Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines by R. M. Ballantyne (that summer book .TXT) 📕

met Maggot, and had seen his family; but interest gave place to astonishment when Mrs Penrose walked into the church, backed by her sixteen children, the eldest males among whom were miners, and the eldest females tin-dressers, while the little males and females aspired to be miners and tin-dressers in the course of time.

“That’s Penrose’s family,” whispered Mr Donnithorne to his guest.

“What! the local’s family?”

Mr Donnithorne nodded.

Soon after, a tall, gentlemanly man ascended the pulpit.

The managing director was disappointed. He had come there to hear a miner preach, and behold, a clergyman!

“Who is he?” inquired Clearemout.

But Mr Donnithorne did not answer. He was looking up the hymn for Mrs D, who, being short-sighted, claimed exemption from the duty of “looking up” anything. Besides, he was a kind, good man at heart—though rather fond of smuggling and given to the bottle, according to Oliver Trembath’s account of him—and liked to pay his wife little attentions.

But there were still greater novelties in store for the London man that morning. It was new to him to hear John Wesley’s beautiful hymns sung to equally beautiful tunes, which were not, however, unfamiliar to his ear, and sung with a degree of fervour that quite drowned his own voice, powerful and deep though it was. It was a new and impressive thing to hear the thrilling, earnest tones of the preacher as he offered up an eloquent extempore prayer—to the petitions in which many of the people in the congregation gave utterance at times to startlingly fervent and loud responses—not in set phraseology, but in words that were called forth by the nature of each petition, such as “Glory to God,” “Amen,” “Thanks be to Him”—showing that the worshippers followed and sympathised with their spokesman, thus making his prayer their own. But the newest thing of all was to hear the preacher deliver an eloquent, earnest, able, and well-digested sermon, without book or note, in the same natural tone of voice with which a man might address his fellow in the street—a style of address which riveted the attention of the hearers, induced them to expect that he had really something important to say to them, and that he thoroughly believed in the truth of what he said.

“A powerful man,” observed the managing director as they went out; “your clergyman, I suppose?”

“No, sir,” replied Mr Donnithorne with a chuckle, “our minister is preaching elsewhere to-day. That was James Penrose.”

“What! the miner?” exclaimed Clearemout in astonishment.

“Ay, the local preacher too.”

“Why, the man spoke like Demosthenes, and quoted Bacon, Locke, Milton, and I know not whom all—you amaze me,” said Mr Clearemout. “Surely all your local preachers are not equal to this one.”

“Alas, no! some of the young ones are indeed able enough to spout poetry and quote old authors, and too fond they are of doing so; nevertheless, as I have said to you before, most of the local preachers are sober-minded, sterling Christian men, and a few of them have eminent capabilities. Had Penrose been a younger man, he would probably have entered the ministry, but being above forty, with an uncommonly large family, he thinks it his duty to remain as he is, and do as much good as he can.”

“But surely he might find employment better suited to his talents?” said Clearemout.

“There is not much scope in St. Just,” replied Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, “and it is a serious thing for a man in his circumstances to change his abode and vocation. No, no, I think he is right to remain a miner.”

“Well, I confess that I admire his talents,” returned Clearemout, “but I still think that an ordinary miner would suit me better.”

“Well, I know of one who will suit you admirably. He is common enough to look at, and if you will accompany me into the mine to-morrow I’ll introduce you to him. I’m not fond of descending the ladders nowadays, though I could do it very well when a youth, but as the man I speak of works in one of the levels near the surface, I’ll be glad to go down with you, and Captain Dan shall lead us.”

True to his word, the old gentleman met Mr Clearemout the following morning at nine o’clock, and accompanied him down into the mine.

Their descent was unmarked by anything particular at first. They wore the usual suit of underground clothing, and each carried a lighted candle attached to his hat. After descending about thirty fathoms they left the main shaft and traversed the windings of a level until they came to a place where the sound of voices and hammers indicated that the miners were working. In a few seconds they reached the end of the level.

Here two men were “driving” the level, and another—a very tall, powerful man—was standing in a hole driven up slanting-ways into the roof, and cutting the rock above his head. His attitude and aspect were extremely picturesque, standing as he did on a raised platform with his legs firmly planted, his muscular arms raised above him to cut the rock overhead, and the candle so placed as to cause his figure to appear almost black and unnaturally gigantic.

“Stay a minute, Captain Dan,” said Mr Donnithorne. “That, Mr Clearemout, is the man I spoke of—what think you of his personal appearance?”

Clearemout did not reply for a few minutes, but stood silently watching the man as he continued to wield his heavy hammer with powerful strokes—delivering each with a species of gasp which indicated not exhaustion, but the stern vigour with which it was given.

“He’ll do,” said Clearemout in a decided tone.

“Hallo! James,” shouted Mr Donnithorne.

“Hallo! sir,” answered the man looking back over his shoulder.

“There’s a gentleman here who wants to speak to you.”

The miner flung down his tools, which clattered loudly on the hard rock, as he leaped from his perch with the agility of one whose muscles are all in full and constant exercise.

“What! not the local—”

Before the managing director could finish his sentence Mr Donnithorne introduced him to James Penrose, and left the two for a time to talk together.

It need scarcely be added that Clearemout was quite willing to avail himself of the services of the “local,” but the local did not meet his proposals so readily as he would have wished. Penrose was a cautious man, and said he would call on Mr Clearemout in the evening after he had had time to consider the matter.

With this reply the other was fain to rest satisfied, and shortly after he returned to the bottom of the shaft with his friends, leaving the hardy miner to pursue his work.

At the bottom of the shaft they were accosted by a sturdy little man, who told them that a large piece of timber was being sent down the shaft, and it would be advisable to wait until it reached the bottom.

“Is it on the way, Spankey?” asked Captain Dan.

“Iss, sur, if it haven’t walked into the thirty-fathom level in passin’.”

Spankey was a humorous individual addicted to joking.

“Are you married, Spankey?” asked Clearemout, looking down with a grin at the dirty little fellow beside him.

“Iss, sur. Had, two wives, an’ the third wan is waitin’ for me, ’spose.”

“Any children, Spankey?”

“Iss, six, countin’ the wan that died before it could spaik.”

At this point the beam was heard coming down. In a few seconds it made its appearance, and was hauled a little to one side by Spankey, who proceeded to unwind the chain that had supported it.

“I’ll give ’em the signal, Captain Dan, to haul up the chain before thee do go on the ladders.”

The signal was given accordingly, and the engine immediately began to draw up the chain by which the beam had been lowered.

This chain had a hook at one end of it, and, as ill-luck would have it, the hook caught Spankey by the right leg of his trousers, and whisked him off his feet. Almost before those beside him could conceive what had happened, the unfortunate man went up the shaft feet foremost, with a succession of dreadful yells, in the midst of which could be heard a fearful rending of strong linen.

Fortunately for Spankey, his nether garments were not only strong, but new, so that when the rend came to the seam at the foot, it held on, else had that facetious miner come down the shaft much faster than he went up, and left his brains at the bottom as a memorial of the shocking event!

With palpitating hearts, Captain Dan, Clearemout, and old Donnithorne ran up the ladders as fast as they could. In a few minutes they reached the thirty-fathom level, and here, to their great relief, they found Spankey supported in the arms of stout Joe Tonkin.

That worthy, true to his promise to Oliver Trembath, had gone to work in Botallack Mine, and had that very day commenced operations in the thirty-fathom level referred to. Hearing the terrible screams of Spankey, he rushed to the end of the level just as the unfortunate man was passing it. The risk was great, but Tonkin was accustomed to risks, and prompt to act. He flung his arms round Spankey, drew him forcibly into the level, and held on for life. There was a terrible rend; the leg of the trousers gave way at the hip, and went flapping up to grass, leaving the horrified miner behind.

“Not gone dead yet, sur, but goin’ fast,” was Spankey’s pathetic reply to Captain Dan’s anxious inquiries.

It was found, however, that, beyond the fright, the man had received no damage whatever.

The only other noteworthy fact in reference to this incident is, that when Captain Dan and his companions reached the surface, they were met by the lander, who, with a face as pale as a ghost, held up the torn garment. Great was this man’s relief, and loud the fit of laughter with which he expressed it, when Spankey, issuing from the mouth of the shaft, presented his naked limb, and claimed the leg of his trousers!