Little Dick'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 Dick 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
passage 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 grass, 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 shillings and sometimes four shillings 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 butter and cheese, and good
clothes, and other things, which cost money, so that out of twenty-two
shillings 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 God 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 God-fearing and God-loving,--they had no family
prayers, no Bible was ever read in their house, and they seldom or never
went to a place of worship; 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 Dick's family.
He therefore knew very little about God, or God'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 wishing 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."
Dick 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 masses of coal coming down and
crushing 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 Dick,
"whether one of those things will be my lot." Poor little Dick, 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.
Dick 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 Dick and David used to talk to each other and
tell their griefs. David could read, and he would tell Dick all about
what he had read on Sundays, and Dick 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 Dick at his trap, very hungry and very sleepy and very
tired, and longing to hear the shout of "Kenner, kenner!" echoing along
the passages. 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, Dick 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 passages. "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!"
said the voice.
"Oh, don't, don't, don't!" cried poor Dick, 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.
Dick shrieked out with fear. He trembled all over, and the next moment,
just as a loud, hoarse 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 Dick. 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, "Dick, Dick!" 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 Dick 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 Dick. Was his boy dead? He feared so. The child
neither moved nor breathed. He snatched 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 Dick in his arms to his
cottage.
Mrs Kempson saw him coming. "What! another of them hurt?" she cried
out: "God help us!"
"I don't know," said Kempson; "the child is very ill, if not dead
already. Let us put him to bed and send for the doctor. It's more than
you or I can do to cure him of ourselves."
Poor Dick was breathing, and twitching with his hands, but was quite
unconscious. His black clothes were taken off him by his mother, who
washed and put him to bed, while Samuel went to fetch the doctor
attached to the mines. The doctor at once said that something had
shaken his nerves, that he must be kept quiet, but well fed and amused.
He had had a fright, that was it. Samuel knew the tricks that were
played, and he guessed that some one had frightened Dick, and resolved
to find out who it was, if he could. The best thing they could do for
Dick just then, after he had taken the doctor's stuff, was to send for
David Adams to come and amuse him. David, who had just come up from the
pit, very gladly came as soon as he had washed, and brought his most
amusing books, and he sat and read by Dick's bedside. This did Dick a
great deal of good, and while he listened to David's reading, he almost
forgot his fright.
The next day, which was Sunday, he was a great deal better, and David
came again to spend the day with him. Nobody went from the village to a
place of worship, the nearest was some way off, the men were tired, and
the women wanted to tidy their houses. The afternoon was very fine, and
while the people were sitting at their doors, or standing about in
groups in the dirty, unpaved street, a gentleman came among them with a
small bundle of printed papers in his hand.
"Here comes a schoolmaster," said one. "I wonder now what he wants with
us."
"May be to teach us something we don't know," observed a second.
"If he had come to tell us that our wages had risen, I'd have thanked
him," said a third, with a sneer.
"Maybe he is a parson of some sort," said Joseph Kempson. "I, for one,
should like to hear him, and so would the boys in there. There was a
time when never a Sunday passed but what we went to the house of prayer.
Now, from one end of the year to the other we are not seen inside one."
Joseph sighed, as he spoke.
The stranger had observed Kempson, and seeing something pleasant in his
face, came up and addressed him, "Perhaps you will give me a chair," he
said; "I should like to sit down and read to those who may wish to hear
me."
"Yes, sir, gladly," answered Kempson, bringing out a chair. "I have a
sick boy within; he will hear all you say, as the window is open."
The gentleman read for a short time, and a good many people came round
and listened, and though! what he was reading very interesting. Then he
took out a Bible, and read from that; and, closing the book, told them
of God's great love for man, which made Him send His Son Jesus Christ
into the world, first to show men how to live, not to fight and quarrel,
but to do good to all around them; and then, men being by nature sinful,
and justly condemned, that He might offer Himself up as a sacrifice, and
take their sins upon Himself.
"My dear friends, trust in this merciful loving Jesus," he exclaimed.
"He has completed the work of saving you, it is perfect in every way.
All you have to do is to repent and trust to Him, and to go and sin no
more, intentionally, wilfully that is to say. Oh, my dear friends,
think of the love and mercy of God, through Christ Jesus. He never
refuses to hear any who come to Him. His love surpasses that of any
human being; His ears are ever open to our prayers."
"I should like to have a talk with you, sir," said Kempson, when the
stranger, having finished speaking, was giving his tracts to the people
around. "There are some things which you said, sir, which I haven't
heard for a long time, or thought about, but I know that they are true."
"Gladly, my friend," was the answer.
The stranger had a long talk with Joseph, and promised to come again
before long to see him.