THE ACCIDENT
Next morning at five o'clock Robert leapt from his bed, full of
importance at the prospect of going down the pit. Stripping off his
sleeping shirt, he chattered as he donned the pit clothes. The blue
plaid working-shirt which his mother had bought for him felt rough to
his tender skin, but unpleasant as it was, he donned it with a sense of
bigness. Then the rough moleskin trousers were put on and fastened with
a belt round the waist, and a pair of leg-strings at the knees. The
bundles of clothes, separately arranged the night before, had got mixed
somewhat in Robert's eagerness to dress, with the result that when his
brother John rose, with eyes half shut, and reached for his stockings,
he found those of Robert instead lying upon his bundle.
"Gie's my socks," he ordered grumpily, flinging Robert's socks into the
far corner of the kitchen. "You've on the wrong drawers too. Can ye no'
look what you're doin'?" and the drawers followed the socks, while
Robert looked at his mother with eyes of wonderment.
"Tak' aff his socks, Rob," she said, "he's a thrawn, ill-natured cat,
that, in the mornin'."
"Well, he should look what he's doin' an' no' put on other folk's
claes," and immediately the others burst out laughing, for this advocate
of "watchin' what he was doin'" had in his half sleepy condition failed
to see that he had lifted his jacket and had rammed his leg down the
sleeve in his hurry and anger.
"Noo, that'll do," said Geordie, as John flung the jacket at Robert,
because he laughed. "That'll do noo, or I'll come alang yer jaw," and
thus admonished John was at once silent.
Robert soon had his toilet completed, however, even to the old cap on
his head, upon which sat the little oil-lamp, which he handled and
cleaned and wiped with his fingers to keep it bright and shiny, whilst
all the time he kept chattering.
"For ony sake, laddie, hand your tongue," said Geordie at last, as he
drew in his chair to the table to start upon the frugal breakfast of
bread and butter and tea. "Your tongue's never lain since you got up."
Robert, thereupon, sat down in silence at the table, though there were a
hundred different things he wanted to ask about the pit. He could not
understand why everyone felt and looked so sleepy, nor divine the cause
of the irritable look upon each face, which in the dim light of the
paraffin lamp gave a forbidding atmosphere to the home at this time of
the day.
At last, however, the meal was over, and when Geordie had lit his pit
lamp and stuck his pipe in his mouth, all three started off with a curt
"Good morning" to Mrs. Sinclair, who looked after her boys with a smile
which chased away the previous irritability from her face.
Arrived at the pit-head, they found a number of miners there squatting
on their "hunkers," waiting the time for descending the shaft. As each
newcomer came forward, the man who arrived immediately before him called
out: "I'm last." By this means--"crying the benns,"--as it was
called--the order of descent was regulated on the principle of "First
come, first served." Much chaffing was leveled at little Robert by some
of the younger men regarding his work and the things which would have to
be done by and to him that day.
At last came the all important moment, and Robert, his father and two
men stepped on to the cage. After the signal was given, it seemed to the
boy as if heaven and earth were passing away in the sudden sheer drop,
as the cage plunged down into the yawning hole, out of which came evil
smells and shadows cast from the flickering lamps upon the heads of the
miners. The rattling of the cage sent a shiver of fear through Robert,
and with that first sudden plunge he felt as if his heart were going to
leap out of his mouth. But by the time he reached the "bottom," he had
consoled and encouraged himself with the thought that these things were
all in the first day's experience of all miners.
That morning Robert Sinclair was initiated into the art of "drawing" by
his brother John. The road was fairly level, to push the loaded "tubs,"
thus leaving his father to be helped with the pick at the coal "face."
After an hour or two, Robert, though getting fairly well acquainted with
the work, was feeling tired. The strange damp smell, which had greeted
his nostrils when the cage began to descend with him that morning, was
still strong, though not so overpowering as it had been at first. The
subtle shifting shadows cast from his little lamp were becoming
familiar, and his nervousness was not now so pronounced, though he was
still easily startled if anything unusual took place. The sound of the
first shot in the pit nearly frightened him out of his wits, and he
listened nervously to every dull report with a strange uneasiness. About
one o'clock his father called to him.
"Dinna tak' that hutch oot the noo, Robert. Just let it staun', an' sit
doon an' tak' yir piece. Ye'll be hungry, an' John an' me will be out
the noo if we had this shot stemmed."
"A' richt," cheerfully replied the boy, withdrawing down to the end of
the road, where his clothes hung upon a tree, and taking his bread from
one of his pockets, he sat down tired and hungry to await his father and
John.
Geordie's "place" was being worked over the old workings of another mine
which had exhausted most of the coal of a lower seam many years
previously, except for the "stoops" or pillars, which had been left in.
This was supposed to be the barrier beyond which Rundell's lease did not
go. It would be too dangerous to work the upper seam with the ground
hollow underneath, so the "places" had all been stopped as they came up,
with the exception of Geordie Sinclair's. Sinclair was puzzled at this,
and he often wondered why his place had not been stopped with the
others. He was more uneasy, too, when he began to find large cracks or
fissures in the metals, and spoke of this to Andrew Marshall a few
nights before; but he did not like to seem to make too much of it, and
the matter was passed over, till the day before, when Walker visited the
place for a few minutes, when Geordie accosted him.
"What way is my place going on?" he asked, and was told that it was a
corner in the barrier, which extended for one hundred yards and must go
on for that distance, and that there was really no danger, as the ground
below was solid.
So, busily working away, and finding still more rents in the floor and
roof, Sinclair thought it must just be as he had seen it in other places
of a like kind, the weight of the upper metals which were breaking over
the solid ground by reason of the hollow beneath between the stoops,
though in this case it did not amount to much as yet.
The coal was easy to get; he had one boy "forrit to the pick," with
Robert as "drawer," and his prospects seemed good, he thought, as he was
busily preparing a shot, ramming in the powder, and "stemming" up the
hole. He was busy ramming the powder in the prepared hole, while the
elder boy prepared clay, with which to stem or seal it up after the
powder had been pressed back, leaving only the fuse protruding.
"Here's a tree cracking," said the boy, drawing his father's attention
to a breaking prop; but as this is a common occurrence in all mines
where there is extra weight after development, Geordie thought nothing
of it at the time, intending merely, before he lighted his shot, to put
in a fresh prop.
"Bring in another prop, sonny," he said to the boy, "and I'll put it in
when I have stemmed this hole," and the boy turned to obey his order.
But suddenly a low crackling sound, caused by the breaking of more
props, was heard, then a roar and a crash as of thunder, followed by a
long rumbling noise, which left not a moment for the two trapped human
beings to stir even a limb or utter a cry. The immensity of the fall
created a wind, which put out little Robert's lamp; the great rumbling
noise filled him with a dreadful fear, and he sprang involuntarily to
his feet.
"Faither! Faither!" he called, terror in his voice and anxiety in his
little heart, but there was no reassuring answer. He felt his breathing
getting difficult; the air was thick with dust and heavy with the smell
of rotting wood and damp decaying matter.
"Faither! Faither!" he called again louder in his agony, darting
forward, thinking to go to their assistance, and knocking his head
against a boulder.
"John! Faither! I'm feart," and he began to cry. Afraid to move, unable
to see, he staggered from one side to another, bruising his face and
arms against the jagged sides, the blood already streaming from his
bruises, and his heart frantic with fear.
"Oh, faither! faither! Where are ye?" and he began to crawl up the
incline, in desperate fear, while still the rumbling and crashing went
on in long rolling thunder. "Oh! oh!" he moaned, now almost mad with
terror. "Faither! John! Where are ye! Oh! oh!" and he fell back stunned
by striking his head against a low part of the roof.
Again he scrambled to his feet, certain now that some disaster had
happened, since there was no response to his appeals, and again he was
knocked to the ground by striking his head against the side of the
roadway. But always he rose again, frantically dashing from side to
side, as a caged lark, when first caught, dashes itself against the bars
of its prison; until finally, stunned beyond recovery, he lay in a
semi-conscious condition, helpless and inert, his bruises smarting but
unfelt, and the blood oozing from his nose and mouth.
Andrew Marshall, working about fifty yards away, heard the roar and the
crash, and the boy's cries, and at once ran to Geordie's place. In his
haste and anxiety he nearly stumbled over the prostrate boy, who lay
unconscious in the roadway.
"Good God! What has happened?" he exclaimed, anxiously bending over the
boy and raising him up, then dashing some cold tea from Robert's flask
upon him, and forcing some between his lips. Then, when the boy showed
signs of recovery, he plied him with anxious questions.
"Where's yir faither? What's wrang?" But the boy only clung to him in
wild terror, and nothing connected could be got from him.
Andrew lighted the boy's lamp and tore up the brae, leaving Robert
shrieking in nervous fright.
"Great Christ! It has fa'en in!" he cried, when he had got as far as he
could go. "Geordie! Geordie! Are ye in there?" and as no answer came, he
began tearing at the great blocks of stone, flinging them like pebbles
in his desperation, until another warning rumble drove him back.
Immediately he realized how helpless he was alone, so he went back to
the boy and hurried him down the brae and out to where some other men
were at work. A few hasty words, and Robert was passed on, and Andrew
went back with the men, only to find how hopeless it all was; for
occasionally huge falls continued to come away, and it seemed useless to
attempt anything till more help was procured.
Andrew hurried off to the bottom and overtook Robert, sending back
others to help, and he ascended the shaft and was off to break the news
to Mrs. Sinclair; after which he returned to the pit, determined to get
out all that remained of Geordie and the boy John.