A MILE BENEATH THE SURFACE
"Swallow, lad!"
Mark Trefethen uttered the words, and Peveril, dimly comprehending
him, instinctively obeyed. The effect of that simple muscular action
was marvellous. His brain was instantly cleared of its weight, the
ringing in his ears ceased, and his hearing was restored to its normal
keenness. At the same time he was happily conscious that his stomach
had been restored to its proper position.
"This is plat of bottom level, and we're a mile underground,"
continued Mark. "They put us down in one-thirty this time, but often
they do it ten seconds better."
"I wonder how much longer it would take to drop from a balloon one
mile above the earth?" reflected Peveril, at the same time gazing
about him with a lively interest.
The place in which he stood was a spacious room, hewn from solid rock.
Lighted by several lanterns and little, flaring mine-lamps, it was
also smoothly floored with iron plates, and from it a narrow-gauge
railway led away into the blackness. Articles of clothing and
dinner-pails were hung about the walls, and on the side opposite the
shaft was a bench of rude workmanship.
Every few minutes an iron car holding several tons of copper rock was
run into the plat with a tremendous clatter from the little railway
that penetrated to every "drift" and "stope" of the level. Each of
these cars was pushed by a team of three wild-looking men, who were
stripped naked to the waist. Their haggard faces and naked bodies were
begrimed with powder-smoke, stained red with ore-dust, and gleamed in
the fitful lamp-light with trickling rivulets of perspiration. The
car-pushers were all foreigners--Italians, Bohemians, Hungarians, or
Poles--and the uncouth jargon of their shouts intensified the wildness
of their appearance. Theirs was the very lowest form of mine drudgery,
and but few of them were possessed of intelligence or ambition
sufficient to raise them above it.
One, who was accounted somewhat brighter than his fellows, by whom he
was regarded as a leader, had indeed been promoted on trial by the
timber boss to a position in his own gang. He was a perfect brute for
strength, but so densely ignorant and of such sullen disposition that
when a better man was offered, in the person of Dick Peveril, the boss
was only too glad to return him to his hated task of car-pushing and
accept the new-comer in his place. His sentence of degradation,
pronounced only the day before, had been received as a personal
affront by every wild-eyed car-pusher of the mine. All knew that some
one must fill the place from which their leader had been ousted, and
all were prepared to hate him the moment his identity should be
disclosed.
Thus, as Peveril stumbled awkwardly out of the cage in which he had
just made that breathless, mile-deep descent, he was instantly spotted
as being a new man, and a team of car-pushers, slaking their thirst at
a water-barrel in one corner of the plat, gazed at him with scowling
intentness, that they might minutely describe his appearance to their
fellows. As he knew nothing of the circumstances through which a place
had been made for him, he paid no attention to these men, other than
to note their savage appearance as a feature of his novel
surroundings.
In fact, he had barely time to take a single comprehensive glance
around the plat before a man who had been one of his fellow-passengers
in the cage remarked, sneeringly:
"Pretty well scared, wasn't you, young feller?"
"Yes, I was," replied Peveril, turning and facing his questioner. "But
how did you know it?"
"By the way you grabbed my arm. If you'd done it again I'd have
punched your head; for I don't 'low no man to catch holt on me that
way."
Peveril had already recognized the speaker's face; but, without
deigning a further reply, he turned to Mark Trefethen and said:
"Will you kindly give me the name of this unpleasant person, as I wish
to file it away in my memory for future reference?"
"Person be blowed!" exclaimed the man, stepping forward with a
menacing gesture. "What do you mean by calling me names, you damned--"
"Shut up, Mike Connell, and go about your business," commanded the
timber boss. "Come, lad, he's not worth noticing," and, thus saying,
Mark Trefethen led Peveril away.
Although the car-pushers had not caught the words of this brief
conversation, they had readily understood Mike Connell's threatening
gesture towards the new-comer, and several times during that day one
or more of them might have been seen in low-voiced consultation with
the scowling-faced Irishman.
"Here, lad, fill lamp wi' sunlight," said the timber boss, as he and
his protege were leaving the plat. "First rule of mine is always have
lamp in trim, and carry candle, besides plenty of matches in pocket."
With this Mark scooped up in his hand a small quantity of a stiff,
whitish substance from an open box beside them, and stuffed it into
his lamp. The box was indeed marked "Sunlight," but when Peveril
followed his companion's example he found its contents to be merely
solidified paraffine.
With their lamps well filled and flaring brightly, the two walked for
half a mile through a dry and well-ventilated gallery, which had been
driven by drill and blast through solid rock, and from which thousands
of tons of copper had been taken. Now Peveril learned for the first
time what "timbering" a mine meant, and realized the necessity for the
huge piles of great logs that he had seen above ground in close
proximity to the shaft. Not only had it been incased on all four sides
by logs mortised together and laid up like the walls of a house, but
the drift through which he now walked was timbered from end to end.
Its roof was upheld by huge tree-trunks standing from ten to twenty
feet apart, and occasionally in groups of three or four together.
Supported by them, and pressing against the roof or "hanging," were
other great timbers known as "wall plates," and behind these was a
compactly laid sheathing of split timber spoken of as "lagging."
As the two men advanced deeper into the drift, an occasional ore-car,
pushed by its panting human team, rumbled heavily past, while every
now and then came dull, tremulous shocks like those of an earthquake.
These were blasts on other levels, or in other parts of the one on
which they were.
At sound of a confused shouting from somewhere ahead of them, they
stood still until, with a crashing roar that bellowed and echoed
through the galleries like a peal of loudest thunder, one of these
blasts was fired close at hand. A minute later they were enveloped in
a pungent smoke, through which twinkled dimly a score of lights.
Brawny, half-naked forms were already wielding pick and shovel amid
the masses of rock just loosened, a powerful air-drill was being
placed in position for another attack upon the wall of tough rock, and
a small timber gang was struggling to hoist a huge log that they
called a "stull" into position.
"Here's the place, lad. Take hold and give a lift. Now, boys,
altogether"! shouted Mark Trefethen, and in another moment Dick
Peveril found himself hard at work.
Within a few minutes the new hand was as begrimed and dripping with
perspiration as any member of the gang, all of whom exchanged
significant glances as they noted the willingness with which he
exerted his great strength. Never had the heavy timbers been set in
place so quickly, and never in their remembrance had a green hand
"caught on" so readily.
"He won't last long, though, at that pace," remarked one of the older
men to Trefethen, as he paused to wipe the sweat-drops from his eyes,
"he's too fresh."
"Perhaps not," replied the timber boss. "We'll give him a bit of a
try, though, before dropping him," and then he walked away to inspect
the operations of another gang in a distant part of the mine.
Late that day, as Peveril's first shift of work drew towards its
close, he ached in every part of his body, but was learning his new
trade so rapidly that his fellows were already beginning to regard him
as one of the best men in their gang. He had made several trips to and
from the foot of the timber-shaft in company with others, and so,
when, shortly before quitting time, the foreman of his gang sang out:
"Oh, Peril! Just run back to the stack and bring us one of them small
sprags. Hurry, now!" the new man started without a moment's
hesitation.
He found his way without difficulty to the timber pile, and began a
search for such a piece as he had been told to fetch. The better to
see what he was doing, he removed the lamp from his hat and held it
low in front of him, in which position his own face was clearly
revealed by its light. While he was thus engaged, a miner, who, with
his day's work finished, was walking towards the plat, paused to
regard him. The man's face bore a malicious expression, and he seemed
to meditate some mischief towards the unsuspecting youth, for he
clinched his fists and took a step in Peveril's direction. Just then
the rumble of an approaching car caused him to pause and wait until it
should pass. As it came abreast of him he recognized one of its
pushers, and drew him aside, while the car, still propelled by two
members of its team, moved on out of sight.
Without a word the miner directed his companion's attention to the
figure still bending over the log pile, and made several significant
gestures. The brutish face of the pusher lighted with an ugly leer,
expressive of understanding, and he began to move cautiously towards
the man who had that day displaced him from the timber gang. As he had
left his light on the car, there was nothing to warn Peveril of his
approach until he was close at hand and about to deliver a cowardly
blow.
At that instant the mysterious premonition that always gives warning
of human presence caused the young man to turn his head. Although he
was too late to avoid the impending blow, it was deflected by his
movement, and instead of stunning him it merely caused him to stagger
and drop his lamp. He also partially warded off a closely following
second blow, and then his own terrible fist was planted with crashing
force full on his assailant's jaw.
[Illustration: THE CAR-PUSHERS MADE A FURIOUS ATTACK ON PEVERIL]
The man uttered a scream of agony, covered his face with his hands,
and started to run. At this moment the other two car-pushers appeared
on the scene, and with fierce cries began a furious attack upon the
young man whom they had sworn either to kill or drive from the mine.
At this time the battleground was only dimly illumined by the
flickering light of the miner who was thus far sole spectator of the
contest. Peveril fought in dogged silence, but his assailants uttered
shrill cries in an unknown tongue. Attracted by these, other lights
began to appear from both directions, and all at once Mark Trefethen's
gruff tones were heard demanding to know what was going on.
At this sound Peveril uttered a joyful shout, while at the same moment
the light in Mike Connell's hat was extinguished.
Recognizing his protege's voice, the timber boss sprang to his side,
and within another minute the two car-pushers would have been
annihilated had not the coming of a second car given them a
reinforcement of three more half-naked savages.
Thus beset and outnumbered by more than two to one, Trefethen thought
it no shame to call for aid, and, uplifting his mighty voice, he sent
rolling and echoing through the rock-bound galleries the rallying cry
of the Cornishmen:
"One and all for Cornwall! One and all!"