I have said that all England knows the story. Still I will tell it,
dwelling most on the part that most touched my own heart and my own
life.
In doing this I may be selfish, but I can tell this part best.
That night Moses Thomas, with several other brave volunteers, went down
the shaft of the Ffynon mine.
The shaft was ninety-two yards deep.
They went down determined to risk life, to save life; but even with this
determination, they had little hope of success.
When they reached the mine, the scene that met their eyes was likely to
kill that slight hope.
All the workings within a few hundred yards of the bottom of the shaft,
were filled with water to the roof. It seemed utterly impossible that a
soul now left in the mine could be alive. The water from the old pit
had truly come in like a flood, carrying all before it. This being the
case, the men were about to ascend to the surface, hopeless and
despairing, when suddenly faint knockings were heard on the other side
of the coal, at a distance, it was thought, of about a dozen yards.
These knockings sent a thrill of joy through the breasts of the brave
men. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and all
night they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that all
the men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours they
would rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in the
morning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safety
to the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had worked
splendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, was
killed by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal was
worked through.
I was standing by the pit bank when these four men were brought to the
surface. I saw women rush forward, and welcome with tears, fervent
thanks, and joy, a father, a brother, a husband. I looked in the faces
of the four, and turned away with a sick heart, for David was not
amongst them. Yes, I was selfish. I could not rejoice in the joy of
the few, but most bitterly could I sorrow in the grief of the many.
Mother, who had come down with me in the morning to the mouth of the
shaft, quite sure of seeing David, was now weeping hysterically; crying
feebly for Owen, who, she said, if present, would surely save David; and
mother and I at that time had both that dim idea of the mine, that it
seemed to us quite possible that if only men brave enough could be
found, they might go even through the water to the rescue.
But what if the nine remaining men were dead! drowned. I knew the
colliers were working with might and main, through that slow, torturing
passage, the solid coal, to reach them. But what if, after all their
efforts, they were only met by death!
Down on my knees in my room, beside the coffin that contained what was
mortal of David's little lad, I thought these thoughts of David. Down
on my knees, I say, but not to pray. I was in a wild state of
rebellion; it seemed to me that the events of the last few days had put
the whole world into a state of chaos--a state of confusion so great,
that even God Himself could never put it straight again. As this was
so, why should I pray to Him? I had never in days of happiness made
myself acquainted with God. How could I go to Him in my misery?
I was angry with God. He had been too hard on us. What had we done
that He should crush us to the earth?
In a few days what had not befallen us? The sudden and terrible death
of David's only little child! Gwen's accident! Owen's disappearance!
Now David himself probably dead.
Yes, truly, a whirlwind of destruction had encompassed us; but the Lord
was not in the wind.
Raising my head with my mind full of these thoughts, my eyes again fell
upon the happy, smiling face of the dead child. The little face seemed
to say more eloquently than words, "Yes, God has done all this to you;
but He is good--He is very good!"
The face of the baby made me cry; and my tears, without then in any way
turning me consciously towards my Father, eased my heart. I was wiping
them away, when the handle of the door was turned, and Nan came in.
This was no time for ceremony, and Nan made none.
"The men are not all drowned, Miss Morgan; my father and the other
workers have heard knockings, very faint like, and a long way off; but
still, that is what they want."
"Oh! Nan, is it possible? Is it possible that they'll all be saved?
Oh! I cannot believe it!" and I burst into tears.
"Now isn't that wrong and faithless?" said the little girl, taking my
hand. "Ain't this a time to exercise faith? Why, there ain't a man
there--no, not a _man_, as won't work with a will. Why, when father
come up, he had the blood streaming from his hands. I tell you, Miss
Morgan, there's no halting when we looks to bring h'out our brothers and
sons!"
"Then, Nan, they may be out to-night?"
"No, Miss; that ain't likely--we mustn't look for impossibles. They are
in a stall a long way off, called Thomas Powell's stall; and to get to
that, they must work through thirty-eight yards of coal. That ain't
light labour; but h'everything that men can do will be done. Why,
engineers and miners from all the collieries round are on the spot."
"Nan," I said, "I think I will ask God for one thing. I don't mind
telling you, but I have been feeling very bitter against God; but now if
He brings me back David and Owen--both of them safe and well--why, then,
I will love Him and serve Him always."
Nan was silent for a long time--some thought knitting anxiously her dark
brows.
"I don't think I'd make a bargain with the Lord," she said.
"Oh! but, Nan, you cannot quite understand; I have never told you the
story of my life. I see now that I never cared for either Owen or David
quite in the right way. I want to change all that. Yes," I added,
humbly, "I have a great deal to change. I had a beautiful home before I
came here; and I grew so tired of it, I wanted to leave it. I know I
vexed David--dear, dear David, by wishing to leave Tynycymmer; and then
we came here; and he asked me to try, in the little ways a sister can,
to help Owen; but I didn't. Oh! Nan, I have not been at all good, and
I want to change all that."
"Well, Miss Morgan, from your own words, it seems to me you have a deal
to ask the Lord to forgive you."
"Yes, I know I have," I added, humbly.
"Then why don't you ask to be forgiven now--right away?"
"No, I cannot ask now. God is punishing me too hard. I don't love Him
now at all."
"You want the lads home first?"
"Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him--I
could serve Him well."
"Eh! dear," said little Nan, "I think I could love Him, even if Miles
was gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I'm so timmersome, and I does
cling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord.
I think father and me, for all we'd grieve bitter, we'd never turn agen
the Lord. Why, the Lord's our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough the
way, we'd rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the world
without Him. And father and me, we'd soon see that having Miles up in
the better land, only 'ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, it
don't seem to me that yours is a bit the right way."
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That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had not
slept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, had
brought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessary
for her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doing
what he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but I
assured him I was well, which was true--for in body I never felt better.
He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, though
sleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an hour
or two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had done
two nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. I
sat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddy
flames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome--almost
agonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God's were
standing opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict.
My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creator
said to the thing that He had made, "_My_ will be done."