Thunder and Roses (17 page)

which were in short supply in a pit. He coughed and blinked his stinging eyes, remembering why curiosity had never led him to come down here when he was a boy.

“We’ll go to the western coal face,” Owen said. “It’s not so busy at that end, so you’ll be able to see more.”

Half a dozen tunnels led from the main gallery. While crossing to the one that would take them to their destination, they dodged small wheeled wagons full of coal. “That’s a corf,” Owen explained as the first rolled by, pushed by two adolescent boys. Holds five hundredweight of coal. The lads who push are called putters. Larger pits have rails for the corves—makes the work easier.”

They entered a passage, Owen in the lead, followed by Clare, with Nicholas bringing up the rear. The roof was not quite high enough for Nicholas to stand erect. He became conscious of a damp, stony smell that was quite different from the earthy scent of a newly plowed field.

Over his shoulder, Owen said, “Gas is a great problem. Chokedamp collects in the bottom of abandoned workings—that will suffocate you. Firedamp is worse because it explodes. When it gets too

thick, there’s a fellow who crawls in
 
and sets fire to the gas, then lies down and lets the flames run over him.”

“Jesus, that sounds suicidal!”

Owen glanced over his shoulder. “It is, but that doesn’t mean you should take the Lord’s name in vain. Even if you are a lord,” he added with a faint twinkle.

“You know I’ve always been a profane sort, but I’ll try to watch my tongue,” Nicholas promised. It occurred to him that Clare must also find his language offensive. Perhaps he should start swearing in Romany. “Now that you mention it, I’ve heard of burning gas off, but I thought the practice had been abandoned because of the danger.”

“This is a very traditional mine, my lord,” Owen said dryly.

“If you’re going to scold me for bad language, you’ll have to start calling me Nicholas again.” He wiped his forehead with the
flanneled
back of a wrist. “Is it my imagination, or is it warmer here than on the surface?”

“It’s not your imagination,” Clare answered. “The deeper the mine, the warmer the temperature.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Closer to the infernal regions, you know.”

Nicholas’s smile lasted until his foot came down on a soft object that shrieked, then shot away with a scrabble of claws. As he struggled to regain his balance, he bashed his head into the ceiling and doubled over swearing. In Romany.

Clare turned back in concern. “Are you all right?”

He tested his head gingerly. “The padded hat seems to have saved me from bashing my brains out. What did I step on?”

She touched his forehead with a cool hand. “Probably a rat. There’s plenty of them down here.”

Owen, who had also stopped, added, “A bold lot, too. Sometimes they snatch food right from the lads’ hands.”

Moving forward again, Nicholas said, “Has anyone considered bringing down a cat?”

“There are several, and they lead fat, happy lives,” Clare said. “But there are always more rats and mice.”

A faint metallic rattle sounded ahead of them, and as they came around a bend Nicholas saw

that a metal door ahead blocked the tunnel. Owen called, “Huw, open the door.”

The door swung open with a creak and a small boy, perhaps six years old, stuck his head out. “Mr. Morris!” he said with pleasure. “It’s been that long since I’ve seen you.”

Owen stopped and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ve been working the face on the east side. How’s life as a trapper?”

Huw said wistfully, “It’s easy, but it do grow lonesome sitting in the dark all day. And I do not like the rats, sir, not at all.”

Owen took one of his spare candles and lit it, then handed it to the child. “Your
da
won’t let you have a candle?”

Huw shook his head. “He says they’re too dear for a child who only earns
fourpence
a day.”

Nicholas frowned. The boy was working in this black hellhole for only four pennies a day? Appalling.

Owen dug a boiled sweet out of his pocket and gave it to Huw. “I’ll see you when we return.”

They moved through the door and continued down the passage. When they were out of earshot, Nicholas

said, “What the hell is a child that young doing down here?”

“His father wants the money,” Clare said in a hard voice. “Huw’s mother is dead and his father, Nye Wilkins, is a drunken, greedy brute who brought the boy down pit when he was only five.”

“Half the miners owe their allegiance to the chapel, the other half to the tavern,” Owen added. “Five years ago, our Clare stood up in chapel and said that children belonged in school, not the pit. Quite a discussion there was, but before the day was done, every man in Zion chapel had promised not to put his children to work before the age of ten.”

“It would take a brave man to face her down. I wish I’d been there,” Nicholas commented. “Well done, Clare.”

“I do what I can,” she said bleakly, “but it’s never enough. There are at least a dozen boys Huw’s age in the pit. They act as trappers, sitting in the dark all day by those doors that control how air moves through the shafts.”

They passed a shaft that had a length of timber nailed across it. Nicholas asked, “Why is this tunnel blocked off?”

Owen paused. “At the end, the rock changes suddenly and the coal vein disappears.” His brows drew together. “Odd that it’s blocked—there are plenty of dead shafts.”

“Maybe the chokedamp is particularly bad in this tunnel,” Clare suggested.

“Likely that’s it,” Owen said.

They continued on, flattening themselves against the craggy walls whenever a corf was pushed by. Eventually they reached the end of the shaft. In a narrow, irregularly shaped space, a dozen men were
laboring
with picks and shovels. After brief, incurious glances at the newcomers, they proceeded with their work.

“These are hewers,” Owen said. “They’re working long-wall, which means that as coal is removed, the waste stone goes behind them and the props are moved forward to support the work space.”

They watched in silence. Soft clay was used to fix candles in various spots, leaving the hewers’ hands free. Each had a corf sitting behind him to hold his coal, since a hewer was paid for the amount he cut. Nicholas was fascinated at the way the men contorted their bodies to get at the coal. Some knelt, one lay on his back, still

another was doubled over so that he could undercut the bottom of the seam.

His gaze lingered on the hewer at the very end of the shaft. In an undertone, he said, “That fellow down there has no candle. How can he see to work?”

“He doesn’t,” Clare replied. “
Blethyn
is blind.”

“Are you serious?” Nicholas said incredulously. “Surely a pit is too dangerous for a blind man. And how can he tell if he’s cutting coal or waste?”

“By touch and the sound of the pick striking,” Owen said. “
Blethyn
knows every twist and turn in the pit —once when flooding drowned our candles, he led six of us out to safety.”

One of the hewers said, “Time to set another charge.”

Another straightened and wiped sweat from his face. “Aye.
Bodvill
, it’s your turn to set the gunpowder.”

A broad, taciturn man set down his pick, lifted a large hand drill, and started to bore into the rock face. The other hewers put their tools into their corves and began rolling them back along the tunnel. As the observers stood

aside, Owen explained, “When the hole is deep enough, it will be packed with black powder, then lit with a slow fuse.”

“The explosion won’t bring down the shaft?”

“Not if it’s done right,” Clare answered.

Hearing tension vibrate through her terse words, Nicholas gave Clare a puzzled look and saw that she also appeared on the verge of explosion. For an instant he wondered why. Then the obvious answer hit him and he felt like kicking himself.

He had half-forgotten that her father had died down here, but Clare obviously hadn’t; her taut profile spoke vividly of what it was costing her to be in the mine. He wanted to put his arms around her and say something soothing, but he quelled the impulse. Judging by her expression, she did not want sympathy.

The last hewer to leave the area was a squat fellow with massive muscles and a pugnacious jaw. When he was even with the visitors, he stopped and squinted at Nicholas. “You’re the Gypsy Earl, ain’t you?”

“I’ve been called that.”

The man spat at his feet. “Tell your

bloody friend Lord Michael to keep an eye on Madoc. Old George lives better than any mine manager ought to.” The hewer turned back to his corf and pushed it down the tunnel.

As the man disappeared, Nicholas asked, “Do you think Madoc might be skimming the mine’s profits?”

“I really can’t say,” Owen said uncomfortably. “That’s a harsh accusation to make.”

“You’re too fair,” Clare said. “Put a greedy manager under a careless owner and embezzlement is guaranteed.”

Nicholas said, “If that’s true and Michael finds out, I wouldn’t like to be in Madoc’s shoes. Michael has always had a fierce temper.”

Bodvill
withdrew the drill and began packing black powder into the hole. “Time for us to go,” Owen said. “There’s something else I want to show you on the way back.”

After retracing their steps for a short distance, they turned into a shaft that led to a vast gallery whose ceiling was supported by massive square pillars. Lifting his candle to illuminate the

area, Owen said, “I wanted you to see pillar and stall mining. Larger veins are usually worked this way. It has advantages, but maybe half the coal is left in the pillars.”

Intrigued, Nicholas studied one of the supports and found that the roughly cut surface had the dark shine of coal.

Suddenly Owen yelled, “Mind your head,
boyo
!” As he spoke, he grabbed Nicholas’s arm and yanked him backward.

A chunk of rock crashed right where Nicholas had been standing, shattering into fragments when it hit the floor. Shaken, he looked up at the craggy roof. “T
hank
s, Owen. How did you see that in time?”

With a touch of humor, Owen said, “Caves are made by God and are very stable. Being made by man, mines are always falling to pieces. Working in one, you learn to keep one eye on what’s above you. It takes wits and strength to be a collier.”

“Better you than me,” Nicholas said dryly. “A Rom would die if forced to work down here.”

“Dying is easy—too easy in this particular mine.” Owen gestured at the shadowy cavern.

“Madoc wants to start robbing the pillars—taking more coal out of them. Says it’s wasteful to leave them like this.”

Nicholas frowned. “Won’t that bring the roof down?”

“It could.” Owen pointed at one of the wooden beams. “Enough props would make it possible, but Madoc doesn’t like paying for any more timber than he has to.”

Nicholas grimaced. “I’m beginning to thoroughly dislike Mr. Madoc, and I haven’t even met him.”

“Wait until you do meet him,” Clare said acerbically. “Your dislike will turn to sheer loathing.”

“That’s an unchristian statement, Clare,” Owen said with gentle reproach. “Come you, it’s time we left.”