And now, day after day, heroic men worked nobly. Without a thought of
personal danger, engineers, viewers, managers, miners, private
gentlemen,--all laboured for the common cause.
Brothers were perishing of slow starvation, that was enough; brothers,
come what might, would go to their rescue.
Perhaps there was seldom seen a grander fight between love and death.
Those who had a thorough knowledge of the mine, soon perceived that
thirty-eight yards of solid coal intervened between the imprisoned men
and their rescuers. The only other access was completely cut away by so
vast a body of water, that it was not unfitly compared to an underground
ocean. The obstacles between the rescuers and the imprisoned men seemed
at first insurmountable. It appeared to be beyond human strength,
either to drain away the water, or to cut through the coal, in time.
What was to be done? Moses Thomas, who, whenever he came to the bank,
gave me all the information in his power, said that hopeless as the task
appeared, the coal was to be cut away from this black tomb without
delay. Every strong man in the neighbourhood volunteered for this work,
and truly the work was no light one! The place sloped downwards, about
four inches to every yard, and each piece of coal struck away, had to be
instantly removed. But fresh and fresh shifts of men plied their
mandrils unremittingly; there was no halting or turning back; for three
hours, without pause, each man worked, to be instantly followed, when
this allotted time had expired, by a fresh volunteer.
"Sleep, Miss," said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, he
stooped to wash his blood-covered hands. "No, I doesn't want to sleep,
while the Squire, and the lad, and the others is starving. I tell you,
Miss, I never cried so bitter in all my life, as when I heard them
knockings!"
Thus by one mode of egress, all that mortal man could do, was being
tried. But scientific men who were present, were too wise to neglect
any plan for rescue. It was thought possible, that by means of divers,
the imprisoned men might be reached through the water; accordingly two
very experienced divers were telegraphed for from a well-known London
firm, and as quickly as they could, they answered the summons. I did
not know at the time, though I have learned something since, of the
dangers these men underwent in this attempt to rescue human life.
Having learned, I should like to say a little about them here, for I
think no men stood higher in that band of heroes. So great was their
danger, that not a gentleman in the neighbourhood would undertake the
responsibility of sending them down into the mine, and some even
counselled them not to undertake so hopeless a task. But both men
instantly replied, that they would never return to their firm without
making the attempt, and that they would take all responsibility on
themselves. They had never been in a mine before, and very different
would be the diving through this black and stagnant water, full of
turnings of which they knew nothing, and of obstacles too great to be
overcome, from any work they had hitherto undertaken. Indeed, so great
was their danger, that those who saw them enter that inky sea, never
expected to see them return again; but nothing daunted, the brave men
closed their helmets, and commenced the impossible task. Mother and I,
with many other women, and children, stood on the pit bank, and as the
man who held the line, called out at intervals "fifty feet," "eighty
feet," "a hundred feet," what echoes of hope and longing were awakened
in beating hearts! I had one arm round mother's waist, Nan held my
other hand, and when at last "five hundred feet" was called, and this
was known to be within about two hundred and fifty feet of the stall
where the prisoners were confined, simultaneously we went on our knees.
The hope, the brilliant hope was too dazzling. Dazzling! it seemed to
have come. Mother and I had David once more; little Nan, her brother;
the under-viewer's wife, her husband. But; alas! it was only the
lightning flash in the dark cloud, for at length, after a long period of
silence, came the hopeless words, "They are coming back!" Yes, the
brave divers had done their best, but were unsuccessful. To reach the
prisoners by this means was a failure. As they said themselves, "We are
very sorry, we found it was impossible to get on further, owing to
pieces of wood in the water, the broken road, mud, and the strength of
the swell."
When they appeared again, and had stumbled exhausted to the ground,
their helmets, new when they entered, were battered as though they had
seen twenty years' service--a convincing proof of the dangers they had
undergone.
Yes, this attempt was a failure; but still hope did not die, still brave
men toiled, and day after day the coal was cut away so perseveringly, so
unceasingly, that at last on the seventh day after the inundation,
shouts were made to the entombed men, and--oh! with what thankfulness
was the faint answering response hailed. That weak cry, low and
death-like, would have given the necessary spur had such been needed.
All this time pumps were used, without ceasing, to reduce the water in
the workings.
Meanwhile, as day after day went by, each day filled with more of
despair, and less of hope, what had become of Owen? He had said on that
evening, some days back now, that he would rescue David or die, but
still the manager of the mine was not present. At this critical time he
had deserted his post, and the control and direction of all that was
done, rested with strangers. Suspicion was grave against my brother, he
had, to say the least of it, worked the mine recklessly. Though, with
the utmost care, water inundations were sometimes impossible to avert,
yet in this particular instance, it seemed that with ordinary foresight,
by seeing that Pride's Pit was properly drained, or at least by avoiding
the working of this particular coal vein, the present accident might
never have taken place. Thus, things looked grave for Owen, and he was
not at his post. Yes, I knew all this, I heard ugly words about an
inquest, by and by; but strange as it may seem, never since his return,
had my heart felt so at rest about Owen. I had a feeling, almost an
instinct, that Owen had not really deserted his post, that among the
volunteers in the mine he might be found, that amongst the bravest of
the rescuers he might be numbered. When, with my sisters in this deep
deep trouble, I stood for long hours of every day by the pit bank, I saw
once amongst the smoke-begrimed and blackened men, who rose after their
herculean toil to the surface, a face and form which in their outline
resembled his--any other recognition was impossible; but so sure was I
that this man was Owen, that I began gradually to watch for him alone.
But watch as I would, I only saw him once. I was told afterwards, on
questioning eagerly, that this miner slept below, that he refused to
come to the surface at all, until the work for death or life was done,
and that he appeared to work with the strength and energy of ten other
men.
"His name!" I breathlessly demanded.
"Nobody knew his name, he was a volunteer, a stranger it seemed, but
there were many such present; he was a plucky fellow, worth a great
deal," this was all in this awful and grim conflict his fellow-workers
cared for. I told mother of Owen's visit to me that night. I think my
narrative comforted her, she asked very few questions; but I think _her_
eye too, though she said nothing, had rested on the face and form of the
strange miner, and that she too had an idea, and a hope, that Owen was
working in the mine. I believe, I feel sure, nothing kept up mother's
heart and mine, so much as this hope. Was it possible that we were then
learning the truth of that great saying from the lips of the Master--"He
that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it?" Ay, for My sake,
though _I_ reveal myself through a brother's love.
About Wednesday night, the eighth of the men's imprisonment, thirty-two
yards out of the thirty-eight of coal had been cut away. There were now
only six yards of coal between the prisoners and freedom, and on the men
being shouted to, the joyful news was brought to mother and me from the
pit bank, that David's voice was heard above the rest; but, alas! sorrow
came to many, while relief and thankfulness to is: there were only five
men in the stall, four were now given up for lost. Between these five
men and life and liberty, there seemed to me to be but a step, it could
not take long, surely, to cut through the remaining six yards of coal,
and to release the entombed from a lining grave. I showed my ignorance,
my hope was wrong, the trial of my faith was not yet over. Nay, I think
the faith that was to be tried by fire was put to the proof during the
next two days, in every heart at Ffynon. The experienced colliers said
that the real danger had now but begun. The water in the mine was only
kept back from the imprisoned men by a very strong pressure of air,
beyond this air-tight atmosphere it could not come; five or six feet
away from the imprisoned men, it stood like an inky wall, but once break
through with the slightest blow of the mandril, the wall of coal at one
side, and the confined air would find vent, and the water, no longer
impeded, would rush forward, sweeping into certain destruction both
captives and rescuers. Unless the water could be pumped away, or the
air in some way exhausted, there seemed to be no hope. All the pumps in
the neighbourhood were lent, and were plied without intermission, and
scientific men put their heads together and agreed to raise air-tight
doors, so as to keep back the full rush of the imprisoned atmosphere,
when the coal was broken through. But, alas! how faint and sick grew
all our hearts, for nothing could now be done rashly, and was it
possible that the men could live many hours longer without food?
On the eighth night, food was attempted to be passed through a tube, but
this proved a failure, the rush of air through the opening was so
terrible, that it was found necessary to plug the hole. The roar of air
was as loud as that of a blast furnace, and twice the force of the
imprisoned air dashed out the plug, which could only be replaced by
efforts almost superhuman.
On the ninth day, I was passing through Gwen's room; she had been in a
low fever, brought on by pain, and the violent shock her whole system
had undergone. I used to avoid Gwen, dreading her questions, fearing to
tell her what had happened. She was taken care of by a clever and
experienced nurse, and I thought it kinder to leave her to her care; but
on this day she heard my step, opened her eyes, and called me to her
side.
"Gwladys."
"Yes, dear Gwen."
"Have they buried the baby yet?"
"Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he
was buried last Saturday."
"Eh! dear, dear, I'd like to have seen his blessed little face first,
but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain't the Lord good to the little 'uns?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Dear, my maid, and h'all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know.
Dear, dear, haven't I bin lying here for days and learnin' h'all about
it. Seems to me I never knew _what_ the Lord Jesus Christ was like
before. Haven't He that baby in His arms now; haven't He put sight into
his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven't He
bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I'll _tell_ you,
Gwladys," raising herself in bed, "I'll tell you what the Lord is--
tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to
the sinners, and the Saviour of them that's appointed to die; and if
that's not a God for a time of trouble, I don't know where you'll find a
God."
Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very
weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my
hand with energy.
"And, my maid," she continued, in an exhausted whisper, "I've dreamed
that dream again."
"Oh! Gwen--what?"
"All that dream about the mine, my maid; and I know 'tis coming true.
Owen will save David."
I left Gwen, and went into my own room. On my knees, for a brief
instant, I spoke to God. "Oh! God," I said, "if you are the only help
for a dark day, deliver us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have
mercy upon us. Lord, out of the depths, here, we cry to Thee. Lord,
deliver those who are appointed to die;" and then, before I rose from my
knees, four low words rose from my heart--"_Thy will be done_;" very
low, in the faintest whisper--with the cold dew of agony breaking all
over me, these words were wrung from my soul; still I said them. Then I
went back to the bank. There was a change there, and some commotion--
something had happened. Alas! what? My heart beat audibly. I made my
way through the crowd, and found myself close to a group of colliers,
who had just come up from the mine. Terrible and ominous words smote on
my ear. A new danger had arisen. There were signs of the colliers'
worst enemy--gas. The Davy lamps could not be lit. Again the plug was
blown out of the hole, and the roar of air which came through the
opening, prevented the loudest voice being heard.
"There is a power in there which would blow us up the heading like
dust," said one.
The peril was too tremendous. Even the bravest of the brave had given
way. Dear life was too precious. The men who had toiled, as only
heroes could toil, for so many long days and nights, faltered at length.
To go forward now, seemed certain and absolute death to both rescuers
and rescued.
"The boy is gone," said Moses Thomas, looking Nan in the face. "He has
been nine days now without food."
"God help them all; they'll soon be in eternity," said another miner,
wiping the tears from his weatherbeaten face.
"This last has daunted us," said a third.
"We have done all that men could do," sighed a fourth, who, worn out
from toil, fell half-fainting on the ground.
"To go on now, would be certain death," said a fifth.
Then there was silence--intense silence; not even the sound of a woman's
sob.
The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The
starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to
listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril--in vain for their
comrades' brave voices--in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers
could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes.
Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions
with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost
harsh by some pent-up emotion--"I'm going on, though 'tis death. Shut
the doors upon me," he added, "and I'll cut the passage through!"
Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart.
"I'll go, for another--and I--and I," said many. And back went the
brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at
a passage, in many places not three feet high.
I don't know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave
collier's voice, I had hope--from that moment the worst of my heart
agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was
to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the
fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers--of that frightful
gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for
his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I
was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth
day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest
pitch--their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the
workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in
compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last--at
last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the
wall of coal. What a moment of excitement--longing--fear! What a joy,
which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the
thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love
were successful--that back again from the arms of a terrible death,
would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what
followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between
mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly
see--could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past;
men with coal-black faces--rigid, immovable, as though carved in
granite.
Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw
that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom
was recognised by the under-viewer's wife.
Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky.
When mother saw David, she fainted.
I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The
heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I
bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two
strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised
her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms.
"Gwladys, we have saved them. Thank God!" he said.