Hungry Hill (6 page)

A slow smile crept on the face of Morty Donovan.

“And see them all acquitted at the Mundy Assizes,” he said. “I have no notion what you are talking about, Mr.

Brodrick; I have not been near Hungry Hill these many months. As to plunder, I should ask your Cornish workers what they do with the stuff, and Captain Nicholson, who has money enough to buy his wife an embroidered shawl, so they tell me, to parade the street in Doonhaven like a peahen.”

“The Cornishmen are innocent, you know that well enough,” replied John Brodrick, “and the men of Doonhaven would have worked honestly, and been glad too for the employment, but for the way you have gone behind my back and spread your poison.”

“Poison, is it?” cried the old man, pretending to lose his temper. “Is it poison to call down the mercy of the Saints to forgive you for the distress you have caused in Doonhaven with this same mine, where you have the men and the young boys, scarcely more than children, working and sweating to make your fortune? I call on the walls of this house to witness that no word of mine has gone forth to cause you annoyance; rather my speech has been filled with pity for you.”

Copper John heard him out without interruption, unmoved by the flow of eloquence.

“You can talk yourself hoarse, Donovan,” he said, “you are perfectly aware that none of it will make any impression upon me. Whatever methods you employ to carry away the ore in secret to Mundy, and to Slane, and into the next county, depend upon it I shall discover them, and you and the culprits concerned will be severely dealt with. I suppose you do not wish to end your days in prison, but that you will do, if you persist in robbing me and the members of my company.”

Morty Donovan made no answer. His blue eyes had lost their fire, and he leant back in his bed as though weary of the discussion.

“And if the men of Doonhaven do sell your copper unbeknown to you,” he said, “it’s yourself who is the cause of it, Mr. Brodrick, for starting the mine in the beginning, and putting the poor creatures in the way of temptation.”

This last was more than Copper John’s patience could stand.

He rose to his feet and curtly bade Morty Donovan good-day.

“Remember,” he said, “I came here to warn you, and your sons too if they are acting for you. And I will thank you to leave my tenants alone, and keep your cattle where they belong.”

So saying he brushed past Donovan’s wife, who stood in the open doorway, and followed by his agent went out of the house into the yard.

“I was a fool to waste my time coming out here,” said Copper John, “but at least I have given him warning, and he knows now what to expect.”

At this moment the cur belonging to the farm fell upon Ned Brodrick’s spaniel, and the two tumbled over one another, snarling and snapping, and would not let go for all the agent did to separate them. Mrs.

Donovan called shrilly from the house, and a man appeared from the outhouse across the yard and pulled the mongrel away, cuffing and kicking it, so that the poor brute ran whining out of the reach of his boot.

Sam Donovan was about thirty years of age, and was an unfortunate mixture of his father and his mother, having the fine points of neither. His blue eyes were weak and watery, and the stubble of beard on his chin concealed a loose, flabby mouth. He had a way of smiling sideways and looking down at his feet, scratching his ear as he did so.

“Good-day, Sam,” said John Brodrick curtly. “Should you want to know why I entered your father’s house, you had best go inside and ask him, while the memory of my visit is still fresh in his mind.”

“If it’s Tom Moore’s fence that has brought you here, I wasn’t at home when the cows intruded there, I was down in Doonhaven,” said Sam Donovan, glancing from Copper John back to the agent. “The fact of the matter is that fence of his is too far to the north, it encroaches on our land, and anyone else would tell you the same. Tom Moore had no business to put up the fence at all.”

“The matter of that fence was brought up for arbitration six months ago, and you know it perfectly well, Sam Donovan,” broke in the agent, at once in his element, and desirous of showing his authority.

“Didn’t I come over myself and measure the ground, and have two unbiased parties here to witness the fairness of what was agreed, and you remember you said yourself at the time…”

“That will do, Ned,” said John Brodrick impatiently. “The matter is of no importance, and Sam knows that if his father’s cattle broke down the fence his father must pay for the damage done, and there is no more to be said. Let us get home before we are both drenched to the skin.”

He turned abruptly away, without bidding Sam Donovan good-bye, and his agent was obliged to follow him, regretting the break in the argument, which might have lasted some considerable time and would have resulted in going once more into the house and continuing the discussion over a glass of whisky, had he been on his own and not in company with his brother and employer.

The weather had changed, as it so often did in the country, to clammy mist and drizzle, and the rain swept now over the moors as though the sun had never shone for the day. One thing was certain, thought Copper John as he strode along beside the bog, always five yards or so ahead of his agent, the time had arrived to make the Donovans understand, finally and for ever, that their influence on the people of Doonhaven must finish. The ridiculous family feud belonged to a past that was dead and buried. If the Donovans had come down in the world it was from their own idleness and feckless way of living; the prosperity of the Brodricks had nothing to do with it. Any fortune that he, John Brodrick, was making came from his own energies and his fortunate ability to march with the times. If the Donovans did not understand this, and continued their policy of obstruction, then the Donovans would be broken. And the sooner they were broken the better it would be for Doonhaven. There were too many families like them in the country, proud, idle, and good-for-nothing, ever ready to raise a protest against the law, a continual menace to the Government and to loyal landlords like himself. Until these people were brought to heel and made to fit in with progress and the general scheme of things, the country would never prosper.

So Copper John decided, coming out on to the road and leaving the wet bog and the brown moors behind him, the rain streaming from his coat. And as he reached his own gate-house, at the entrance to the park, and, dismissing his agent, proceeded to walk down the carriage road, the sky cleared, as suddenly as it had clouded, the grassland shone and glistened under the sun, and down in the wood by the water’s edge the herons rose from their nests in the tall trees, and with heavy flapping wings flew slowly down the creek.

He turned up from the drive, and stood on the bank of smooth grass before the castle, looking with pride and affection at the strong grey walls of his house, the tower at the end, the mass of trees climbing the hill behind, and thought how he would build on additions to the house, making it stronger still, with bigger windows, other towers, not for his own sake, but for Henry’s, and for Henry’s children, and in days to come this castle of Clonmere would be a landmark far and wide, and people travelling the road from Mundy to Doonhaven would stop below Hungry Hill and point westward across the water, saying, “There is Clonmere, the home of the Brodricks.” And beside it would be the tall chimneys of the mines.

Henry and John arrived from London at the end of the week. Meanwhile, there had been no further incident at the mine, and Captain Nicholson gave it as his opinion that the return of the Director of the Company had frightened the pilferers, and possibly brought them to some sense of honesty.

This opinion was short-lived, however, for on the day following the young men’s arrival, one of the trolleys, which had been fully loaded at the close of the preceding day’s work, and which was stationed in the customary track outside the cleansing-shed, where the copper was washed and separated, was found in the morning, when wheeled to the dressing-station, filled not with copper but with iron residue. The men who had been in charge of this particular trolley were summoned at once by Captain Nicholson and closely questioned, but both appeared stupefied at what had happened. Captain Nicholson went down the mine, and, crawling along the narrow gallery, came to the load that had been worked the day before. Gunpowder had been used frequently during the week, and the bitter, pungent smell still clung about the rock-face of the mine, and the rubble had not all been cleared away. The men who were working the seam and had filled the buckets were Doonhaven men, not Captain Nicholson’s own Cornish-men, but, like the surface men, they professed themselves ignorant as to how the iron residue came to fill the trolley, and in proof of their innocence reminded the Captain how he himself had been present the evening before when their shift came off duty, and had supervised the now customary nightly search, and not a trace of any mineral had been found on their persons.

“Do you think we swallow the stuff?” asked one of them, in high indignation. “And will you be cutting open our stomachs to look for it?”

“It’s my belief,” said his companion solemnly, “that the spirits in the old hill make away with it, and put a charm on us in the doing of it, so that we cannot see them crouching beside us with their little barrows.”

“The only spirits that come into this mine you bring yourself in a bottle from Murphy’s shop in Doonhaven,” said Captain Nicholson. “Go on, get to work, and remember to hold yourselves in readiness for further questions from Mr. Brodrick when he arrives. It’s my belief he will have every one of you arrested by the police and taken into Mundy.”

The new setback meant a great loss of face for Captain Nicholson, who had been congratulating himself that the trouble was over, and it was with extreme reluctance that he sent a lad over to Clonmere with a note to the Director, explaining what had occurred.

Copper John came within the hour, in company with his two sons, and listened to Nicholson’s story in silence, his face hard and expressionless.

“Well, Henry,” he said at the conclusion, “your brains are young, and you arrive here fresh to the business. What do you make of it?”

Henry looked thoughtful. He did not reply immediately. Although he was now twenty-five, and his brother a year younger, they were so used to deferring to their father’s views and opinions, and keeping their own thoughts in abeyance, that to be appealed to in this way was something of a novelty.

Henry’s travels in France and Germany had given him plenty of confidence, however, which his brother still lacked, and he was the lucky possessor too of great natural charm and grace of manner, in addition to a good brain, and, glancing across at Captain Nicholson with a smile, he asked for permission to descend the mine.

“By all means, sir,” said the Captain, “and I will come with you myself.”

“No, don’t trouble to do that,” said Henry. “I think it might be better if I went alone, and possibly my brother could come with me. We may strike upon something that will give a clue to the business and solve your troubles.”

“I wish you success,” said his father, with a short laugh, “but take care not to lose yourselves. John is quite capable of tumbling down the shaft and breaking his neck.”

The brothers left the small counting-house and walked past the dressing-sheds and the trolleys to the ladder, close to the shaft head.

“Well,” said John, “what’s in your mind?”

“Just something,” smiled his brother, “but I shan’t tell you yet. I Want your help, all the same. When we get down to the level where Nicholson told us the men were working yesterday, you must somehow get the fellow there in conversation, while I look about the place without interference. When you see me blow my nose, that will be your signal.”

“What am I to talk to the man about?” objected John.

“Anything you please. Tell him about your new greyhound. But keep his attention distracted.”

“What a tom-fool business it is!” said John. “If I were my father I should let matters alone, and leave the fellows to take the copper. There must be enough to go round. Confound it, Henry, look at the mess they are making of Hungry Hill.”

He pointed at the tall, lean chimney, the long row of sheds, the clustered huts where the miners lived.

“And all,” laughed his brother, “so that I can amuse myself in Paris and Brussels, and you can race your greyhounds.”

They put on mining hats and overalls, and were soon descending the long, steep ladder into the mine.

The atmosphere was a curious mixture of chill and oppression, and the candles stuck in brackets at intervals gave a gloomy, fitful light.

They reached the first level, where they could see the figures of two of the miners beside the shaft, engaged in steadying the buckets en the chains before they were raised to the surface by a windlass. Henry enquired where the blasting operations were in progress, and the two brothers were directed to a lower level.

“It’s the narrowest level in the whole of the mine,” said one of the men. “You will have to go single file, and crawl part of the way.”

Henry was obviously enjoying himself, and looked about him the whole time with keen interest, now and again tapping the rock-face, and whistling under his breath, a habit of his when thinking very hard, while John, who with his superior height found the low ceiling highly uncomfortable, followed his elder brother in silence, aware that with every step he took farther into the bowels of the mine he became more and more depressed. He longed to be up and out of it, away in the fresh air on the top of Hungry Hill, and to him there was something degrading, almost evil, in burrowing like this into the depths, breaking the age-old rock with gunpowder to extract the hidden mineral.

A low rumble and muffled explosion not very far distant warned them that they were nearly within reach of the work, and through the gloom and smoke they edged their way along the gallery close to the miners.

The men’s faces looked grey and haggard in the dim light, and once again John was filled with a sense of oppression. If any harm came to these fellows through their grim work, it would be the fault of his father and himself.