SHOWING AUTOMATIC TIPS AND TRUCK TIPPING INTO THE CHUTE INTO WHICH WOOD
WAS THROWN.
_From a Photo by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]
As before-mentioned, the train of sixteen trucks is divided into two
sets of eight trucks each. One set is emptied into No. 1 chute and the
other into No. 2 chute. At about a quarter to one my attention was
drawn to what appeared to be a slight irregularity in the tipping of
the trucks at No. 2 chute. A train had just reached the tips, and the
first set of eight trucks was emptied in the usual manner into No. 1
chute, while the second set was directed on to No. 2 chute.
As the last set of trucks passed round the “empty-way” I stepped on
to the track, immediately over the No. 2 chute, in order to verify
my suspicion that something was wrong. As I did so I heard a loud
clattering noise, as of loaded trucks coming clown the “full-way”
incline to the chute. I did not look to ascertain the cause of this
noise at that moment, but an instant later I instinctively turned my
head and looked up towards the entrance to the chute. Then, to my utter
dismay and consternation, I saw, within a few feet, two fully-loaded
trucks rushing headlong on to the No. 2 tip, where I was standing. In
an instant the awful truth flashed through my brain. Only six trucks of
the last set had tipped, two having become uncoupled up the incline,
and here was I standing on the track immediately over the chute,
without the remotest possibility of escape!
For a moment I was petrified with horror, and before I could make any
arrangement the foremost of the two trucks had struck me full in the
back, just above the hips, and I was precipitated violently into the
chute, some twenty feet below, while at the same time, with a fearful,
deafening noise, the two trucks overturned, and two tons of rock and
hard blue “ground” came crashing into the chute on top of me. For a few
seconds I was completely buried, but with a frantic effort I got the
upper part of my body free, all the time gasping wildly for breath,
while temporarily deprived of sight by the mass of falling “ground,”
and nearly asphyxiated by the immense cloud of dust, which seemed to
hang over the chute like a pall.
[Illustration: “I WAS PRECIPITATED VIOLENTLY INTO THE CHUTE.”]
As I gradually gained control of my scattered senses I became aware
of my miraculous escape from a terrible death, and with a shudder of
horror realized that my situation was still one of extreme peril. In
another second the doors of the chute would be opened, and I should
either be plunged, with the great quantity of “ground” amidst which
I lay, into the hoisting-skip below, or else crushed to a pulp by
the next consignment of “ground” from the tip above. With almost
superhuman strength I endeavoured to extricate myself from the mass
of “ground” by which I was well-nigh covered, and with all the power
of which I was capable I shouted vociferously for help. It was all in
vain, however; my cries for assistance were lost amidst the din of the
constantly-moving trucks on the level above.
[Illustration: PORTION OF THE HEADGEAR SHOWING THE HOISTING-SKIP
(INDICATED BY A CROSS) IN WHICH WOOD MADE HIS RAPID BUT UNCOMFORTABLE
JOURNEY TO THE SURFACE.
_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]
Just as I made another desperate attempt to free myself I heard the
ominous creak of the levers, which foretold that the slides at the
bottom of the chute were about to be opened, and--quite helpless and
filled with an overwhelming despair--I resigned myself to my fate; I
was doomed to a death from which there could be no possible escape.
My whole frame was trembling with the fear of impending death, as,
with a loud creak, the slides at the bottom of the chute separated,
and I felt myself violently overturned and forced irresistibly through
the opening. Thence I plunged head-first into the great hoisting-skip
below, amidst the thunderous crash of the eight tons of blue “ground.”
In a second the sliding doors of the chute had closed, the skip was
loaded, and the relentless downpour of “ground” and hard lumps ceased.
I was again completely buried, but with a ferocious struggle managed to
get my head uncovered.
[Illustration: THE ENGINE-HOUSES AND HEADGEAR WHERE WOOD WAS HOISTED TO
THE SURFACE.
_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]
[Illustration:
KIMBERLEY,
26th August, 1908.
_TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN_:
I, the undersigned, hereby certify that the account of my experience
at Wesselton Mine, Kimberley, Cape Colony, as written by Mr. C. A. O.
Duggan, is true and correct in every detail, and, further, I hereby
give to Mr. C. A. O. Duggan the full and exclusive right to publish the
particulars and account above referred to in any newspaper, periodical
or magazine he may choose.
Charles Wood
KIMBERLEY, S. A. 26th August, 1908.
AS WITNESSES:--
JJ Armstrong
BW Freislich
The abovementioned copyright of Mr. Charles Wood’s experience at
Wesselton Mine, Kimberley, C. C. is hereby given to the Proprietors of
the “Wide World Magazine”, London, England.
C.A.O. Duggan]
MR. WOOD’S SIGNED STATEMENT VOUCHING FOR THE ACCURACY OF THIS STORY.]
Dazed and just able to realize my terrible situation, I gasped for
breath, and, although quite oblivious of the nature and extent of my
injuries, I was vaguely conscious that I was still alive, and that
for the second time in a few minutes my life had been miraculously
preserved. Securely pinned down by the tremendous weight of the
“ground,” I lay unable to move, and after making a feeble and vain
effort to shout for assistance, I gave up my futile struggle to free my
aching body and sank down from sheer exhaustion, staring vacantly in
the semi-darkness at an enormous, treacherous-looking boulder that had
lodged a few inches above me, and which appeared likely to find a fresh
resting-place on my unprotected head at any moment.
For an instant there was a death-like stillness. Nearly distracted by
the awful suspense, I lay helpless in the great iron skip, expecting
each instant to feel the peculiar jerk of the hauling-rope that would
mean the commencement of my lightning upward journey to the headgear on
the surface, nearly six hundred feet above.
[Illustration: PORTION OF HEADGEAR SHOWING BOX LEVERS, WITH CHARLES
WOOD STANDING ALMOST IMMEDIATELY UNDER THE LOADING-BOX WHERE HE WAS
TAKEN OUT HEAD FIRST.
_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]
What would be my fate when the skip tipped automatically on the
surface? Should I be crushed to death or buried alive by the enormous
quantity of “ground,” or should I meet with a more terrible death by
being dashed to pieces against the steel sides or cross-bars of the
loading-box, to be found later--a mangled and unrecognisable mass of
humanity?
All these thoughts and countless vivid recollections of my childhood,
boyhood, and early manhood flashed through my now disordered brain with
startling rapidity, and I sobbed with anguish as I thought for a moment
of my home, my children, and my wife, who was soon to be a widow and
whom I should never see again. With a sickening terror I now grasped
the fact that in a few seconds the great winding engine on the surface
would be set in motion. Oh, the irony of it all! I had escaped death
at the tip, and again at the loading-chute, only to end my existence
when the skip eventually shot its eight-ton cargo into the steel
loading-boxes above! Each moment now seemed a lifetime, and I prayed
fervently that my suspense and agony might be ended.
At last the hauling-rope strained and tightened, and with a sudden jerk
the skip started on its upward journey through the inky-black shaft,
gaining in rapidity at every yard, and each second carrying me nearer
to death. The skip flew up at a terrific pace, and in a few seconds I
was aware of its approach to the surface by the faint streaks of light
that penetrated down the shaft. Another moment and I should be no more!
The light of day became more and more intense, and with startling
suddenness I shot out into the momentary and welcome brightness of the
sunlight, past the level of the surface, and up to the automatic tip
on the giant head-gear. Then, with a sharp click, the skip reached its
tipping level and overturned, and I felt myself being thrown through
space towards the yawning iron loading-boxes.
As the skip capsized I became unconscious, and was consequently
spared the further mental torture consequent upon my precipitation
into the yawning surface loading-boxes. At last, however, I opened my
eyes, as if awakening from a profound sleep, and--amazed and utterly
bewildered--gradually recognised that for the third time in as many
minutes I had escaped a frightful death in a wonderful and miraculous
manner. I found that I was lying awkwardly and with feet uppermost in
the north side loading-box. While still trying to realize what had
happened the slides of the box separated, and the next moment startled,
anxious faces were peering in at me.
[Illustration: “STARTLED, ANXIOUS FACES WERE PEERING IN AT ME.”]
[Illustration: CHARLES WOOD AS HE APPEARED AFTER HIS ALARMING ADVENTURE.
_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]
Gently the amazed men lifted me through the door and carried me to
the mine change-house, where my injuries were promptly attended to.
Incredible as it may seem, I was not seriously hurt, only suffering
from several bruises about the body and from slight cuts on the head
and above one eye. I was duly sent to the Kimberley Hospital, from
which I was discharged eight days after the chapter of accidents here
related, having completely recovered from the effects of my remarkable
adventure.
Where Women Wear Trousers.
BY L. VAN DER VEER.
There is a place up in the mountains of Switzerland where from
time immemorial the women have worn the garb and done most of
the work of their men-folk, who stop at home and smoke or mind
the babies, while their be-trousered wives and daughters toil
in the hayfields or among the live stock. In this article Miss
Van der Veer describes a visit to this strange and little-known
community.
Away up in the mountains of one of the most beautiful cantons of
Switzerland, the Valais, the peasant women have for years found it
expedient to don the garb of their men-folk and work in the hayfields
and among the grazing cattle on the slopes, while their lords and
masters lounge their days away in ease and the quiet of their log huts.
Curious to relate, they all seem perfectly contented with this inverted
order of things--the men in particular. They brew the herbs, fry the
tough-as-leather mountain meat, and look after the babies, while their
buxom wives are wrestling with the sterner duties of field and stable.
[Illustration: A SHEPHERDESS ON THE MOUNTAINS.
_From a Photograph._]
During the summer of 1908 I spent some days in Champéry, the little
village in the valley at the foot of the mountains where these
strenuous women work and their lazy husbands smoke. At first I felt
great disappointment at not seeing them about the village streets, but
soon found that they seldom or never came down the mountain-side in
their strange garb, or, at any rate, walked about the village in it.
Tourists have become so numerous of recent years, and their curiosity
so troublesome, that the village fathers have forbidden the women
to come into the hamlet without skirts over their masculine nether
garments. So whoever cares to behold them in the strange clothes of
their choosing must scramble and toil their way up the mountain-side.
On Sunday mornings it is highly entertaining to watch these women and
young girls come down the zigzag footpaths to the tiny village chapel,
where, just outside its doors, they halt and throw their skirts on over
their heads in the most unconcerned fashion, as thoughtlessly as the
fashionable dame gives her hat a furtive touch as she enters the church
doors.
[Illustration: WASHING-DAY.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]
It is difficult to trace the origin of this strange custom of the
Champéry dames donning masculine nether garments. When one asks the
peasants about it they do their best to look reflective, but always
end in declaring that “it was always so.” “Our men-folk like best the
fires, and we like best the fields,” is about the only intelligible
explanation I could get out of them. They are fine, sturdy-looking
beings, mostly red-cheeked and strong of limb, and many of the younger
ones are strikingly handsome.
[Illustration: COOKING THE DINNER.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]
One can scarcely call their costume a becoming one, though it certainly
looks better than one would expect, and, after the first novelty of
seeing them wears off, its absolute suitability disarms criticism.
[Illustration: MOWING ON THE HILLSIDE.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]
The most amusing thing about it is that the upper part of the costume
remains feminine--the ordinary rough bodice of the peasant woman, often
in bright colours of red or blue, worn with the most nondescript cut of
trousers, of the “home-made” variety. That such a costume is necessary
for women who take upon themselves the work of their men-folk in such
a region of the world is quite apparent to any woman who attempts to
follow them at their work for even ten minutes.
[Illustration: OFF TO THE VILLAGE.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]
[Illustration: AMONG THE COWS ON THE MOUNTAIN PASTURES--THE WOMEN DO
ALL THE MILKING AND BUTTER-MAKING.
_From a Photograph._]
The constant tramping along rough mountain ways and following cows over
dangerously narrow ledges, the cutting of hay on inclines so acute as
to be seemingly almost perpendicular, the going in search of lost sheep
in thickets and snowdrifts, are but a few of the things which make the
tyranny of skirts altogether impossible. These women do not seem to
mind in the least being stared at and questioned as to their clothes.
In fact, they rather feel the pride of distinction their garments
confer upon them. “We have never known any others,” they say quite
simply, “so why should we feel queer in them? Besides, we all prefer
them to skirts.”
[Illustration: A BE-TROUSERED MILKMAID.
_From a Photograph._]
The most surprising thing is that, in spite of their male attire, the
women do not walk or sit in the masculine manner. Anyone can see at a
glance that they are women in men’s clothes, though some green--very
green--tourists often make ridiculous mistakes. At a mountain hut I
once heard an English traveller declare that he never heard of men
doing the family knitting until he came over the pass where these
people live. He had evidently not the faintest suspicion that he had
come across the men-garbed women of the mountain region, for they often
sit knitting as they herd the sheep and cows on the hillsides.
Another thing that strikes one absurdly is that, while wearing
trousers, these women nearly always sit sideways on horseback and
get over fences by first mounting to the top rail and sliding down
women-fashion, instead of striding over man-fashion. In truth, I
observed no end of evidence that the inconsistency of the weaker sex
cannot be quenched by anything so delectable as clothes.
One morning, when a heavy mist hung over the mountain-tops, quite
obscuring everything, I sat outside the comfortable little chalet where
a happy family of four sturdy daughters, with their mother, donned
trousers every morning and disappeared up the mountain-side to work,
while their stalwart “Pap,” as they called him, pottered round the
house, pipe in mouth.
I could hear the women sharpening their scythes now and again, and
catch snatches of mountain ditties as they sang at their mowing. Later
on, as the mist lifted, I walked up to where they were working, and the
first thing I noticed was that their trousers were so long as to be
quite dripping with mud, just as their skirts would have been had they
worn them. When the old man went out he turned his up.
[Illustration: A FAMILY GROUP.
_From a Photograph._]
Another feminine absurdity is the wearing of a long sort of toga, which
trails down their backs and gets in the way whenever they bend over or
go through the tangles of the mountain wood.
“Why don’t you wear a cap or small felt hat like the men?” I asked an
old woman once.
“We have always covered our heads so,” was her explanation--an
explanation, in her opinion, that was all-sufficing; peasants from one
generation to another do everything simply because their forefathers
did the same.
[Illustration: A HALT FOR REST.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]
One would imagine that on Sundays and fête days these women,
particularly the young ones, would yield to the eternal feminine
instinct of assuming the finery of their sex, but not they. Rest-time
and feast-time always finds them in their usual garments. They have
better-looking ones for these occasions, I confess, but they have no
hankering for the trammels of skirts even during their courting hours.
I was highly amused at seeing the pretty girls sauntering along the
picturesque trails with their sweet-hearts’ arms around their waists,
looking to the casual stranger for all the world like two young men
gone “loony.”
One can scarcely imagine a wedding-party with bride and groom dressed
in the same kind of garments, but I have seen one in the mountains,
when the bride wore a white bodice, white trousers, and a bunch of
white violets in her hair! She was as pretty as a picture, too, despite
the attire, and quite as blushing and shy as any bride out of a convent.
The man of her choice, a perfect giant of a peasant, was resplendent in
native costume, the chief glory of which, a green waistcoat with large
brass buttons, could be seen a long way off.
Most of the weddings of recent years have been held in the little
chapel of the village down in the valley, where the regulation “slip
over” skirt is donned at the chapel door, to be discarded before the
tramp up the mountain-side is begun.
One day I was told in the village that a funeral was to be held in
the little mountain settlement above Champéry, and I trudged up the
zigzag pathway as hurriedly as the occasion would allow, for I confess
to having a penchant for witnessing these mournful conclaves in every
foreign country I may visit.
I had no trouble in discovering the house of mourning, as a crowd of
peasants hung about the door. Soon the little procession, headed by the
priest and his attendants, filed out of the door and moved with solemn
chant down the mountain-side towards the little churchyard below.
On inquiry, I learned that the departed one was the elderly husband
of a bent and weather-beaten old peasant woman, who tottered along in
faded black garments, the nether portion of which looked for all the
world as if she had donned the “left-overs” of her dear departed. On
her head was a crisp new crape toga, however, and as she hobbled along
I confess that she made a pathetic as well as an incongruous figure.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGERS POSSESS LARGE HERDS OF FINE MILCH-GOATS,
WHICH THE WOMEN LOOK AFTER WHILE THEIR MEN-FOLK STOP AT HOME.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]
Despite the fact that the women work hard out of doors, summer and
winter, exposed to the worst of weathers, they are mostly long-lived
and seldom know what illness is. I often saw them working in the
hayfields with their babies lying blinking in the sunlight near by.
At noon they lounged under the trees, talking mother-foolishness to
the wee things, and their queer garments never seem so hideous and
altogether distasteful as when they are nursing the children.
The lack of even the simplest understanding of remedies for either
illness or accident has always struck me as most remarkable among the
Swiss peasantry. They may live several hours’ journey away from a
doctor or chemist without ever making the least attempt at learning
what to do for even the simplest ailments.
I once knew one of these Champéry women to have sunstroke so badly that
she became quite unconscious, and continued so long in that state that
I was certain she would die.
[Illustration: “MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB”--THIS PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS CLEARLY
THE “HOME-MADE” CUT OF THE TROUSERS AND THE CURIOUS HEAD-DRESS WORN BY
THE WOMEN.]
There were any number of old men and women gathered round wailing, but
none of them seemed to know what to do in such a case. The woman’s
mother suggested giving her a cup of coffee, which was attempted, most
of it being spilt over her. Then someone took off her shoes and began
slapping the soles of her feet with a piece of board.
I chanced to have a “first aid” case with me, and--greatly to the
distrust of the peasants--administered what suitable remedies I had;
I also insisted on one going post-haste down the valley for a medical
man. But they would do nothing except wail and shake their heads.
Finally the patient came round all right, saying that her head “felt
full of hot things,” and the next morning, when I called to inquire
after her, I found that she was at work in the hayfields, hatless,
under the scorching sunlight, as usual. At another time a little child
of three was taken with convulsions from having eaten too much cheese,
and died without having anything done to save the little creature; the
old women simply wagging their heads wisely and muttering something
about their all “going” when taken like that. With them it is evidently
a case of the survival of the fittest.
Last summer I was in Champéry at the time of the great Swiss national
holiday, when everybody celebrates Swiss freedom by making as much
noise as possible during the day and lighting huge bonfires at night.
Everyone was dressed in holiday finery, many of the younger women
appearing in grey-check trousers and hats with artificial flowers!
One happy family party, consisting of the father and mother and four
children, had evidently a decided fondness for royal purple--or perhaps
this was the colour of their clan--for the six of them, even to the
babe in arms, were arrayed in the purple of kings and emperors!
The baby in particular attracted my interest insomuch that I ventured
to take the little creature in my arms in the hope that I might slip
it out of the cartridge-like swaddling-case in which these poor little
wretches are carried about. I might just as well have tried to pull off
the muzzle of a gun; the babe was as tightly fixed in his terribly hot
case as though it were a vice. And yet I doubt not he will grow into
a fine stalwart son of the mountains, though how they ever manage to
expand or lengthen at all is a mystery to me.
I once sat talking to an old goatherd who certainly looked as if he had
sat in the same nook in the mountains for at least a century. He was so
bent and rheumaticky-looking that I quite failed to see how he could
possibly make his way along the steep and slippery paths. His “old
woman,” as he called her, was off down the valley gathering faggots.
“She be a great worker,” he told me, and never got tired the way he
did. I asked him if he liked the idea of the women doing most of the
hard work; he answered by saying that it “was their way.” It suited the
women to work at the hay, he seemed to think; and, besides, they hadn’t
to smoke, which was evidently sufficient occupation for the men.
This old man had never seen a railway until this last summer, when a
branch line was run on to the village of Champéry, at the foot of his
mountain home. I asked him what he thought of it, and he grumbled out a
long tale of how it had already killed a lot of goats and sheep!
Any sort of progress is looked upon with the greatest prejudice and
suspicion by these people, who will undergo any fatigue and discomfort
rather than change the routine of centuries.
Coming down a mountain path one evening, I ran into a party of peasant
girls toiling up with huge baskets of provisions strapped to their
backs. In the half light I mistook them for men from their garb, but
coming nearer I recognised their red togas, and later their women’s
voices.
[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN IDYLL.
_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]