according to their knowledge of the men.

There was a good deal of chaffing at this point in the proceedings—the lazy men giving occasion for a slight administration of rebuke, and the able men affording scope for good-humoured pleasantry and badinage.

In Botallack, at the present time, about forty or fifty men per month find it necessary to ask for “subsist.”

Before the wages were paid, several small deductions had to be made. First, there was sixpence to be deducted from each man for “the club.” This club consisted of those who chose to pay sixpence a month to a fund for the temporary support of those who were damaged by accidents in the mine. A similar sum per month was deducted from each man for “the doctor,” who was bound, in consideration of this, to attend the miners free of charge. In addition to this a shilling was deducted from each man, to be given to the widow and family of a comrade who had died that month. At the present time from 18 pounds to 20 pounds are raised in this way when a death occurs, to be given to the friends of the deceased. It should be remarked that these deductions are made with the consent of the men. Any one may refuse to give to those objects, but, if he do so, he or his will lose the benefit in the event of his disablement or death.

Men who are totally disabled receive a pension from the club fund. Not long ago a miner, blind of one eye, left another mine and engaged in Botallack. Before his first month was out he exploded a blast-hole in his face, which destroyed the other eye. From that day he received a pension of 1 pound a month, which will continue till his death—or, at least as long as Botallack shall flourish—and that miner may be seen daily going through the streets of St. Just with his little daughter, in a cart, shouting “Pilchards, fresh pilcha-a-rds, breem, pullock, fresh pullock, pil-cha-a-rds”—at the top of his stentorian voice—a living example of the value of “the club,” and of the principle of insurance!

At length the business of the day came to a close. The wages were paid, the men’s work for another month was fixed, the cases of difficulty and distress were heard and alleviated, and then the managers and agents wound up the day by dining together in the account-house, the most noteworthy point in the event being the fact that the dinner was eaten off plates made of pure Botallack tin.

Once a quarter this dinner, styled the “account-dinner,” is partaken of by any of the shareholders who may wish to be present, on which occasion the manager and agents lay before the company the condition and prospects of the mine, and a quarterly dividend (if any) is paid. There is a matter-of-fact and Spartan-like air about this feast which commands respect. The room in which it is held is uncarpeted, and its walls are graced by no higher works of art than the plans and sections of the mine. The food is excellent and substantial, but simple. There is abundance of it, but there are no courses—either preliminary or successive—no soup or fish to annoy one who wants meat; no ridiculous entremêts to tantalise one who wants something solid; no puddings, pies, or tarts to tempt men to gluttony. All set to work at the same time, and enjoy their meal together, which is more than can be said of most dinners. All is grandly simple, like the celebrated mine on which the whole is founded.

But there is one luxury at this feast which it would be unpardonable not to mention—namely the punch. Whoever tastes this beverage can never forget it! Description were useless to convey an idea of it. Imagination were impotent to form a conception of it. Taste alone will avail, so that our readers must either go to Cornwall to drink it, or for ever remain unsatisfied. We can only remark, in reference to it, that it is potent as well as pleasant, and that it is also dangerous, being of an insinuating nature, so that those who partake freely have a tendency to wish for more, and are apt to dream (not unreasonably, but too wildly) of Botallack tin being transformed into silver and gold.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Details, among other Things, a Deed of Heroism

To work went Maggot and Trevarrow and Zackey on their new pitch next day like true Britons. Indeed, we question whether true Britons of the ancient time ever did go to work with half the energy or perseverance of the men of the present day. Those men of old were mere grubbers on the surface. They knew nothing of deep levels under the ocean. However, to do them justice, they made wonderfully extensive tunnels in mother earth, with implements much inferior to those now in use.

But, be that as it may, our trio went to work “with a will.” Maggot was keen to get up as much of the rich mineral as possible during the month—knowing that he would not get the place next month on such good terms. Trevarrow, besides having no objections to make money when he could for its own sake, was anxious to have a little to spare to James Penrose, whose large family found it pinching work to subsist on the poor fellow’s allowance from the club. As to Zackey, he was ready for anything where Uncle Davy was leader. So these three resolved to work night and day. Maggot took his turn in the daytime and slept at night; Trevarrow slept in the daytime and worked at night; while the boy worked as long as he could at whatever time suited him best.

As they advanced on the lode it became larger and richer, and in a day or two it assumed such proportions as to throw the fortunate workers into a state of great excitement, and they tore out and blasted away the precious mineral like Titans.

One day, about kroust-time, having fired two holes, they came out of the “end” in which they wrought and sat down to lunch while the smoke was clearing away.

“’Tes a brave lode,” said Maggot.

“It is,” responded Trevarrow, taking a long draught of water from the canteen.

“What shall us do?” said Maggot; “go to grass to slaip, or slaip in the bal?”

“In the bal, if you do like it,” said Trevarrow.

So it was agreed that the men should sleep in the mine on boards, or on any dry part of the level, in order to save the time and energy lost in ascending and descending the long ladders, and thus make the most of their opportunity. It was further resolved that Zackey should be sent up for dry clothes, and bring them their meals regularly. Trevarrow did not forget to have his Bible brought to him, for he was too serious a man to shut his eyes to the danger of a sudden run of good fortune, and thought that the best way to guard against evil would be to devote nearly all his short periods of leisure time to the reading of “the Word.”

You may be sure that Maggot afterwards laughed at him for this, but he did not concern himself much about it at the time, because he was usually too hungry to talk at meal-times, and too sleepy to do so after work was over.

They were still busily discussing the matter of remaining in the mine all night, when they heard the kibble descending the shaft, near the bottom of which they sat, and next moment a man came to the ground with considerable violence.

“Why, Frankey, is that thee, booy?” said Maggot, starting up to assist him.

“Aw dear, iss; I’m gone dead a’most! aw dear! aw dear!”

“Why, whatever brought ’ee here?” said Trevarrow.

“The kibble, sure,” replied the man, exhibiting his knuckles, which were cut and bleeding a good deal. “I did come by the chain, anyhow.”

This was indeed true. Frankey, as his mates called him, was at that time the “lander” in charge of the kibbles at the surface. It was his duty to receive each kibble as it was drawn up to the mouth of the shaft full of ore, empty it, and send it down again. Several coils of chain passing round the large drum of a great horse-windlass, called by the miners a “whim,” was the means by which the kibbles were hoisted and lowered. The chain was so arranged that one kibble was lowered by it while the other was being drawn up. Frankey had emptied one of the kibbles, and had given the signal to the boy attending the horse to “lower away,” when he inadvertently stepped into the shaft. With ready presence of mind the man caught the chain and clung to it, but the boy, being prevented by a pile of rubbish from seeing what had occurred, eased him down, supposing him to be the kibble!

This “easing down” a great number of fathoms was by no means an easy process, as those know well who have seen a pair of kibbles go banging up and down a shaft. It was all that poor Frankey could do to keep his head from being smashed against rocks and beams; but, by energetic use of arms and legs, he did so, and reached the bottom of the shaft without further damage than a little skin rubbed off his knees and elbows, and a few cuts on his hands. The man thought so little of it, indeed, that he at once returned to grass by the ladder-way, to the unutterable surprise and no little consternation of the boy who had “eased him down.”

The air at the “end” of the level in which Maggot and Trevarrow worked was very bad, and, for some time past, men had been engaged in sinking a winze from the level above to connect the two, and send in a supply of fresh air by creating a new channel of circulation. This winze was almost completed, but one of the men employed at it had suddenly become unwell that day, and no other had been appointed to the work. As it was a matter of great importance to have fresh air, now that they had resolved to remain day and night in the mine for some time, Maggot and Trevarrow determined to complete the work, believing that one or two shots would do it. Accordingly, they mounted to the level above, and were lowered one at a time to the bottom of the unfinished winze by a windlass, which was turned by the man whose comrade had become unwell.

For nearly two hours they laboured diligently, scarce taking time to wipe the perspiration from their heated brows. At the end of that time the hole was sufficiently deep to blast, so Maggot called out,—“Zackey, my son, fetch the fuse and powder.” The boy was quickly lowered with these materials, and then drawn up.

Meanwhile Maggot proceeded to charge the hole, and his comrade sat down to rest. He put in the powder and tamping, and asked the other to hand him the tamping-bar.

“Zackey has forgot it,” said Trevarrow, looking round.

“It don’t matter; hand me the borer.”

“No, I won’t,” said Trevarrow decidedly, as he grasped the iron tool in question. “Ho! Zackey booy, throw down the tampin’-bar.”

This was done, and the operation of filling the hole continued, while Trevarrow commented somewhat severely on his companion’s recklessness.

“That’s just how the most o’ the reckless men in the bal do get blaw’d up,” he said; “they’re always picking away at the holes, and tamping with iron tools; why, thee might as well put a lighted match down the muzzle of a loaded gun as tamp with an iron borer.”

“Come, now,” said Maggot, looking up from his work with a leer, “it warn’t that as made old Kimber nearly blow hisself up last week.”

“No, but it was carelessness, anyhow,” retorted Trevarrow; “and lucky for him that he was a smart man, else he’d bin gone dead by this time.”

Maggot soon completed the filling of the hole, and then perpetrated as reckless a deed as any of his mining comrades had ever been guilty of. Trevarrow was preparing to ascend by the windlass, intending to leave his comrade to light the fuse and come up after him. Meanwhile Maggot found that the fuse was too long. He discovered this after it was fixed in the hole, and, unobserved by his companion, proceeded to cut it by means of an iron tool and a flat stone. Fire was struck at the last blow by the meeting of the iron and the stone, and the fuse ignited. To extinguish it was impossible; to cut it in the same way, without striking fire, was equally so. Of course there was plenty of time to ascend by the windlass, but only one at a time could do so. The men knew this, and looked at each other with terrible meaning in their eyes as they rushed at the bucket, and shouted to the man above to haul them up. He attempted to do so, but in vain. He had not strength to haul up two at once. One could escape, both could not, and to delay would be death to both. In this extremity David Trevarrow looked at his comrade, and said calmly,—“Escape, my brother; a minute more and I shall be in heaven.”

He stepped back while he spoke—the bucket went rapidly upwards, and Trevarrow, sitting down in the bottom of the shaft, covered his eyes with a piece of rock and awaited the issue.

The rumbling explosion immediately followed, and the shaft was filled with smoke and flame and hurling stones. One of these latter, shooting upwards, struck and cut the ascending miner on his forehead as he looked down to observe the fate of his self-sacrificing comrade!

Maggot was saved, but he was of too bold and kindly a nature to remain for a moment inactive after the explosion was over. At once he descended, and, groping about among the débris, soon found his friend—alive, and almost unhurt! A mass of rock had arched him over—or, rather, the hand of God, as if by miracle, had delivered the Christian miner.

After he was got up in safety to the level above they asked him why he had been so ready to give up his life to save his friend.

“Why,” said David quietly, “I did think upon his wife and the child’n, and little Grace seemed to say to me, ‘Take care o’ faither’—besides, there are none to weep if I was taken away, so the Lord gave me grace to do it.”

That night there were glad and grateful hearts in Maggot’s cottage—and never in this world was a more flat and emphatic contradiction given to any statement, than that which was given to David Trevarrow’s assertion—“There are none to weep if I was taken away.”

(A short but beautiful account of the above incident will be found in a little volume of poems, entitled Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain, written by John Harris, a Cornish miner.)

Chapter Thirty.

Reveals some Astonishing Facts and their Consequences

Sorrow and trouble now began to descend upon Mr Thomas Donnithorne like a thick cloud.

Reduced from a state of affluence to one bordering on absolute poverty, the old man’s naturally buoyant spirit almost gave way, and it needed all the attentions and the cheering influence of his good wife and sweet Rose Ellis to keep him from going (as he often half-jestingly threatened) to the end of Cape Cornwall and jumping into the sea.

“It’s all over with me, Oliver,” said he one morning, after the return of his nephew from London. “A young fellow like you may face up against such difficulties, but what is an old man to do? I can’t begin the world over again; and as for the shares I have in the various mines, they’re not worth the paper they’re writ upon.”

“But things may take a turn,” suggested Oliver; “this is not the first time the mines have been in a poor condition, and the price of tin low. When things get very bad they are likely to get better, you know. Even now there seems to be some talk among the miners of an improved state of things. I met Maggot yesterday, and he was boasting of having found a monstrous bunch, which, according to him, is to be the making of all our fortunes.”

Mr Donnithorne shook his head.

“Maggot’s geese are always swans,” he said; “no, no, Oliver, I have lost all hope of improvement. There are so many of these deceptive mines around us just now—some already gone down, and some going—that the public are losing confidence in us, and, somewhat unfairly, judging that, because a few among us are scoundrels, we are altogether a bad lot.”

“What do you think of Mr Clearemout’s new mine?” asked Oliver.

“I believe it to be a genuine one,” said the old gentleman, turning a somewhat sharp glance on his nephew. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I doubt it,” replied Oliver.

“You are too sceptical,” said Mr Donnithorne almost testily; “too much given to judging things at first sight.”

“Nay, uncle; you are unfair. Had I judged of you at first sight, I should have thought you a—”

“Well, what? a smuggling old brandy-loving rascal—eh? and not far wrong after all.”

“At all events,” said Oliver, laughing, “I have lived to form a better opinion of you than that. But, in reference to Clearemout, I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that the work doing at the new mine is very like a sham, for they have only two men and a boy working her, with a captain to superintend; and it is said, for I made inquiries while in London, that thirty thousand pounds have been called up from the shareholders, and there are several highly paid directors, with an office-staff in the City drawing large salaries.”

“Nonsense, Oliver,” said Mr Donnithorne more testily than before; “you know very well that things must have a beginning, and that caution is necessary at first in all speculations. Besides, I feel convinced that Mr Clearemout is a most respectable man, and an uncommonly clever fellow to boot. It is quite plain that you don’t like him—that’s what prejudices you, Oliver. You’re jealous of the impression he has made on the people here.”

This last remark was made jestingly, but it caused the young doctor to wince, having hit nearer the truth than the old gentleman had any idea of, for although Oliver envied not the handsome stranger’s popularity, he was, almost unknown to himself, very jealous of the impression he seemed to have made on Rose Ellis.

A feeling of shame induced him to change the subject of conversation, with a laughing observation that he hoped such an unworthy motive did not influence him.

Now, while this conversation was going on in the parlour of Mr Donnithorne’s cottage, another dialogue was taking place in a small wooden erection at the end of the garden, which bore the dignified name of “Rose’s Bower.” The parties concerned in it were George Augustus Clearemout and Rose Ellis.

A day or two previous to the conversation to which we are about to draw attention, the managing director had undergone a change in his sentiments and intentions. When he first saw Rose he thought her an uncommonly sweet and pretty girl. A short acquaintance with her convinced him that she was even sweeter and prettier than at first he had thought her. This, coupled with the discovery that her uncle was very rich, and that he meant to leave a large portion of his wealth, if not all of it, to Rose, decided Clearemout, and he resolved to marry her. Afterwards he became aware of the fact that old Mr Donnithorne had met with losses, but he was ignorant of their extent, and still deemed it worth while to carry out his intentions.

George Augustus had been a “managing director” in various ways from his earliest infancy, and had never experienced much opposition to his will, so that he had acquired a habit of settling in his own mind whatever he meant to do, and forthwith doing it. On this occasion he resolved to sacrifice himself to Rose, in consideration of her prospective fortune—cash being, of course, Mr Clearemout’s god.

Great, then, was the managing director’s surprise, and astonishing the condition of his feelings, when, on venturing to express his wishes to Rose, he was kindly, but firmly, rejected! Mr Clearemout was so thunderstruck—having construed the unsophisticated girl’s candour and simplicity of manner into direct encouragement—that he could make no reply, but, with a profound bow, retired hastily from her presence, went to his lodgings, and sat down with his elbows on the table, and his face buried in his large hands, the fingers of which appeared to be crushing in his forehead, as if to stifle the thoughts that burned there. After sitting thus for half an hour he suddenly rose, with his face somewhat paler, and his lips a little more firmly compressed than usual.