Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines. Robert Michael BallantyneЧитать онлайн книгу.
Cuttance, and then knocked him down?”
“Indeed I have,” said Oliver, not quite sure whether his uncle regarded him as a hero or a fool.
The roar of laughter which his answer drew from Captain Dan and his uncle did not tend to enlighten him much.
“Oh! Oliver, Oliver,” said the old gentleman, on recovering some degree of composure, “you should have lived in the days of good King Arthur, and been one of the Knights of the Round Table. Knocked down Jim Cuttance! What think’ee, Captain Dan?”
“I think,” said the captain, still chuckling quietly, “that the less our friend says about the matter the better for himself.”
“Why so?” inquired Oliver quickly.
“Because,” replied his uncle, with some return of gravity, “you have assisted one of the most notorious smugglers that ever lived, to fight his Majesty’s coastguard—that’s all. What say you, Molly—shall we convict Oliver on his own confession?”
The good lady thus appealed to admitted that it was a serious matter, but urged that as Oliver did the thing in ignorance and out of gratitude, he ought to be forgiven.
“I think he ought to be forgiven for having knocked down Jim Cuttance,” said Captain Dan.
“Is he then so notorious?” asked Oliver.
“Why, he is the most daring smuggler on the coast,” replied Captain Dan, “and has given the preventive men more trouble than all the others put together. In fact, he is a man who deserves to be hanged, and will probably come to his proper end ere long, if not shot in a brawl beforehand.”
“I fear he stands some chance of it now,” said Mr Donnithorne, with a sigh, “for he has been talking of erecting a battery near his den at Prussia Cove, and openly defying the Government men.”
“You seem to differ from Captain Dan, uncle, in reference to this man,” said Oliver, with a smile.
“Truly, I do, for although I condemn smuggling,—ahem!” (the old gentleman cast a peculiar glance at the captain), “I don’t like to see a sturdy man hanged or shot—and Jim Cuttance is a stout fellow. I question much whether you could find his match, Captain Dan, amongst all your men?”
“That I could, easily,” said the captain with a quiet smile.
“Pardon me, captain,” said Oliver, “my uncle has not yet informed me on the point. May I ask what corps you belong to?”
“To a sturdy corps of tough lads,” answered the captain, with another of his quiet smiles—“men who have smelt powder, most of ’em, since they were little boys—live on the battlefield, I may say, almost night and day—spring more mines in a year than all the soldiers in the world put together—and shorten their lives by the stern labour they undergo; but they burn powder to raise, not to waste, metal. Their uniform is red, too, though not quite so red, nor yet so elegant, as that of the men in his Majesty’s service. I am one of the underground captains, sir, of Botallack mine.”
Captain Dan’s colour heightened a very little, and the tones of his voice became a little more powerful as he concluded this reply; but there was no other indication that the enthusiastic soul of one of the “captains” of the most celebrated mine in Cornwall was moved. Oliver felt, however, the contact with a kindred spirit, and, expressing much interest in the mines, proceeded to ask many questions of the captain, who, nothing loath, answered all his queries, and explained to him that he was one of the “captains,” or “agents,” whose duty it was to superintend the men and the works below the surface—hence the title of “underground;” while those who super-intended the works above ground were styled “grass, or surface captains.” He also made an appointment to conduct the young doctor underground, and go over the mine with him at an early date.
While the party in old Mr Donnithorne’s dwelling were thus enjoying themselves, a great storm was gathering, and two events, very different from each other in character, were taking place—the one quiet, and apparently unimportant, the other tremendous and fatal—both bearing on and seriously influencing the subjects of our tale.
Chapter Four.
At Work under the Sea
Chip, chip, chip—down in the dusky mine! Oh, but the rock at which the miner chipped was hard, and the bit of rock on which he sat was hard, and the muscles with which he toiled were hard from prolonged labour; and the lot of the man seemed hard, as he sat there in the hot, heavy atmosphere, hour after hour, from morn till eve, with the sweat pouring down his brow and over his naked shoulders, toiling and moiling with hammer and chisel.
But stout David Trevarrow did not think his lot peculiarly hard. His workshop was a low narrow tunnel deep down under the surface of the earth—ay, and deep under the bottom of the sea! His daily sun was a tallow candle, which rose regularly at seven in the morning and set at three in the afternoon. His atmosphere was sadly deficient in life-giving oxygen, and much vitiated by gunpowder smoke. His working costume consisted only of a pair of linen trousers; his colour from top to toe was red as brick-dust, owing to the iron ore around him; his food was a slice of bread, with, perchance, when he was unusually luxurious, the addition of a Cornish pasty; and his drink was water. To an inexperienced eye the man’s work would have appeared not only hard but hopeless, for although his hammer was heavy, his arm strong, and his chisel sharp and tempered well, each blow produced an apparently insignificant effect on the flinty rock. Frequently a spark of fire was all that resulted from a blow, and seldom did more than a series of little chips fly off, although the man was of herculean mould, and worked “with a will,” as was evident from the kind of gasp or stern expulsion of the breath with which each blow was accompanied. Unaided human strength he knew could not achieve much in such a process, so he directed his energies chiefly to the boring of blast-holes, and left it to the mighty power of gunpowder to do the hard work of rending the rich ore from the bowels of the unwilling earth. Yes, the work was very hard, probably the hardest that human muscles are ever called on to perform in this toiling world; but again we say that David Trevarrow did not think so, for he had been born to the work and bred to it, and was blissfully ignorant of work of a lighter kind, so that, although his brows frowned at the obstinate rock, his compressed lips smiled, for his thoughts were pleasant and far away. The unfettered mind was above ground roaming in fields of light, basking in sunshine, and holding converse with the birds, as he sat there chip, chip, chipping, down in the dusky mine.
Stopping at last, the miner wiped his brow, and, rising, stood for a few moments silently regarding the result of his day’s work.
“Now, David,” said he to himself, “the question is, what shall us do—shall us keep on, or shall us knack?”
He paused, as if unable to answer the question. After a time he muttered, “Keep on; it don’t look promisin’, sure ’nuff, an’ it’s poor pay; but it won’t do to give in yet.”
Poor pay it was indeed, for the man’s earnings during the past month had been barely ten shillings. But David Trevarrow had neither wife, child, nor mother to support, so he could afford to toil for poor pay, and, being of a remarkably hopeful and cheery disposition, he returned home that afternoon resolved to persevere in his unproductive toil, in the hope that at last he should discover a good “bunch of copper,” or a “keenly lode of tin.”
David was what his friends and the world styled unfortunate. In early manhood he had been a somewhat wild and reckless fellow—a noted wrestler, and an adept in all manly sports and games. But a disappointment in love had taught him very bitterly that life is not all sunshine; and this, coupled with a physical injury which was the result of his own folly, crushed his spirit so much that his comrades believed him to be a “lost man.”
The injury referred to was the bursting of a blood-vessel in the lungs. It was, and still is, the custom of the youthful miners of Cornwall to test their strength by racing up the almost interminable ladders by which the mines are reached. This tremendous exertion after a day of severe toil affected them of course very severely, and in some cases seriously. Many an able-bodied man has by this means brought himself to a premature end. Among others, David Trevarrow excelled