DESCENDING IN THE SAFETY-CAGE.
All being clad in the uniform of the gnomes of the silver-caverns, we go
out to the shaft. A cage is stopped at the top of one of the
compartments of the shaft, and its platform stands just on a level with
the floor of the building. The cage is a heavy iron frame with grooves
on two sides, which fit upon wooden guides run from the top to the
bottom of the shaft. Upon these guides the cage runs smoothly through
the whole course up and down the shaft, much the same as an elevator in
a large hotel is seen to work.
The cage may have but a single floor or platform, or it may have two or
three, upon each of which may be hoisted a car loaded with ore, or on
which men may be raised or lowered. Those with two platforms are called
“double-deckers,” and those with three platforms are called
“three-deckers.”
One of the foremen of the mine, the superintendent, or whoever is to be
our conductor, groups us upon the cage, showing us where we may safely
grasp its iron frame for support, and finally all are in position.
The engineer is standing with one hand on the lever of his engine,
watching our proceedings. Our conductor turns toward him with a wave of
the hand. Instantly we feel ourselves dropping into the depth and
darkness of the shaft.
Our first thought is, that between us and the bottom of the shaft—1500
feet below—we have nothing but the frail platform of the cage, and,
instinctively, we tighten our grip upon the iron bars of the cage,
determined that, should the bottom drop out, we will be found hanging to
the upper works of our strange vehicle.
At the first plunge all is dark, but suspended from the cross-bar of the
cage, or in the hands of our conductor, we have a lantern or two, and by
the light afforded by these, we soon begin to distinguish the sides of
the shaft. Our view is very unsatisfactory, however, as all the timbers
on the sides of the compartment appear to be darting swiftly upward
toward the top of the shaft; just as trees, fences, and telegraph poles
seem to be running backwards when we are flying through the country on a
lightning-express train.
Our speed is probably not half that at which the cage is lowered when
its only load is an empty ore-car, a few beams of timber, or some such
freight; but we are not anxious to go any faster. In the early days, on
receiving a wink from a foreman, an engineer would drop men down a shaft
at such a rate of speed that their breath was almost taken away, but at
present, no superintendent on the Comstock allows any such dangerous
fooling.
As soon as we have descended a few feet into the shaft, we see nothing
of the steam, which, rushing out at its top, had presented so formidable
an appearance above. It really amounts to nothing. It is merely the
moist, warm breath of the mine coming in contact with the cold air at
the surface. It is the same as the steam rising from a spring in winter,
or as one’s breath blown into the air on a frosty morning. This steam is
seen at the mouth of the Consolidated Virginia shaft because it is what
is called an “upcast,” that is, the draft in it is upward. At the Ophir
shaft no steam is seen, as it is a “downcast,” the surface air is drawn
or sucked in at its mouth. The air that enters the mouth of the Ophir
shaft comes out at the mouth of the Consolidated Virginia shaft.
As we dart along down the shaft, we soon begin to pass the stations of
the first or upper levels. Our speed is such that we see but little. We
get a glimpse of what appears to be a room of considerable size, see a
few men standing about with candles or lanterns in their hands, hear
voices, and probably the clank of machinery. An instant after, all is
again smooth sailing, and we see only the upward-fleeing sides of the
shaft. Then there is another flash of many lights, a glimpse of
half-naked men, a murmur of voices, and a clash of machinery, and we
have passed another station. It is much like running past a railroad
station in the night.
Sometimes our conductor is hailed by some one at a station as we dart
past. We hear the voice, but distinguish no words. The conductor,
however, has understood, and makes answer. As he replies, we drop away
from the sound of his voice at such a rapid rate that his words are
drawn out into sounds which we can hardly understand, though we are
standing by his side. The answer, which is left scattered along up the
shaft, is finally gathered in at the station for which it was intended,
and is there put together and understood.
When we have descended to such a depth that from one thousand to twelve
hundred feet of cable have been paid out from the reel above, we begin
to experience quite a novel sensation. This is the “spring” of the
cable.
Most persons have observed the very active bobbing motion of a toy ball
suspended from an india-rubber string. The motion of our cage, hanging
at the end of the cable, is much the same. The less one has of this
peculiar motion the more he enjoys it. When this motion sets in, we at
once begin to speculate in regard to the probable amount of “stretch” to
be found in a first-class steel-wire cable—how far it may stretch before
reaching the breaking point. It may be no more than 500 feet to the
bottom of the shaft, but we feel that we do not care to risk falling
even that short distance.
However, should the cable really break, there would be no danger, we
should not fall. Attached to the upper part of the cage is a
safety-apparatus designed expressly to prevent accidents of this nature.
At the instant that the cable parted there would be released powerful
springs which would throw out on each side of the shaft an eccentric,
toothed wheel. These wheels, biting into the guides on each side, would
instantly stop and hold the cage, block it fast in the shaft, as the
wheels are of such a shape that the greater the weight and downward
pressure upon the cage, the tighter they hold. In case of the cable
breaking, we should not fall an inch, perhaps not half an inch—thanks to
that life-saving invention, the safety-cage!
When the safety-cage was first introduced on the Comstock, I had the
pleasure of assisting in making a test of the efficacy of the
safety-apparatus at the Savage mine. We attached the cage to the iron
cable by means of a large hempen rope.
This done, the superintendent and a gentleman present, who was in search
of excitement, got upon the cage, and we lowered them into the mouth of
the shaft, which was 1,000 feet in depth. We at the surface, who were
conducting the experiment, then asked the superintendent and his
companion if they were ready to be “launched into eternity,” and
receiving an affirmative reply, a brawny-armed miner, standing ready
with a big broad-ax, severed the rope at a single blow. The cage dropped
less than an inch, we above were all glad the experiment was over.
Had the safety apparatus failed to work, we at the surface would
doubtless have all been summoned as witnesses when the coroner held his
inquest.
In case of a train of railroad cars getting off the track, we never know
where we shall bring up; we may go over an embankment or may be dragged
against a point of rocks, but when a cable breaks while we are
descending a shaft, we stop exactly where we happen to be when the
accident occurs. Thus, as the sailor in a storm at sea pities the poor
wretches who are on shore, so may the miner pity those persons above
ground who travel on railroads.
In former times, however, previous to the introduction of the
safety-cage in the Comstock mines, the breaking of a cable was an
accident more dreaded and more dreadful than almost any other. There was
no dodging when a cable parted. All who were on the cage must go to the
bottom of the shaft. There the cage would be torn to pieces and driven
through platforms of plank three or four inches in thickness into the
“sump” or well of the shaft, where all who were not killed outright,
were drowned.
Whether half a dozen men or a dozen were on the cage, it nearly always
happened that all were killed. If any did in any instance escape, it was
in such a horribly mangled condition that they were maimed for life. No
wonder, then, that the miner every day of his life, and as often as he
goes up and down the great shafts, blesses in his heart the inventor of
the safety-cage!
[Illustration: HOISTING CAGES AND CARS IN SILVER MINES.]
We have been a long time in the shaft, though it takes but a very short
time to make the actual descent. There is an occasional flash of lights,
hum of voices, and clash of machinery, as described above, when the
motion of the cage begins to “slow down,” and a moment after this is
noticed it stops exactly on a level with the floor of the station, 1,500
feet below the surface of the earth. We can hardly realize that we are
standing at such a great depth below the upper world and the light of
day.
Before us is what is called the “Station.”
A ‘station’ is the place of landing at each level of the mine (the
levels are generally about 100 feet apart), and it is at the station
that the cage stops to take on or let off passengers, to take on cars
loaded with ore that are going up, or to put off empty cars that are
going down. The station is generally a large and roomy apartment, the
walls of which are ceiled with rough boards, and the roof of which shows
heavy supporting beams.
It looks not unlike the interior of some of the large, rude wayside-inns
seen in places in California on mountain roads. Hats, coats, shirts, and
many similar articles are seen hanging upon nails driven into the walls,
and two or three large coal-oil lamps fixed in brackets, render the
place light and cheerful.
Upon the floor of the station (it has a floor as good as would be seen
in most houses), ranged along the walls are seen boxes of candles, coils
of fuse, and many other mining stores. There is also a large cask
containing ice-water, with a tin dipper hanging on a nail near at hand.
The station is a sort of lounging place, where the men who happen to
have nothing to do for a few minutes stop to hear the news from the
surface. Here there is more chat and sociability than in any other part
of the mine. The reports of the sales of stocks in the San Francisco
Stock Board are brought to the office of the mine as soon as they are
telegraphed to the city, and about the time the reports arrive, you will
hear the men at the station anxiously inquiring the price of stocks of
the first man who comes down from the surface. The man thus questioned
seems well prepared to answer, and gives the prices for the day, of a
dozen or more of the leading stocks.
His report doubtless quickly passes through the mine, and soon five or
six hundred men away down in the silver caverns, from 1,500 to 2,000
feet beneath the surface, know as much about the price of stocks for the
day as do those persons who are walking the streets of the town. Other
items of news circulate in the same way; but stocks they are always
interested in. Almost every miner owns shares in some mine. There are
not a few men working in mines along the Comstock who are worth from
$40,000 to $50,000, and some who are probably worth still larger sums.
While at work they are earning $4 per day regularly, and can “speculate”
just as well as if they were constantly on the streets watching the
stock reports.
In some of the stations are to be seen things that one would not expect
to find hundreds of feet below the surface. In the Crown Point mine, for
instance, the visitor finds on one of the walls of the station at the
1,100-foot level, a handsome little cabinet of ores, minerals, coins,
and curiosities of all kinds—all neatly displayed in a suitable case
which is provided with glazed doors. On the walls is also to be seen a
considerable collection of photographs of actors, actresses, singers,
and other celebrities. There is one group that is labelled “Vasquez and
His Friends.” The “friends” grouped about the notorious bandit are
photographs of leading citizens of the town of Gold Hill, a church
deacon among the number.
We have all heard about things being played “low down,” but it would
seem that this joker, at the depth of 1,100 feet, has it down about as
low as any man on the continent. The cabinet, and the gallery of
celebrities are the property, the care, and the pride of the
station-tender of the level named.
A car-track—a railroad track in miniature—is laid through the floor in
the centre of the station, which track runs out to the main north and
south drift of the mine (it must be borne in mind that the general
course of the Comstock lode is north and south), and through the main
drift connects—by means of turn-tables—with a great number of cross-cuts
and other drifts.
As we stand in the station, cars loaded with ore are regularly arriving
from the several “stopes” of the level. These are run upon the cage, the
signal to hoist is given to the engineer above, and an instant after,
the cage and car, with its load of ore, dart swiftly up the shaft.
Perhaps at the same instant a cage comes down the adjoining compartment,
bringing with it an empty ore-car. This is at once grasped by a man in
waiting, known in the mine as a “carman,” and is trundled away to some
distant part of the mine, to be again loaded with ore and again whisked
up to the surface on the cage.
As there are three hoisting compartments, the arrivals and departures
are quite frequent, and the station is really quite a business place.
[Illustration]