One morning, about seven o'clock, George and James, the two fair-haired
sons of poor John Batten of Botallack, started for their work as usual.
They were in high spirits, having obtained a good "pitch" on last
setting-day, and things were looking well.
They put on their underground clothing at the changing-house, and with
several spare candles attached to buttons on the breasts of their coats,
and their tools slung over their shoulders, walked towards the head of
the ladder-shaft. At the mouth of the shaft they paused for a moment
and glanced round. The sky was bright, the landscape green, and the sun
lit up many a distant sail on the Atlantic.
"I do wish," said the younger with a slight sigh, "that our work was
more in the sunshine?"
"You'll never be a true miner, Jimmy, if 'ee go hankerin' after the sun
like that," said his brother with a laugh, as he stepped on the ladder
and began to descend.
Jimmy took a last look at the rising sun, and followed him close without
replying. The lads were soon beyond the reach of daylight.
This was the last they ever saw of earthly sunshine. In a few minutes
there came a low soft sound up the shaft; it was the lads singing one of
Wesley's beautiful hymns. They had been taught to sing these by their
mother from their infancy, and usually beguiled the tedium of the long
descent of the ladders by singing one or two of them.
Arrived at their place of work the brothers threw down their tools,
fixed their candles against the walls of the level, and began the labour
of the day.
Other men were in that part of the mine at the time, and the brothers
found that a message had been sent to one of the captains requesting him
to come and examine the place, as the men were becoming uneasy at the
increasing flow of water from the walls. One miner, named John Nicols,
was "driving an end," that is, extending the level lengthwise, and two
others were "stopeing," or cutting up into the roof in pursuit of a
promising little lode. They were using hammer and pick in soft ground
when the water trickled through to them.
It was well known that they were approaching an old part of the mine
which had not been worked for thirty years. The drainage of the ground
was not, however, accurately known, therefore questions had been put to
experienced miners as to the probable condition of this "untapped land."
The answer was that, as far as was known, the old mine was full of
"deads," that is, of rubbish, and that there was therefore, in all
probability, no gathering of water in it.
Just at that moment one of the captains entered the level, accompanied
by Oliver Trembath. The latter had been called to see a patient near
the mine, and chanced to be with the captain when he was summoned.
Being anxious to see the place, and the nature of the danger that
threatened, he had descended along with him.
Before the captain had time to put a question, and while the men were
still picking cautiously at the soft ground, the flow of water suddenly
increased. Recognising probable danger, a lad named Oats called to his
father, who was at the "end" of the level with Nicols. At the same
moment the water forced a gap in the wall three feet long by about half
a foot wide, and burst in upon them with terrific violence. All turned
and fled. Oats and his son, with the captain and Nicols, made for the
nearest shaft--which was about eighty yards distant--and escaped, but
the brothers Batten and Oliver were thrown down and swept away. One
desperate effort was made by Oliver to outstrip the rushing stream; but
the candles had been blown out, and, not stooping sufficiently low, he
dashed his head against an overhanging rock, and fell. He retained
sufficient consciousness, however, to be aware that a desperate struggle
for life must be made, and, without knowing what he did, or at what he
aimed, he fought with the strength of a giant in thick darkness against
the chaotic flood; but his strength soon gave way, and in a few seconds
he became insensible.
That a terrible catastrophe had occurred was at once known to all the
men in the mine by the roar of the rushing water. In order that the
reader may clearly understand the situation, it is necessary to explain
that the accident occurred in one of the _upper_ levels, at or near its
extremity. At the same depth there were many of these underground
passages, running in various directions, and several miles in extent,
some of them being worked, but most of them old and used up--all the ore
having been extracted from them. At various depths below this level
other levels had been cut--also running in various directions, and of
several miles' extent. These successive levels were not only connected
and communicated with by the main shafts of the mine, but by "winzes" or
smaller shafts which connected level with level in many places. Some of
these were used as ladder-ways, but others had been cut merely for the
purpose of securing ventilation. In many parts of these lower levels
miners were at work--some, in following the course of promising lodes,
"stopeing," or cutting overhead, some cutting downwards, some "driving
ends" or extending the levels, and others sinking winzes to keep up the
ventilation as they pushed further and further from the shafts or
throats, down which flowed the life-giving air.
By all of these men the dreaded sounds above--which reached the
profounder depths with the muffled but deep-toned roar of a distant
storm--were well understood and well heard, for the pent-up waters, in
their irresistible fury, carried before them the pent-up atmosphere, and
sent it through the low and narrow levels as if through the circling
tubes of a monster trumpet, which, mingled with the crash of hurling
timbers, rocks, and debris, created a mighty roar that excelled in
hideous grandeur the prolonged peals of loud thunder.
Every man dropped his tools, and ran to the nearest shaft for his life.
It was not, indeed, probable that the flood would fill all the
wide-extended ramifications of the vast mine, but no one knew for
certain where the catastrophe had occurred, or how near the danger might
be to the spot where he laboured. Enough for each that death was
dealing terrible destruction somewhere _overhead_, and that, unless
every muscle were strained to the uttermost, the pathway might be filled
up, and his retreat cut off. The rush was swiftly but not easily made.
Those who have never traversed the levels of a Cornish mine may perhaps
fancy, on hearing of levels six feet high, and about two and a half feet
broad, on the average, that the flight might resemble the rush of men
through the windings and turnings of the intricate passages in a
stupendous old castle. But it was far otherwise. The roofs, walls, and
floors of these levels were irregular, not only in direction, but in
height and form. There was no levelling or polishing-off anywhere. It
was tunnelling of the roughest kind. Angles and projections remained as
the chisel, the pick, and the blasting-powder had left them. Here, the
foot tripped over a lump, or plunged into a hollow; there, the head
narrowly missed a depending mass of rock, or the shoulder grazed a
projecting one. Elsewhere, pools of water lay in the path, and at
intervals the yawning chasm of a winze appeared, with one or two broken
planks to bridge the gulf, of twenty, forty, or sixty feet, that
descended to the levels below. Sometimes it was possible to run with
the head stooped a little; generally the back had to be bent low--often
double; and occasionally progress could only be made on hands and
knees,--this, too, with a candle to be guarded from blasts of air or
dripping water, and trimmed, lest it should go out and leave the place
in total darkness.
But long-continued habit and practice had made the men so familiar with
the place, and so nimble in their movements, that they traversed the
levels with wonderful rapidity, and most of them ascended the shaft of
the mine in safety.
Some, however, escaped with the utmost difficulty, and a few there
were--chiefly among those who had been near to or immediately below the
scene of the outbreak--who perished miserably.
At the first rush the water had almost filled the level where it
occurred, and, sweeping onward about eight fathoms to a winze, plunged
down and partly over it. The greater part, however, went down to the
eighty-five fathom level. East of this a man named Anguin, with his two
sons, William and James--youths of about twenty years of age--were at
work. They heard the roar of the approaching torrent, and the father
and younger son James rushed towards the winze, intending to ascend the
ladder. Before they reached it the flood was pouring down with
deafening noise. The least harmful part of the cataract was the water,
for the current now carried along with it stones, pieces of timber, and
rubbish. To encounter all this might have caused the stoutest hearts to
quail, but miners can never calculate the probable extent of an
inundation. They might, indeed, by remaining in the roof of the level,
escape; but, on the other hand, if the flood should be great enough to
fill the place, they would certainly be drowned. Father and son,
therefore, preferred to make a desperate effort to save their lives.
They dashed into the flood and made a grasp at the ladder, but before
their hands touched the first round they were beaten down and swept away
dead corpses. William, on the other hand, climbed to a cross-piece of
timber, where he remained until the water abated, which it did in a very
short time, for events of this kind are for the most part awfully sudden
and brief as well as fatal. Then, descending, he groped his way in the
dark over the very spot where his father and brother lay dead--fearfully
mutilated and covered with rubbish--and escaped up the shaft.
In a still lower level two brothers were at work. Miners usually work
in couples--sometimes in larger numbers--and brothers frequently go
together. They were in a winze about thirty fathoms from the
engine-shaft. Being overtaken by the flood they were washed _down_, to
the next level, and along it nearly to the shaft. As the torrent tore
past this place, bearing splintered timber, stones, and rubbish along
with it, an iron wagon was caught up and flung across the level. This
formed a barricade, against which the brothers were dashed. The elder
of these brothers was afterwards found alive here, and carried to the
surface; but he was speechless, and died twenty minutes after being
brought up. When the dead body of the younger and weaker brother was
recovered, it was found to be dreadfully shattered, nearly every bone
being crushed.
In the same level, two men--John Paul and Andrew Teague--hearing the
rush of the advancing torrent above their head, made for a shaft, went
up it against a heavy fall of water, and escaped.
A man named Richard--a powerful man and a cool experienced miner, who
had faced death in almost every form--was at work in one of the lowest
levels with his son William, a youth of twenty-one, and his nephew, a
lad of seventeen, who was the sole support of a widowed mother with six
children. They were thirty fathoms from one of the winzes down which
the water streamed. On hearing the roar Richard cautioned the younger
men to be prompt, but collected. No time was to be lost, but rash haste
might prove as fatal as delay. He sent them on in front of him, and
they rushed under and past the winze, where they were nearly crushed by
the falling water, and where, of course, their candles were
extinguished, leaving them in midnight darkness. This last was not so
serious a matter to the elder Richard as, at first sight, it might
appear. He knew every foot of the ground they had to traverse, with all
its turnings, yawning chasms, and plank bridges, and could have led the
way blindfold almost as easily as with a light. As they neared the
shaft he passed the younger men, and led the way to prevent them falling
into it. At this time the water raged round them as high as their
waists. The nephew, who was weak, in consequence of a fever from which
he had not quite recovered, fell, and, passing the others unobserved,
went down the shaft and was lost. The escape of Richard and his son was
most wonderful. William was a stout fellow, but the father much more
so. They were driven at first into the shaft, but there the fall of
water was so great that they could do nothing more than cling to the
ladder. By this cataract they were beaten back into the level, but here
the water rose around them so quickly and with such force as to oblige
them to make another effort to ascend.
There was a crevice in the roof of the level here, in which the father
had left part of his supply of candles and a tinder-box. He succeeded
in reaching these, and in striking a light, which revealed to them the
full horrors of their situation. It was with difficulty that the candle
could be kept burning by holding it close to the roof under a projecting
piece of rock which sheltered it partially from the dashing spray.
"Let us try again!" shouted the father.
The noise was so great that it was with difficulty they could make each
other hear.
"It's all over with we," cried the son; "let us pray, faither."
The father urged his son, however, to make another effort, as the water
had risen nearly to their waists, and prevailed on him to do so, getting
on the ladder himself first, in order to bear the brunt of the falling
water and thus break its force to his son. As the water below was now
rising swiftly William only held the light long enough to enable his
father to obtain a secure footing on the ladder, when he dropped it and
followed him. So anxious was the youth to escape from the danger that
menaced him from below, that he pressed eagerly up against his father.
In doing so, he over-reached the rounds of the ladder on which his
father trod, and, almost at every step, the latter unwittingly planted
his heavy-nailed boots on the son's hands, lacerating them terribly. To
avoid this was impossible. So heavy was the descending flood, that it
was only his unusually great strength which enabled the father to
advance slowly up against it. The son, being partially sheltered by his
father's body, knew not the power against which he had to contend, and,
being anxious to go up faster, pressed too closely on him, regardless,
in his alarm, of the painful consequences. Masses of stone, wood, and
rubbish, dashed down the shaft and grazed their shoulders, but
providentially none struck them severely. Thus, slowly and painfully,
did they ascend to a height of eighty-four feet, and were saved.
In another part of the mine, below the level where the accident
occurred, James Penrose, whom we have already introduced to the reader,
was at work with John Cock. The latter having taken a fancy to try
mining for a time instead of smuggling--just by way of a change--had
joined the former in working a "pitch" in Botallack mine. These men
were peculiarly situated. They were in a level which the water entered,
not by flowing along or descending, but, by rising up through a winze.
On hearing the noise they ran to this winze, and, looking down, saw the
water boiling and roaring far below. They were about to pass on to the
shaft when Penrose observed a dark object moving on the ladder. It came
slowly up.
"Hallo! John," cried Penrose, "stay a bit; here's some one on the
ladder."
John Cock returned, and they both stooped to afford help. In another
moment Oliver Trembath, drenched and bleeding, and covered with mud,
stood, or rather reeled, before them. It was evident that he was only
half conscious, and scarcely able to stand. But they had no time to
speak--scarcely to think--for the water was already boiling up through
the winze like a huge fountain, and filling the level. They seized
Oliver by the arms and dragged him hastily towards the nearest winze
that led upward. Here they found water pouring down like rain, and
heard its thunders above them, but the stream was not sufficient to
retard their progress up the winze, which they ascended with comparative
ease. Penrose and Cock were surprised at this, but the small quantity
of water was soon accounted for by the fact that the hatch or trap-door
of the winze had been closed; and thus, while it prevented the great
body of water above from descending, also effectually shut off the only
way of escape. They were therefore compelled to descend again to the
level, in which the water was now rising rapidly.
Oliver leaned against the rock, and stood in apathetic silence. Penrose
tried to rouse him, but failed. His injuries had rendered him almost in
capable of coherent speech, and his replies showed that his mind was
rambling on the necessity of making haste and struggling hard.
James Penrose, who was a "class-leader" and a local preacher among the
Wesleyans, and mentally much superior to his comrades, now proved beyond
a doubt that his God was to him "a very present help in trouble." Both
he and Cock knew, or at least believed, that death was certain to
overtake them in a few minutes, for both before and behind retreat was
cut off, and the water was increasing with frightful rapidity.
Observing that Cock looked anxious, Penrose turned and said
earnestly,--"John, you and I shall be dead in a few minutes.
"For myself I have no fear, for my peace is already made with God,
through Jesus Christ--blessed be His name--but, oh! John, you do know
that it is not so with you. Turn, John, turn, even now, to the Lord,
who tells you that `though thy sins be as scarlet they shall be as white
as snow,' and that `_now_ is the day of salvation,' if you will only
repent, and believe on Him!"
"Pray for un, James," said Cock, whose face betrayed his fears.
Penrose at once clasped his hands, and, closing his eyes, prayed for his
comrade with such fervour that his voice rose loud and strong above the
turmoil of the flood. He was still engaged in prayer when the water
drove them from the level, and compelled them to re-ascend the winze.
Here John Cock began to pray for himself in agonising tones. By this
time Oliver had partially recovered, and suggested that they should
ascend the winze to the top. Penrose assured him that it was useless to
do so; but, while he was still speaking, he observed that the water
ceased to rise, and began quickly to abate. In fact, all that we have
taken so long to describe--from the outburst to the termination of the
great rush--took place within half an hour.
The noise overhead now grew less and less, until it almost ceased. They
then ascended to the trap-door and tried to force it open, but failed.
They shouted, however, and were heard, ere long, by those who had
escaped and had returned to the mine to search for their less fortunate
companions. The trap-door was opened, strong and willing hands were
thrust down the dark winze to the rescue, and in a few seconds the three
men were saved.
The danger was past--but several lives had been lost in the terrible
catastrophe.