Kitabı oku: «David's Little Lad», sayfa 11
“No one is up but you?”
“Not a soul.”
“Then I will come to the fire for a moment. I am bitterly cold; and could you get me something to eat?”
He crossed the threshold, entered the dining-room – shading his eyes from the light – and threw himself, with the air of one utterly spent, into the arm-chair. So worn and miserable was he, physically, that my first thought – my first thought before I could ask him a single question – was to see to his bodily comforts. I got him food and wine, then going on my knees, I unlaced and removed, as well as I could, his wet and mud-covered boots, went softly upstairs for clean, dry socks, and his favourite slippers. He did not oppose me by a single remark, he submitted to my attentions, ate eagerly and hungrily of the food I gave him. When I had done all I could, I sat down on the floor by his side, and took his hand. I must now begin to question him, for the silence between us, with my ignorance of what he did or did not know, was becoming unbearable.
“Where have you been? Owen. We have wanted you here so dreadfully.”
“Have you? I should have been no use to you. For the last two days I have been mad – that was all.” He looked like it now. His eyes bloodshot, his face deadly pale.
“But, brother,” I said, impelled to say the words, “our David has quite forgiven you.”
“Good God! Gwladys,” starting upright, “do you want to put me on the rack? How dare you mention his name. His name, and the name of his murdered child! Oh! my God! how that little face haunts me!”
He began to pace up and down the room. I feared he would wake mother; but in his passion and agony I could do nothing to restrain him. After a time, however, he sat down more quietly.
“Yes; I have been mad, or perhaps, I am sane now, and was mad all the rest of my life. In my sanity, or madness – call it what you will – I at last see myself. How dared you and mother pamper and spoil me when I was a boy! How dared you foster my be setting sin, my weak ambition, my overweening vanity. I never loved you for that– never. I cared most for David. How could I help it – righteous, humble, noble; judging calmly and correctly; telling me my faults. But, there! how I must blame others, and lay the sin on others. I did love you, my dear,” – laying his hand for an instant on my head – “I used to dream of you when, like the prodigal, I lived in the far country; but, as I say again, what of that! I went to Oxford – oh! it is a long story, a story of sin upon sin. My vanity, fed by petty adulation. I spent money. I got into debt, frightfully – frightfully. I did worse. I got amongst a fast set, and became the fastest of them all. At last came the crisis. I won’t tell you of it. Why should you know? But for David, I should have been publicly disgraced – think of that! Your ‘hero’ brother – you used to say that of me – the conceited lad who thought the world hardly vast enough or grand enough to hold him. David, as I say, saved me. He paid all my debts – he set me free. My debts were enormous; to pay them the estate was seriously crippled. I went abroad. I thought myself humbled then. I did not care what I put my hand to. I had one dream, to fulfil that I lived. I meant to pay back to David the money he had spent on me. I knew of this mine on his property. I knew it was badly worked; that the profits, which might be enormous, were very small. I thought this mine might prove my El Dorado; might give to me the golden treasure I needed. I always meant to be a civil engineer; to this purpose I had turned my attention during my short periods of real work at Christ Church. Now I determined to take up engineering with a will. I did this because I knew that it would qualify me to have the direction of David’s mine – to get out of David’s mine the gold I needed. For four years I worked for this. I gained practical knowledge; then I came here – you know that part of the story. I told David of my hopes; they excited no pleasure in him. He begged of me to make the mine safe; to use my skill in saving life. I promised him. I meant to perform my word. I did not think I should fail bitterly and utterly a second time. I did not suppose, when long ago I dreamed dreams, and saw visions, that I should rob David, first of his gold, and then of his child; and this last is murder.”
Owen paused here, and wiped some great drops from his brow. “Gwladys,” he continued, “I see myself now. I am sane, not mad. I see myself at last. I am the greatest sinner in the world.”
He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but there was no hypocrisy in that voice – in those eyes then; the solemn, slow denunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. I could not contradict. I was silent. “Yes,” he repeated, “I have come to that – come down to that – to be a murderer – the lowest of all. I am the greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been looking at God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face – with that murdered child, and all my other crimes between us – we have been viewing each other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?”
“You may be facing God,” I said, slowly then. “You may be facing God with all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, are facing a God who died for such as you.”
I don’t know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. I appeared to be speaking outside myself.
“Thank you,” said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for a quarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came to me that this penitent, broken man – this agonised, stricken soul, was nearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Owen rose to his feet.
“I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; that brought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had no idea there was an accumulation of water in Pride’s Pit. I thought it was properly pumped away – but, there! I should have known. I am going down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine.”
“Owen,” I said, suddenly remembering, “David sent you that.” I put the little note, which David had written, into his hands.
He read it, then threw it, open, on the table.
The hard look was gone from his eyes – they were glistening.
“Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will save David or die.”
Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could call to him, his footsteps had died away on the night air.
I threw myself on my knees. I did not pray in words, but I prayed in floods of healing tears. Then I read David’s letter.
“Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not bad for my little lad. God has taken him – it must be good for my child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask you to try to do the same. I know this is hard.
“Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear brother, don’t despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my heart, so assuredly will God.
“But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave! Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God’s sake.
“David.”
Chapter Twenty Two
The Lord was not in the Fire
And now, day after day, heroic men worked nobly. Without a thought of personal danger, engineers, viewers, managers, miners, private gentlemen, – all laboured for the common cause.
Brothers were perishing of slow starvation, that was enough; brothers, come what might, would go to their rescue.
Perhaps there was seldom seen a grander fight between love and death.
Those who had a thorough knowledge of the mine, soon perceived that thirty-eight yards of solid coal intervened between the imprisoned men and their rescuers. The only other access was completely cut away by so vast a body of water, that it was not unfitly compared to an underground ocean. The obstacles between the rescuers and the imprisoned men seemed at first insurmountable. It appeared to be beyond human strength, either to drain away the water, or to cut through the coal, in time. What was to be done? Moses Thomas, who, whenever he came to the bank, gave me all the information in his power, said that hopeless as the task appeared, the coal was to be cut away from this black tomb without delay. Every strong man in the neighbourhood volunteered for this work, and truly the work was no light one! The place sloped downwards, about four inches to every yard, and each piece of coal struck away, had to be instantly removed. But fresh and fresh shifts of men plied their mandrils unremittingly; there was no halting or turning back; for three hours, without pause, each man worked, to be instantly followed, when this allotted time had expired, by a fresh volunteer.
“Sleep, Miss,” said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, he stooped to wash his blood-covered hands. “No, I doesn’t want to sleep, while the Squire, and the lad, and the others is starving. I tell you, Miss, I never cried so bitter in all my life, as when I heard them knockings!”
Thus by one mode of egress, all that mortal man could do, was being tried. But scientific men who were present, were too wise to neglect any plan for rescue. It was thought possible, that by means of divers, the imprisoned men might be reached through the water; accordingly two very experienced divers were telegraphed for from a well-known London firm, and as quickly as they could, they answered the summons. I did not know at the time, though I have learned something since, of the dangers these men underwent in this attempt to rescue human life. Having learned, I should like to say a little about them here, for I think no men stood higher in that band of heroes. So great was their danger, that not a gentleman in the neighbourhood would undertake the responsibility of sending them down into the mine, and some even counselled them not to undertake so hopeless a task. But both men instantly replied, that they would never return to their firm without making the attempt, and that they would take all responsibility on themselves. They had never been in a mine before, and very different would be the diving through this black and stagnant water, full of turnings of which they knew nothing, and of obstacles too great to be overcome, from any work they had hitherto undertaken. Indeed, so great was their danger, that those who saw them enter that inky sea, never expected to see them return again; but nothing daunted, the brave men closed their helmets, and commenced the impossible task. Mother and I, with many other women, and children, stood on the pit bank, and as the man who held the line, called out at intervals “fifty feet,” “eighty feet,” “a hundred feet,” what echoes of hope and longing were awakened in beating hearts! I had one arm round mother’s waist, Nan held my other hand, and when at last “five hundred feet” was called, and this was known to be within about two hundred and fifty feet of the stall where the prisoners were confined, simultaneously we went on our knees. The hope, the brilliant hope was too dazzling. Dazzling! it seemed to have come. Mother and I had David once more; little Nan, her brother; the under-viewer’s wife, her husband. But; alas! it was only the lightning flash in the dark cloud, for at length, after a long period of silence, came the hopeless words, “They are coming back!” Yes, the brave divers had done their best, but were unsuccessful. To reach the prisoners by this means was a failure. As they said themselves, “We are very sorry, we found it was impossible to get on further, owing to pieces of wood in the water, the broken road, mud, and the strength of the swell.”
When they appeared again, and had stumbled exhausted to the ground, their helmets, new when they entered, were battered as though they had seen twenty years’ service – a convincing proof of the dangers they had undergone.
Yes, this attempt was a failure; but still hope did not die, still brave men toiled, and day after day the coal was cut away so perseveringly, so unceasingly, that at last on the seventh day after the inundation, shouts were made to the entombed men, and – oh! with what thankfulness was the faint answering response hailed. That weak cry, low and death-like, would have given the necessary spur had such been needed. All this time pumps were used, without ceasing, to reduce the water in the workings.
Meanwhile, as day after day went by, each day filled with more of despair, and less of hope, what had become of Owen? He had said on that evening, some days back now, that he would rescue David or die, but still the manager of the mine was not present. At this critical time he had deserted his post, and the control and direction of all that was done, rested with strangers. Suspicion was grave against my brother, he had, to say the least of it, worked the mine recklessly. Though, with the utmost care, water inundations were sometimes impossible to avert, yet in this particular instance, it seemed that with ordinary foresight, by seeing that Pride’s Pit was properly drained, or at least by avoiding the working of this particular coal vein, the present accident might never have taken place. Thus, things looked grave for Owen, and he was not at his post. Yes, I knew all this, I heard ugly words about an inquest, by and by; but strange as it may seem, never since his return, had my heart felt so at rest about Owen. I had a feeling, almost an instinct, that Owen had not really deserted his post, that among the volunteers in the mine he might be found, that amongst the bravest of the rescuers he might be numbered. When, with my sisters in this deep deep trouble, I stood for long hours of every day by the pit bank, I saw once amongst the smoke-begrimed and blackened men, who rose after their herculean toil to the surface, a face and form which in their outline resembled his – any other recognition was impossible; but so sure was I that this man was Owen, that I began gradually to watch for him alone. But watch as I would, I only saw him once. I was told afterwards, on questioning eagerly, that this miner slept below, that he refused to come to the surface at all, until the work for death or life was done, and that he appeared to work with the strength and energy of ten other men.
“His name!” I breathlessly demanded.
“Nobody knew his name, he was a volunteer, a stranger it seemed, but there were many such present; he was a plucky fellow, worth a great deal,” this was all in this awful and grim conflict his fellow-workers cared for. I told mother of Owen’s visit to me that night. I think my narrative comforted her, she asked very few questions; but I think her eye too, though she said nothing, had rested on the face and form of the strange miner, and that she too had an idea, and a hope, that Owen was working in the mine. I believe, I feel sure, nothing kept up mother’s heart and mine, so much as this hope. Was it possible that we were then learning the truth of that great saying from the lips of the Master – “He that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it?” Ay, for My sake, though I reveal myself through a brother’s love.
About Wednesday night, the eighth of the men’s imprisonment, thirty-two yards out of the thirty-eight of coal had been cut away. There were now only six yards of coal between the prisoners and freedom, and on the men being shouted to, the joyful news was brought to mother and me from the pit bank, that David’s voice was heard above the rest; but, alas! sorrow came to many, while relief and thankfulness to is: there were only five men in the stall, four were now given up for lost. Between these five men and life and liberty, there seemed to me to be but a step, it could not take long, surely, to cut through the remaining six yards of coal, and to release the entombed from a lining grave. I showed my ignorance, my hope was wrong, the trial of my faith was not yet over. Nay, I think the faith that was to be tried by fire was put to the proof during the next two days, in every heart at Ffynon. The experienced colliers said that the real danger had now but begun. The water in the mine was only kept back from the imprisoned men by a very strong pressure of air, beyond this air-tight atmosphere it could not come; five or six feet away from the imprisoned men, it stood like an inky wall, but once break through with the slightest blow of the mandril, the wall of coal at one side, and the confined air would find vent, and the water, no longer impeded, would rush forward, sweeping into certain destruction both captives and rescuers. Unless the water could be pumped away, or the air in some way exhausted, there seemed to be no hope. All the pumps in the neighbourhood were lent, and were plied without intermission, and scientific men put their heads together and agreed to raise air-tight doors, so as to keep back the full rush of the imprisoned atmosphere, when the coal was broken through. But, alas! how faint and sick grew all our hearts, for nothing could now be done rashly, and was it possible that the men could live many hours longer without food?
On the eighth night, food was attempted to be passed through a tube, but this proved a failure, the rush of air through the opening was so terrible, that it was found necessary to plug the hole. The roar of air was as loud as that of a blast furnace, and twice the force of the imprisoned air dashed out the plug, which could only be replaced by efforts almost superhuman.
On the ninth day, I was passing through Gwen’s room; she had been in a low fever, brought on by pain, and the violent shock her whole system had undergone. I used to avoid Gwen, dreading her questions, fearing to tell her what had happened. She was taken care of by a clever and experienced nurse, and I thought it kinder to leave her to her care; but on this day she heard my step, opened her eyes, and called me to her side.
“Gwladys.”
“Yes, dear Gwen.”
“Have they buried the baby yet?”
“Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he was buried last Saturday.”
“Eh! dear, dear, I’d like to have seen his blessed little face first, but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain’t the Lord good to the little ’uns?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Dear, my maid, and h’all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know. Dear, dear, haven’t I bin lying here for days and learnin’ h’all about it. Seems to me I never knew what the Lord Jesus Christ was like before. Haven’t He that baby in His arms now; haven’t He put sight into his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven’t He bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I’ll tell you, Gwladys,” raising herself in bed, “I’ll tell you what the Lord is – tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to the sinners, and the Saviour of them that’s appointed to die; and if that’s not a God for a time of trouble, I don’t know where you’ll find a God.”
Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my hand with energy.
“And, my maid,” she continued, in an exhausted whisper, “I’ve dreamed that dream again.”
“Oh! Gwen – what?”
“All that dream about the mine, my maid; and I know ’tis coming true. Owen will save David.”
I left Gwen, and went into my own room. On my knees, for a brief instant, I spoke to God. “Oh! God,” I said, “if you are the only help for a dark day, deliver us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, out of the depths, here, we cry to Thee. Lord, deliver those who are appointed to die;” and then, before I rose from my knees, four low words rose from my heart – “Thy will be done;” very low, in the faintest whisper – with the cold dew of agony breaking all over me, these words were wrung from my soul; still I said them. Then I went back to the bank. There was a change there, and some commotion – something had happened. Alas! what? My heart beat audibly. I made my way through the crowd, and found myself close to a group of colliers, who had just come up from the mine. Terrible and ominous words smote on my ear. A new danger had arisen. There were signs of the colliers’ worst enemy – gas. The Davy lamps could not be lit. Again the plug was blown out of the hole, and the roar of air which came through the opening, prevented the loudest voice being heard.
“There is a power in there which would blow us up the heading like dust,” said one.
The peril was too tremendous. Even the bravest of the brave had given way. Dear life was too precious. The men who had toiled, as only heroes could toil, for so many long days and nights, faltered at length. To go forward now, seemed certain and absolute death to both rescuers and rescued.
“The boy is gone,” said Moses Thomas, looking Nan in the face. “He has been nine days now without food.”
“God help them all; they’ll soon be in eternity,” said another miner, wiping the tears from his weatherbeaten face.
“This last has daunted us,” said a third.
“We have done all that men could do,” sighed a fourth, who, worn out from toil, fell half-fainting on the ground.
“To go on now, would be certain death,” said a fifth.
Then there was silence – intense silence; not even the sound of a woman’s sob.
The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril – in vain for their comrades’ brave voices – in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes.
Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost harsh by some pent-up emotion – “I’m going on, though ’tis death. Shut the doors upon me,” he added, “and I’ll cut the passage through!”
Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart.
“I’ll go, for another – and I – and I,” said many. And back went the brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at a passage, in many places not three feet high.
I don’t know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave collier’s voice, I had hope – from that moment the worst of my heart agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers – of that frightful gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest pitch – their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last – at last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the wall of coal. What a moment of excitement – longing – fear! What a joy, which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love were successful – that back again from the arms of a terrible death, would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly see – could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past; men with coal-black faces – rigid, immovable, as though carved in granite.
Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom was recognised by the under-viewer’s wife.
Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky.
When mother saw David, she fainted.
I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms.
“Gwladys, we have saved them. Thank God!” he said.
