Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines

It was at this point in the undertaking that David Trevarrow went to examine the place, and made the discovery of a seam—a “keenly lode”—which had such a promising appearance that the anxiety of the miners to get rid of this obstructive “house” was redoubled.

It was at this point, too, that the council of which we write was held, in order to settle who should have the undesirable privilege of constituting the “forlorn hope” in their subterranean assault.

Maggot, who was known to be one of the boldest, and, at the same time, one of the most utterly reckless, men in St. Just, was appealed to in the emergency, and, as we have seen, offered to attack the enemy single-handed, on condition that the miners should give him a “pitch” of the good lode they had found—that is, give him the right to work out a certain number of fathoms of ore for himself.

They agreed to this, but one of them expressed some doubt as to Maggot’s courage being equal to the occasion.

To this remark Maggot vouchsafed no other reply than a frown, but his friend and admirer John Cock exclaimed in supreme contempt,—“What! Maggot afear’d to do it! aw, my dear, hould tha tongue.”

“But he haven’t bin to see the place,” urged the previous speaker.

“No, my son,” said Maggot, turning on the man with a look of pity, “but he can go an’ see it. Come, lads, lev us go an’ see this place of danger.”

The miners rose at once as Maggot threw his forehammer on a heap of coals, put on his hat, and strode out of the forge with a reckless fling. A few minutes sufficed to bring them to the beach at the mouth of the adit.

It was a singularly wild spot, close under those precipitous cliffs on which some of the picturesque buildings of Botallack mine are perched—a sort of narrow inlet or gorge which from its form is named the Narrow Zawn. There was nothing worthy of the name of a beach at the place, save a little piece of rugged ground near the adit mouth, which could be reached only by a zigzag path on the face of the almost perpendicular precipice.

Arrived here, each man lighted a candle, wrapped the customary piece of wet clay round the middle of it, and entered the narrow tunnel. They advanced in single file, James Penrose leading. The height of the adit permitted of their walking almost upright, but the irregularity of the cuttings rendered it necessary that they should advance carefully, with special regard to their heads. In about a quarter of an hour they reached a comparatively open space—that is to say, there were several extensions of the cutting in various directions, which gave the place the appearance of being a small cavern, instead of a narrow tunnel. Here the water, which in other parts of the adit flowed along the bottom, ran down the walls and spirted in fine streams from the almost invisible crevices of the rock, thus betraying at once the proximity and the power of the pent-up water.

“What think’ee now, my son?” asked an elderly man who stood at Maggot’s elbow.

After a short pause, during which he sternly regarded the rocks before him, the smith replied, “I’ll do it,” in the tone and with the air of a man who knows that what he has made up his mind to do is not child’s play.

The question being thus settled, the miners retraced their steps and went to their several homes.

Entering his cottage, the smith found his little girl Grace busily engaged in the interesting process of nursing the baby. He seated himself in a chair by the fireside, smoked his pipe, and watched the process, while his wife busied herself in preparing the evening meal.

Oh! but the little Maggot was a big baby—a worthy representative of his father—a true chip of the old block, for he was not only fat, riotous, and muscular, but very reckless, and extremely positive. His little nurse, on the contrary, was gentle and delicate; not much bigger than the baby, although a good deal older, and she had a dreadful business of it to keep him in order. All her efforts at lifting and restraining him were somewhat akin to the exertion made by wrestlers to throw each other by main force, and her intense desire to make baby Maggot “be good” was repaid by severe kicks on the shins, and sundry dabs in the face with, luckily, a soft, fat pair of fists.

“Sit ’ee quiet, now, or I’ll scat oo nose,” said the little nurse suddenly, with a terrible frown.

It need scarcely be said that she had not the remotest; intention of carrying out this dreadful threat to smash the little Maggot’s nose. She accompanied it, however, with a twist that suddenly placed the urchin in a sitting posture, much to his own surprise, for he opened his eyes very wide, drew his breath sharply, and appeared to meditate a roar. He thought better of it, however, and relapsed into goodness just as the door opened, and David Trevarrow entered.

“Oh, uncle David,” cried little Grace, jumping up and running towards him, “do help me nuss baby.”

“What’s the matter with the cheeld—bad, eh? Fetch un to me and I’ll cure him.”

There was no necessity to fetch baby, for that obstreperous individual entertained an immense regard for “Unkil Day,” and was already on his fat legs staggering across the floor to him with outstretched arms. Thereafter he only required a pair of wings to make him a complete cherub.

Little Grace, relieved of her charge, at once set to work to assist her mother in household matters. She was one of those dear little earnest creatures who of their own accord act in a motherly and wifely way from their early years. To look at little Grace’s serious thoroughgoing face, when she chanced to pause in the midst of work, and meditate what was to be done next, one might imagine that the entire care of the household had suddenly devolved upon her shoulders. In the matter of housewifery little Grace was almost equal to big Grace, her respected mother; in downright honesty and truthfulness she greatly excelled her.

The description of Maggot’s household, on that evening, would be very incomplete were we to omit mention of Zackey Maggot. That young man—for man he deemed himself, and man he was, in all respects, except the trifling matters of years, size, and whiskers—that young man entered the room with his uncle, and, without deigning to change his wet red garments, sat him down at his father’s feet and caught hold of a small black kitten, which, at the time, lay sound asleep on the hearth, and began to play with it in a grave patronising way, as though his taking notice of it at all were a condescension.

That black kitten, or Chet, as it was usually styled, was accustomed to be strangled the greater part of the morning by the baby. Most of the afternoon it was worried by Zackey, and, during the intervals of torment, it experienced an unusually large measure of the vicissitudes incident to kitten life—such as being kicked out of the way by Maggot senior, or thrown or terrified out of the way by Mrs Maggot, or dashed at by stray dogs, or yelled at by passing boys. The only sunshine of its life (which was at all times liable to be suddenly clouded) was when it slept, or when little Grace put it on her soft neck, tickled its chin, and otherwise soothed its ruffled spirit, as only a loving heart knows how. A bad memory seemed to be that kitten’s chief blessing. A horror of any kind was no sooner past than it was straightway forgotten, and the facetious animal would advance with arched back and glaring eyes in defiance of an incursive hen, or twirl in mad hopeless career after its own miserable tail!

“’Tis a keenly lode,” said Maggot, puffing his pipe thoughtfully.

“Iss,” assented David Trevarrow, also puffing his pipe, at the clouds issuing from which baby gazed with endless amazement and admiration; “it’s worth much, but it isn’t worth your life.”

“Sure, I ain’t goin’ to give my life for’t,” replied Maggot.

“But you’re goin’ to risk it,” said David, “an’ you shouldn’t, for you’ve a wife an’ child’n to provide for. Now, I tell ’ee what it is: you lev it to me. I’ll hole to the house. It don’t matter much what happens to me.”

“No, ’ee won’t,” said Maggot stoutly; “what I do promise to do I will do.”

“But if you die?” said David.

“Well, what if I do? we have all to come to that some day, sooner or later.”

“Are you prepared to die?” asked Trevarrow earnestly.

“Now, David, don’t ’ee trouble me with that. ’Tis all very well for the women an’ child’n, but it don’t suit me, it don’t, so lev us have no more of it, booy. I’ll do it to-morrow, that’s fixed, so now we’ll have a bit supper.”

The tone in which Maggot said this assured David that further conversation would be useless, so he dropped the subject and sat down with the rest of the family to their evening meal.

Chapter Ten.

Shows how Maggot made a Desperate Venture, and what Flowed from it

“A wilful man must have his way” is a proverb the truth of which was illustrated by the blacksmith on the following day.

David Trevarrow again attempted to dissuade him from his purpose, and reiterated his offer to go in his stead, but he failed to move him. Mrs Maggot essayed, and added tears to her suasion, as also did little Grace; but they failed too—the obdurate man would not give way. The only one of his household who did not attempt to dissuade him (excepting, of course, the baby, who cared nothing whatever about the matter) was Zackey. That urchin not only rejoiced in the failure of the others to turn his father from his purpose, but pleaded hard to be allowed to go with him, and share his danger as well as glory. This, however, was peremptorily denied to the young aspirant to fame and a premature death by drowning in a dark hole.

Early in the forenoon Maggot and his friends proceeded to the shore, where they found a number of miners and others assembled near the adit mouth—among them our hero Oliver Trembath, Mr Donnithorne, and Mr Cornish, at that time the purser and manager of Botallack mine.

The latter gentleman accosted Maggot as he came forward, and advised him to be cautious. Of course the smith gave every assurance that was required of him, and immediately prepared himself to make the dangerous experiment.

Supplying himself with a number of tallow candles, a mining hammer, and other tools, Maggot stripped to the waist, and jestingly bidding his friends farewell, entered the mouth of the tunnel, and disappeared. The adit level, or tunnel, through which he had to pass to the scene of his operations, was, as we have said, about a quarter of a mile in length, about six feet high, and two and a half feet wide. It varied in dimensions here and there, however, and was rough and irregular throughout.

For the first hundred yards or so Maggot could see well enough to grope his way by the daylight which streamed in at the entrance of the adit, but beyond this point all was intense darkness; so here he stopped, and, striking a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder, lit one of his candles. This he attached to a piece of wet clay in the usual fashion, except that he placed the clay at the lower end of the candle instead of round the middle of it. He then stuck it against the rock a little above the level of his head. Lighting another candle he advanced with it in his hand. Walking, or rather wading onward (for the stream was ankle-deep) far enough to be almost beyond the influence of the first candle, he stopped again and stuck up another. Thus, at intervals, he placed candles along the entire length of the adit, so that he might have light to guide him in his race from the water which he hoped to set free. This precaution was necessary, because, although he meant to carry a candle in his hat all the time, there was a possibility—nay, a strong probability—that it would be blown or drowned out.

Little more than a quarter of an hour brought him to the scene of his intended adventure. Here he found the water spirting out all round, much more violently than it had been the day before. He did not waste much time in consideration, having made up his mind on the previous visit as to which part of the rock he would drive the hole through. Sticking his last candle, therefore, against the driest part of the wall that could be found, he seized his tools and commenced work.

We have already said that Maggot was a strong man. As he stood there, naked to the waist, holding the borer with his left hand, and plying the hammer with all his might with the other, his great breadth of shoulder and development of muscle were finely displayed by the candlelight, which fell in brilliant gleams on parts of his frame, while the rest of him was thrown into shadow, so deep that it would have appeared black, but for the deeper shade by which it was surrounded—the whole scene presenting a grand Rembrandt effect.

It is unnecessary to say that Maggot wrought with might and main. Excited somewhat by the novelty and danger of his undertaking, he felt relieved by the violence of his exertion. He knew, besides, that the candles which were to light him on his return were slowly but surely burning down. Blow after blow resounded through the place incessantly. When the smith’s right arm felt a very little wearied—it was too powerful to be soon or greatly exhausted—he shifted the hammer to his left hand, and so the work went on. Suddenly and unexpectedly the borer was driven to its head into the hole by a tremendous blow. The rock behind it had given way. Almost at the same instant a large mass of rock burst outwards, followed by a stream of water so thick and violent that it went straight at the opposite side of the cavern, against which it burst in white foam. This, rebounding back and around, rushed against roof and sides with such force that the whole place was at once deluged.

Maggot was knocked down at the first gush, but leaped up and turned to fly. Of course both candles—that in his hat as well as that which he had affixed to the wall—were extinguished, and he was at once plunged in total darkness, for the rays of the next light, although visible, were too feeble to penetrate with any effect to the extremity of the adit. Blinded by rushing water and confused by his fall, the smith mistook his direction, and ran against the side of the level with such violence that he fell again, but his sturdy frame withstood the shock, and once more he sprang to his feet and leaped along the narrow tunnel with all the energy of desperation.

Well was it for Maggot at that hour that his heart was bold and his faculties cool and collected, else then and there his career had ended. Bending forward and stooping low, he bounded away like a hunted deer, but the rush of water was so great that it rapidly gained on him, and, by concealing the uneven places in the path, caused him to stumble. His relay of candles served him in good stead; nevertheless, despite their light and his own caution, he more than once narrowly missed dashing out his brains on the low roof. On came the water after the fugitive, a mighty, hissing, vaulting torrent, filling the level behind, and leaping up on the man higher and higher as he struggled and floundered on for life. Quickly, and before quarter of the distance to the adit mouth was traversed, it gurgled up to his waist, swept him off his legs, and hurled him against projecting rocks. Once and again did he succeed in regaining his foothold, but in a moment or two the rising flood swept him down and hurled him violently onward, sporting with him on its foaming crest until it disgorged him at last, and cast him, stunned, bruised, and bleeding, on the seashore.

Of course the unfortunate man’s friends had waited for him with some impatience, and great was their anxiety when the first of the flood made its appearance. When, immediately after, the battered form of their comrade was flung on the beach, they ran forward and bore him out of the stream.

Oliver Trembath being on the spot, Maggot wae at once attended to, and his wounds bound up.

“He’ll do; he’s all right,” said Oliver, on completing the work—“only got a few cuts and bruises, and lost a little blood, but that won’t harm him.”

The expression of anxiety that had appeared on the faces of those who stood around at once vanished on hearing these reassuring words.

“I knaw’d it,” said John Cock energetically. “I knaw’d he couldn’t be killed—not he.”

“I trust that you may be right, Oliver,” said old Mr Donnithorne, looking with much concern on the pale countenance of the poor smith, who still lay stretched out, with only a slight motion of the chest to prove that the vital spark had not been altogether extinguished.

“No fear of him, he’s sure to come round,” replied Oliver; “come, lads, up with him on your backs.”

He raised the smith’s shoulder as he spoke. Three tall and powerful miners promptly lent their aid, and Maggot was raised shoulder-high, and conveyed up the steep, winding path that led to the top of the cliff.

“It would never do to lose Maggot,” murmured Mr Donnithorne, as if speaking to himself while he followed the procession beside Mr Cornish; “he’s far too good a—”

“A smuggler—eh?” interrupted the purser, with a laugh.

“Eh, ah! did I say smuggler?” cried Mr Donnithorne; “surely not, for of all vices that of smuggling is one of the worst, unless it be an overfondness for the bottle. I meant to have said that he is too valuable a man for St. Just to lose—in many ways; and you know, Mr Cornish, that he is a famous wrestler—a man of whom St. Just may be justly proud.”

Mr Donnithorne cast a sly glance at his companion, whom he knew to be partial to the ancient Cornish pastime of wrestling. Indeed, if report said truly, the worthy purser had himself in his youthful days been a celebrated amateur wrestler, one who had never been thrown, even although he had on more than one occasion been induced in a frolic to enter the public ring and measure his strength with the best men that could be brought against him. He was long past the time of life when men indulge in such rough play, but his tall commanding figure and huge chest and shoulders were quite sufficient to warrant the belief that what was said of him was possible, while the expression of his fine massive countenance, and the humorous glance of his clear, black eye, bore evidence that it was highly probable.

“’Twould be foul injustice,” said the purser with a quiet laugh, “if I were to deny that Maggot is a good man and true, in the matter of wrestling; nevertheless he is an arrant rogue, and defrauds the revenue woefully. But, after all he is only the cat’s-paw; those who employ him are the real sinners—eh, Mr Donnithorne?”

“Surely, surely,” replied the old gentleman with much gravity; “and it is to be hoped that this accident will have the effect of turning Maggot from his evil ways.”

The purser could not refrain from a laugh at the hypocritical solemnity of the old gentleman, who was, he well knew, one of the very sinners whom he condemned with such righteous indignation, but their arrival at Maggot’s cottage prevented further conversation on the subject at that time.

Mrs Maggot, although a good deal agitated when her husband’s almost inanimate and bloody form was carried in and laid on the bed, was by no means overcome with alarm. She, like the wives of St. Just miners generally, was too well accustomed to hear of accidents and to see their results, to give way to wild fears before she had learned the extent of her calamity; so, when she found that it was not serious, she dried her eyes, and busied herself in attending to all the little duties which the occasion required. Little Grace, too, although terribly frightened, and very pale, was quite self-possessed, and went about the house assisting her mother ably, despite the tendency to sob, which she found it very difficult to overcome. But the baby behaved in the most shameful and outrageous manner. His naughtiness is almost indescribable. The instant the door opened, and his father’s bloody face was presented to view, baby set up a roar so tremendous that a number of dogs in the neighbourhood struck in with a loud chorus, and the black kitten, startled out of an innocent slumber, rushed incontinently under the bed, faced about, and fuffed in impotent dismay!

But not only did baby roar—he also fell on the floor and kicked, thereby rendering his noise exasperating, besides exposing his fat person to the risk of being trod upon. Zackey was therefore told off as a detachment to keep this enemy in check, a duty which he performed nobly, until his worthy father was comfortably put to bed, after which the friends retired, and left the smith to the tender care of his own family.

“He has done good service anyhow,” observed Mr Donnithorne to his nephew, as he parted from him that evening; “for he has cleared the mine of water that it would have cost hundreds of pounds and many months to pump out.”

Chapter Eleven.

Shows that Music hath Charms, and also that it sometimes has Disadvantages

One morning, not long after his arrival at St. Just, the young doctor went out to make a round of professional visits. He had on his way to pass the cottage of his uncle, which stood a little apart from the chief square or triangle of the town, and had a small piece of ground in front. Here Rose was wont to cultivate her namesakes, and other flowers, with her own fair hands, and here Mr Thomas Donnithorne refreshed himself each evening with a pipe of tobacco, the flavour of which was inexpressibly enhanced to him by the knowledge that it had been smuggled.

He was in the habit of washing the taste of the same away each night, before retiring to rest, with a glass of brandy and water, hot, which was likewise improved in flavour by the same interesting association.

The windows of the cottage were wide open, for no Atlantic fog dimmed the glory of the summer sun that morning, and the light air that came up from the mighty sea was fresh and agreeably cool.

As Oliver approached the end of the cottage he observed that Rose was not at her accustomed work in the garden, and he was about to pass the door when the tones of a guitar struck his ear and arrested his step. He was surprised, for at that period the instrument was not much used, and the out-of-the-way town of St. Just was naturally the last place in the land where he would have expected to meet with one. No air was played—only a few chords were lightly touched by fingers which were evidently expert. Presently a female voice was heard to sing in rich contralto tones. The air was extremely simple, and very beautiful—at least, so thought Oliver, as he leaned against a wall and listened to the words. These, also, were simple enough, but sounded both sweet and sensible to the listener, coming as they did from a woman’s lips so tunefully, and sounding the praises of the sea, of which he was passionately fond:—

Song“I love the land where acres broad    Are clothed in yellow grain;Where cot of thrall and lordly hall    Lie scattered o’er the plain.Oh! I have trod the velvet sod    Beneath the beechwood tree;And roamed the brake by stream and lake    Where peace and plenty be.        But more than plain,        Or rich domain,        I love the bright blue sea!“I love the land where bracken grows    And heath-clad mountains rise;Where peaks still fringed with winter snows    Tower in the summer skies.Oh! I have seen the red and green    Of fir and rowan tree,And heard the din of flooded linn,    With bleating on the lea.        But better still        Than heath-clad hill        I love the stormy sea!”

The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found Rose Ellis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushed nor started up nor looked confused—which was, of course, very strange of her in the circumstances, seeing that she is the heroine of this tale—but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with the youth.

“Why, cousin,” said Oliver, “I had no idea you could sing so charmingly.”

“I am fond of singing,” said Rose.

“So am I, especially when I hear such singing as yours; and the song, too—I like it much, for it praises the sea. Where did you pick it up?”

“I got it from the composer, a young midshipman,” said Rose sadly; at the same time a slight blush tinged her brow.

Oliver felt a peculiar sensation which he could not account for, and was about to make further inquiries into the authorship of the song, when it occurred to him that this would be impolite, and might be awkward, so he asked instead how she had become possessed of so fine a guitar. Before she could reply Mr Donnithorne entered.