At length there came a day when there was real trouble in the Club. The
foreman of the mine in which Wright was at work ordered Wright and a
fellow miner to go to the surface to assist in handling some machinery
which was to be sent down into the mine.
The two men stepped upon the cage and three bells were sounded--the
signal to the engineer at the surface that men were to be hoisted and
all care used.
The cage started from the 2,400-foot level. Nothing unusual happened
until, as they neared the surface, Wright said to his comrade: "By the
way we are passing the levels, it seems to me they must be in a hurry on
top."
The other miner answered: "I guess it is all right;" but hardly were the
words spoken, when they shot up into the light; in an instant the cage
went crashing into the sheaves and was crushed, the men being thrown
violently out.
Wright's companion, as he fell, struck partly on the curbing of the
shaft, rolled in and was of course dashed to pieces.
Wright was thrown outside the shaft, and though not killed outright, two
or three ribs were broken, one lung was badly injured, besides he was
otherwise terribly bruised.
People unfamiliar with mining may not understand the above. On the
Comstock the hoisting engines are set from forty to eighty feet from the
mouths of the shafts. Directly over the shafts are frames from thirty to
fifty feet in height, on which pulleys (rimmed iron wheels) are
fastened. The cages are lowered and raised by flat, plaited, steel wire
cables, which are generally four or five inches wide and about
three-eighths of an inch in thickness.
This cable is first coiled on the reel of the engine, then the loose end
is drawn over the pulley, then down to the cage, to which it is made
fast. The wheel of a pulley is called a sheave, and by habit it has
grown to be a common expression to call the block and wheel in hoisting
works "the sheaves." At intervals of one or two hundred feet on the
cables they are wound with white cloth, as a guide to the engineer, as
the cable is uncoiled in lowering or coiled in hoisting. Also, on the
outer rim of the reel, is a dial with figures or marks at regular
intervals, and a hand (like the hand of a clock) which perpetually
indicates to the engineer about where the cage is in all stages of
lowering or hoisting.
These engineers work eight hour shifts, and sometimes twelve. Of the
nature of their work an idea can be formed by the statement that during
the two or three years when the great Bonanza in the California
and Con. Virginia mines was giving up its treasure, through two
double-compartment shafts, all the work of those two mines was carried
on. The main ore body was between the 1,300-foot and 1,700-foot levels.
Every day from six hundred to eight hundred men were lowered into and
hoisted out of the mine. One hundred thousand feet (square measure) of
timbers were lowered daily (three million feet per month); nearly or
quite one thousand tons of ore was hoisted daily; the picks, drills and
gads were sent up to be sharpened and returned; the powder used and five
tons of ice daily were lowered, and besides this work, there was
machinery to lower and hoist; the waste rock to be handled and visitors
and officers of the mine to be lowered and hoisted. The cages are about
four feet six inches in length and three feet in width, and are simply
iron frames with a wooden floor and iron bonnet over the top and made to
exactly fit the size of the shaft. Three of these compartments had
double cages--one above the other, and one had three cages. A
three-decker carries three tons of ore or twenty-seven men at a time.
Of course when such work is being driven, the eyes of an engineer have
to be every moment on their work. Men follow the occupation for months
and years without an accident or mistake, but now and then, through the
ceaseless strain, their nerves break down; something like an aberration
of the mind comes over them and they watch, dazed like sleep-walkers, as
the cage shoots out of the shaft and mounts up into the sheaves and
cannot command themselves enough to move the lever of the engine which
is in their hand.
Such an accident as this overtook Wright and his companion. Poor Wright
was carried home by brother miners. The accident happened only about an
hour before the time for changing shifts and hardly was Wright laid in
his bed before the other members of the Club met at their home.
The best surgical talent of the city was called; the members of the Club
took turns in watching; there was not a moment that one or the other was
not bending over their friend.
At first, when he rallied from the shock of the injury, Wright told all
about the accident. He further told his friends that he had no near
relatives, instructed the Club, in the event of his death, to open his
trunk, burn the papers and divide the little money there among
themselves, designated little presents for each one and said: "Miller
will be grieved if I die, and may think my heart was not altogether warm
toward him, so give him my watch; it is the most valuable trinket that I
have."
When the first reaction from the shock came, his friends were encouraged
to believe he would recover; but it was a vain hope. He soon went into a
half unconscious, half delirious state, from which it was hard to 'rouse
him for even a few minutes at a time.
He lay that way for two days and nights and then died.
On the afternoon of the second day it was clear that he was almost
gone--the spray began to splash upon his brow from the dark river--and
all the Club grouped around him.
Out of the shadow of death his mind cleared for a moment. In almost his
old natural tones, but weak, like the voices heard through a telephone,
he said:
"I have seen another mirage, boys. It was the old home under the Osage
shadows. It was all plain; the old house, the orchard, the maples were
red in the autumn sun, and my mother, who died long ago, seemed to be
there, smiling and holding out her arms to me.
"It was all real, but you don't know how tired I am. Carlin, old friend,
turn me a little on my side and let me sleep."
Gently as mothers move their helpless babes, the strong miner turned his
friend upon his pillows.
He breathed shorter and shorter for a few minutes, then one long sigh
came from his mangled breast, and all was still.
There was perfect silence in the room for perhaps five minutes. Then
Brewster, with a voice full of tears, said: "God grant that the mirage
is now to him a delicious reality," and all the rest responded, "Amen."
The undertaker came, the body was dressed for the grave and placed in a
casket, and the Club took up their watch around it.
Now and then a subdued word was spoken, but they were very few. The
hearts of the watchers were all full, and conversation seemed out of
place. Wright was one of the most manly of men, and the hearts of the
friends were very sore. The evening wore on until ten o'clock came, when
there fell a gentle knock on the outer door. The door was opened and by
the moonlight four men could be seen outside. One of them spoke:
"We 'eard as 'ow Hadrian wur gone, and thot to sing a wee bit to he as
'ow the lad might be glad."
They were the famous quartette of Cornish miners and were at once
invited in.
They filed softly into the room--the Club rising as they entered--and
circled around the casket. After a long look upon the face of the
sleeper they stood up and sang a Cornish lament. Their voices were
simply glorious. The words, simple but most pathetic, were set to a
plaintive air, the refrain of each stanza ending in some minor notes,
which gave the impression that tears of pity, as they were falling, had
been caught and converted into music.
The effect was profound. The stoicism of the
Club was completely broken down by it. When the lament ceased all were
weeping, while warm-hearted and impetuous Corrigan was sobbing like a
grieved child.
The quartette waited a moment and then sang a Cornish farewell, the
music of which, though mostly very sad, had, here and there, a bar or
two such as might be sung around the cradle of Hope, leaving a thought
that there might be a victory even over death, and which made the hymn
ring half like the _Miserere_ and half like a benediction.
When this was finished and the quartette had waited a moment more, with
their magnificent voices at full volume, they sang again--a requiem,
which was almost a triumph song, beginning:
Whatever burdens may be sent
For mortals here to bear,
It matters not while faith survives
And God still answers prayer.
I will not falter, though my path
Leads down unto the grave;
The brave man will accept his fate,
And God accepts the brave.
Then with a gentle "Good noight, lads," they were gone.
It was still in the room again until Corrigan said: "I hope Wright heard
that singin'; the last song in particular."
"Who knows?" said Ashley. "It was all silence here; those men came and
filled the place with music. Who knows that it will not, in swelling
waves, roll on until it breaks upon the upper shore?"
"Who knows," said Harding, "that he did not hear it sung first and have
it sent this way to comfort us? I thought of that when the music was
around us, and I fancied that some of the tones were like those that
fell from Wright's lips, when, in extenuation of Miller's fault, he was
reminding us that it was the intent that measured the wrong, and that
Miller never intended any wrong. Music is born above and comes down; its
native place is not here."
"He does not care for music," said the Colonel. "See how softly he
sleeps. All the weariness that so oppressed him has passed away. The
hush of eternity is upon him, and after his hard life that is sweeter
than all else could be."
"Oh, cease, Colonel," said Brewster. "Out of this darkened chamber how
can we speak as by authority of what is beyond. As well might the mole
in his hole attempt to tell of the eagle's flight.
"We only know that God rules. We watched while the great transition came
to our friend. One moment in the old voice he was conversing with us;
the next that voice was gone, but we do not believe that it is lost. As
we were saying of the telephone, when we speak those only a few feet
away hear nothing. The words die upon the air, and we explain to
ourselves that they are no more. But thirty miles away, up on the side
of the Sierras, an ear is listening, and every tone and syllable is
distinct to that ear. Who knows what connections can be made with those
other heights where Peace rules with Love?
"Our friend whose dust lies here was not called from nothing simply to
buffet through some years of toil and then to return to nothing through
the pitiless gates of Death. To believe such a thing would be to impeach
the love, the mercy and the wisdom of God. Wright is safe somewhere and
happier than he was with us. I should not wonder if Harding's theory
were true, and that it was to comfort us that he impelled those singers
to come here."
"Brewster," said Alex, "your balance is disturbed to-night. You say
'from out our darkened chamber we cannot see the light,' and then go on
to assert that Wright is happier than when here. You do not know; you
hope so, that is all. So do I, and by the calm that has pressed its
signet on his lips, I am willing to believe that all that was of him is
as much at rest as is his throbless heart, and that the mystery which so
perplexes us--this something which one moment greets us with smiles and
loving words, but which a moment later is frozen into everlasting
silence--is all clear to him now. I hope so, else the worlds were made
in vain, and the sun in heaven, and all the stars whose white fires fill
the night, are worthy of as little reverence as a sage brush flame; and
it was but a cruel plan which permitted men to have life, to kindle in
their brains glorious longings and in their hearts to awaken affections
more dear than life itself."
Then Harding, as if to himself repeated: "It matters not while Faith
survives, and God still answers prayer."
Half an hour more passed, then the Colonel arose, looked long on the
face in the casket and said:
"How peaceful is his sleep. The mystery of the unseen brings no look of
surprise to his face. Around him is the calm of the dreamless bivouac:
the brooding wings of eternal rest have spread their hush above him.
To-morrow the merciful earth will open her robes of serge to receive
him; in her ample bosom will fold his weary limbs, and while he sleeps
will shade his eyes from the light. In a brief time, save to the few of
us who love him, he will be forgotten among men. Days will dawn and set;
the seasons will advance and recede; the years will ebb and flow; the
tempest and the sunshine will alternately beat upon his lonely couch,
until ere long it will be leveled with the surrounding earth; his body
will dissolve into its original elements and it will be as though he had
never lived. The great ocean of life will heave and swell, and there
will be no one to remember this drop that fell upon the earth in spray
and was lost.
"This is as it seems to us, straining our dull eyes out upon the
profound beyond our petty horizon. But who knows? We can trace the
thread of this life as it was until it passed beyond the range of our
visions, but who of us knows whether it was all unwound or whether in
the 'beyond' it became a golden chain so strong that even Death can not
break it, and thrilled with harmonies which could never vibrate on this
frail thread that broke to-day?"
Then the Colonel sat down and the Professor stood up, and with his left
hand resting on the casket, said:
"Three days ago this piece of crumbling dust was a brave soldier of
peace. I mean the words in their fullest sense. Just now our brothers in
the East are fearful lest so much silver will be produced that it will
become, because of its plentifulness, unfit to be a measure of values.
They do not realize what it costs or they would change their minds. They
do not know how the gnomes guard their treasures, or what defense Nature
uprears around her jewels. They revile the stamp which the Government
has placed upon the white dollar. Could they see deeper they would
perceive other stamps still. There would be blood blotches and seams
made by the trickling of the tears of widows and orphans, for before the
dollar issues bright from the mint, it has to be sought for through
perils which make unconscious heroes of those who prosecute the search.
For nearly twenty years now, on this lode, tragedies like this have been
going on. We hear it said: 'A man was killed to-day in the Ophir,' or 'a
man was dashed to pieces last night in the Justice,' and we listen to it
as merely the rehearsal of not unexpected news. Could a list of the men
who have been killed in this lode be published, it would be an appalling
showing. It would outnumber the slain of some great battle.
"Besides the deaths by violence, hundreds more, worn out by the heat and
by the sudden changes of temperature between the deep mines and the
outer air, have drooped and died.
"The effect is apparent upon our miners. Their bearing perplexes
strangers who come here. They do not know that in the conquests of labor
there are fields to be fought over which turn volunteers into veteran
soldiers quite as rapidly as real battle fields. They know nothing about
storming the depths; of breaking down the defences of the deep hills.
They can not comprehend that the quiet men whom they meet here on the
streets are in the habit of shaking hands with Death daily until they
have learned to follow without emotion the path of duty, let it lead
where it may, and to accept whatever may come as a matter of course.
"Such an one was this our friend, who fell at his post; fell in the
strength of his manhood, and when his great heart was throbbing only in
kindness to all the world.
"One moment he exulted in his splendid life, the next he was mangled and
crushed beyond recovery.
"Still there was no repining, no spoken regrets. For years the
possibility of such a fate as this had been before his eyes steadily; it
brought much anguish to him, but no surprise.
"He had lived a blameless life. As it drew near its close the vision of
his mother was mercifully sent to him, and so in his second birth the
same arms received him that cradled him when before he was as helpless
as he is now.
"By the peace that is upon him, I believe those arms are around his soul
to-night; I believe he would not be back among us if he could.
"We have a right on our own account to grieve that he is gone, but not
on his. He filled on earth the full measure of an honest, honorable,
brave and true life. That record went before him to Summer Land. I
believe it is enough and that he needs neither tears nor regrets."
The Professor sat down and Corrigan then arose and went and looked long
and fondly upon the upturned face. At last in a low voice he said:
"Auld frind, if yees can, give me a sign some time that something was
saved from this mighty wrick. I will listen for the call in the dape
night. I will listen by the timbers in the dape drifts; come back if
yees can and give us a hope that there will be hand clasps and wilcomes
for us whin the last shift shall be worked out."
So one after the other talked until the night stole away before the
smile of the dawn. Harding pulled aside the curtains, and at that moment
the sun, panoplied in glory, shed rosy tints all over the desert to the
eastward.
"See," said Harding. "It was on such a morning as this that on the
desert was painted the mirage which troubled poor Wright so much, until
the clearer light drove it away. Let us hope that there are no
refractions of the rays to bring fear to him where he is."
There was the usual inquest, and on the second day after his death,
Wright was buried. After the funeral his effects were looked over; the
bills were paid, a simple stone was ordered to be placed over his grave,
and his money, some few hundred dollars, was divided among the hospitals
of the city.