Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines
Thus sudden and complete was the end of as fine a ship as ever spread her canvas to the breeze. At night she had been full of life—full of wealth; in the morning she was gone—only a few bales and casks and broken spars to represent the wealth, and stiffened corpses to tell of the life departed. So she came and went, and in a short time all remnants of her were carried away.
One morning, a few weeks after the night of the storm, Maggot the smith turned himself in his bed at an early hour, and, feeling disinclined to slumber, got up to look at the state of the weather. The sun was just rising, and there was an inviting look about the morning which induced the man to dress hastily and go out.
Maggot was a powerfully-built man, rough in his outer aspect as well as in his inner man, but by no means what is usually termed a bad man, although, morally speaking, he could not claim to be considered a good one. In fact, he was a hearty, jolly, reckless fisherman, with warm feelings, enthusiastic temperament, and no principle; a man who, though very ready to do a kind act, had no particular objection to do one that was decidedly objectionable when it suited his purpose or served his present interest. He was regarded by his comrades as one of the greatest madcaps in the district. Old Maggot was, as we have said, a blacksmith to trade, but he had also been bred a miner, and was something of a fisherman as well, besides being (like most of his companions) an inveterate smuggler. He could turn his hand to almost anything, and was “everything by turns, but nothing long.”
Sauntering down to Priests Cove, on the south of Cape Cornwall, with his hands in his pockets and his sou’-wester stuck carelessly on his shaggy head, he fell in with a comrade, whom he hailed by the name of John Cock. This man was also a fisherman, et cetera, and the bosom friend and admirer of Maggot.
“Where bound to this mornin’, Jack?” inquired Maggot.
“To fish,” replied John.
“I go with ’ee, booy,” said Maggot.
This was the extent of the conversation at that time. They were not communicative, but walked side by side in silence to the beach, where they launched their little boat and rowed out to sea.
Presently John Cock looked over his shoulder and exclaimed— “Maggot, I see summat.”
“Do ’ee?”
“Iss do I.”
“What do un look like?”
“Like a dead corp.”
“Aw, my dear,” said Maggot, “lev us keep away. It can do no good to we.”
Acting on this opinion the men rowed past the object that was floating on the sea, and soon after began to fish; but they had not fished long when the dead body, drifted probably by some cross-current, appeared close to them again. Seeing this they changed their position, but ere long the body again appeared.
“P’raps,” observed Maggot, “there’s somethin’ in its pockets.”
As the same idea had occurred to John Cock, the men resolved to examine the body, so they rowed up to it and found it to be that of an elderly man, much decomposed, and nearly naked. A very short examination sufficed to show that the pockets of such garments as were still upon it were empty, and the men were about to let it go again, when Maggot exclaimed—
“Hold fast, Jack, I see somethin’ tied round the waist of he; a sort o’ belt it do seem.”
The belt was quickly removed and the body released, when it sank with a heavy plunge, but ere long reappeared on the surface. The fishermen rowed a considerable distance away from it, and then shipped their oars and examined the belt, which was made of linen. Maggot sliced it up as he would have ripped up a fish, and laid bare, to the astonished gaze of himself and his friend, a number of glittering gems of various colours, neatly and firmly embedded in cotton, besides a variety of rings and small brooches set with precious stones.
“Now, I tell ’ee,” said Maggot, “’tis like as this here will make our fortin’, or else git we into trouble.”
“Why, whatever shud we git into trouble ’bout it for?” said John Cock. “’Tis like as not they ain’t real—only painted glass, scarce wuth the trouble o’ car’in’ ashore.”
“Hould thy tongue, thee g’eat chucklehead,” replied Maggot; “a man wouldn’t go for to tie such stuff round his waist to drown hisself with, I do know, if they worn’t real. Lev us car’ ’em to Maister Donnithorne.”
John Cock replied with a nod, and the two men, packing up the jewels, pulled in-shore as fast as possible. Hauling their boat beyond the reach of the surf, they hastened to St. Just, and requested a private audience of Mr Donnithorne.1
That excellent gentleman was not unaccustomed to give private audiences to fishermen, and, as has been already hinted at the beginning of this tale, was reported to have private dealings with them also—of a very questionable nature. He received the two men, however, with the hearty air of a man who knows that the suspicions entertained of him by the calumnious world are false.
“Well, Maggot,” said Mr Donnithorne, “what is your business with me? You are not wont to be astir so early, if all be true that is reported of ’ee.”
“Plaise, sur,” said Maggot, with a glance at Rose Ellis, who sat sewing near the window, “I’m come to talk ’bout private matters—if—”
“Leave us, Rose dear, for a little,” said the old gentleman.
As soon as she was out of the room Maggot locked the door, a proceeding which surprised Mr Donnithorne not a little, but his surprise was much greater when the man drew a small parcel from the breast of his rough coat, and, unrolling it, displayed the glittering jewels of which he had so unexpectedly become possessed.
“Where got you these?” inquired Mr Donnithorne, turning them over carefully.
“Got ’em in the say—catched ’em, sure ’nough,” said Maggot.
“Not with a baited hook, I warrant,” said the old gentleman. “Come, my son, let’s hear all about it.”
Maggot explained how he had obtained the jewels, and then asked what they were worth.
“I can’t tell that,” said Mr Donnithorne, shaking his head gravely. “Some of them are undoubtedly of value; the others, for all I know, may not be worth much.”
“Come now, sur,” said Maggot, with a confidential leer, “it’s not the fust time we have done a bit o’ business. I ’spose I cud claim salvage on ’em?”
“I don’t know that,” said the old gentleman; “you cannot tell whom they belonged to, and I suspect Government would claim them, if— But, by the way, I suppose you found no letters—nothing in the shape of writing on the body?”
“Nothin’ whatsomever.”
“Well, then, I fear that—”
“Come now, sur,” said Maggot boldly; “’spose you gives John and me ten pounds apaice an’ kape ’em to yourself to make what ’ee can of ’em?”
Mr Donnithorne shook his head and hesitated. Often before had he defrauded the revenue by knowingly purchasing smuggled brandy and tobacco, and by providing the funds to enable others to smuggle them; but then the morality of that day in regard to smuggling was very lax, and there were men who, although in all other matters truly honest and upright, could not be convinced of the sinfulness of smuggling, and smiled when they were charged with the practice, but who, nevertheless, would have scorned to steal or tell a downright lie. This, however, was a very different matter from smuggling. The old gentleman shrank from it at first, and could not meet the gaze of the smuggler with his usual bold frank look. But the temptation was great. The jewels he suspected were of immense value, and his heart readily replied to the objections raised by his conscience, that after all there was no one left to claim them, and he had a much better right to them, in equity if not in law, than Government; and as to the fellows who found them—why, the sum they asked would be a great and rich windfall to them, besides freeing them from all further trouble, as well as transferring any risk that might accrue from their shoulders to his own.
While the old gentleman was reasoning thus with himself, Maggot stood anxiously watching his countenance and twisting the cloth that had enclosed the jewellery into a tight rope, as he shifted his position uneasily. At length old Mr Donnithorne said—
“Leave the jewels with me, and call again in an hour from this time. You shall then have my answer.”
Maggot and his friend consented to this delay, and left the room.
No sooner were they gone than the old gentleman called his wife, who naturally exclaimed in great surprise on beholding the table covered with such costly trinkets—
“Where ever did you get these, Tom?”
Mr Donnithorne explained, and then asked what she thought of Maggot’s proposal.
“Refuse it,” said she firmly.
“But, my dear—”
“Don’t ‘but’ about it, Tom. Whenever a man begins to ‘but’ with sin, it is sure to butt him over on his back. Have nothing to do with it, I say.”
“But, my dear, it is not dishonest—”
“I don’t know that,” interrupted Mrs Donnithorne vigorously; “you think that smuggling is not dishonest, but I do, and so does the minister.”
“What care I for the minister?” cried the old gentleman, losing his temper; “who made him a judge of my doings?”
“He is an expounder of God’s Word,” said Mrs Donnithorne firmly, “and holds that ‘Thou shalt not steal’ is one of the Ten Commandments.”
“Well, well, he and I don’t agree, that’s all; besides, has he never expounded to you that obedience to your husband is a virtue? a commandment, I may say, which you are—”
“Mr Donnithorne,” said the lady with dignity, “I am here at your request, and am now complying with your wishes in giving my opinion.”
“There, there, Molly,” said the subdued husband, giving his better half a kiss, “don’t be so sharp. You ought to have been a lawyer with your powerful reasoning capacity. However, let me tell you that you don’t understand these matters—”
“Then why ask my advice, Tom?”
“Why, woman, because an inexplicable fatality leads me to consult you, although I know well enough what the upshot will be. But I’m resolved to close with Maggot.”
“I knew you would,” said Mrs Donnithorne quietly.
The last remark was the turning-point. Had the good lady condescended to be earnest in her entreaties that the bargain should not be concluded, it is highly probable her husband would have given in; but her last observation nettled him so much that he immediately hoisted a flag of defiance, nailed it to the mast, and went out in great indignation to search for Maggot. That individual was not far off. The bargain was completed, the jewels were locked up in one of the old gentleman’s secret repositories, and the fishermen, with ten pounds apiece in their pockets, returned home.
Chapter Six.
Treats of the Miner’s Cottage, Work, and Costume
Maggot’s home was a disordered one when he reached it, for his youngest baby, a fat little boy, had been seized with convulsions, and his wife and little daughter Grace, and son Zackey, and brother-in-law David Trevarrow, besides his next neighbour Mrs Penrose, with her sixteen children, were all in the room, doing their best by means of useless or hurtful applications, equally useless advice, and intolerable noise and confusion, to cure, if not to kill, the baby.
Maggot’s cottage was a poor one, his furniture was mean, and there was not much of it; nevertheless its inmates were proud of it, for they lived in comparative comfort there. Mrs Maggot was a kind-hearted, active woman, and her husband—despite his smuggling propensities—was an affectionate father. Usually the cottage was kept in a most orderly condition; but on the present occasion it was, as we have said, in a state of great confusion.
“Fetch me a bit of rag, Grace,” cried Mrs Maggot, just as her husband entered.
“Here’s a bit, old ’ooman,” said Maggot, handing her the linen cloth in which the jewels had been wrapped up, and which he had unconsciously retained in his hands on quitting Mr Donnithorne— “Run, my dear man,” he added, turning to John Cock, “an’ fetch the noo doctor.”
John darted away, and in a quarter of an hour returned with Oliver Trembath, who found that the baby had weathered the storm by the force of its own constitution, despite the adverse influences that were around it. He therefore contented himself with clearing the place of intruders, and prescribing some simple medicine.
“Are you going to work?” inquired Oliver of David Trevarrow, observing that the man was about to quit the cottage.
“Iss, sur—to Botallack.”
“Then I will accompany you. Captain Dan is going to show me over part of the mine to-day. Good-morning, Mrs Maggot, and remember my directions if this should happen to the little fellow again.”
Leaving the cottage the two proceeded through the town to the north end of it, accompanied by Maggot, who said he was going to the forge to do a bit of work, and who parted from them at the outskirts of the town.
“Times are bad with you at the mines just now, I find,” said Oliver as they walked along.
“Iss sur, they are,” replied Trevarrow, in the quiet tone that was peculiar to him; “but, thank God, we do manage to live, though there are some of us with a lot o’ child’n as finds it hard work. The Bal (The mine) ain’t so good as she once was.”
“I suppose that you have frequent changes of fortune?” said Oliver.
The miner admitted that this was the case, for that sometimes a man worked underground for several weeks without getting enough to keep his family, while at other times he might come on a bunch of copper or tin which would enable him to clear 50 pounds or more in a month.
“If report says truly,” observed Oliver, “you have hit upon a ‘keenly lode,’ as you call it, not many days ago.”
“A do look very well now, sur,” replied the miner, “but wan can never tell. I did work for weeks in the level under the say without success, so I guv it up an went to Wheal Hazard, and on the back o’ the fifty-fathom level I did strike ’pon a small lode of tin ’bout so thick as my finger. It may get better, or it may take the bit in its teeth and disappear; we cannot tell.”
“Well, I wish you good luck,” said Oliver; “and here comes Captain Dan, so I’ll bid you good-morning.”
“Good-morning, sur,” said the stout-limbed and stout-hearted man, with a smile and a nod, as he turned off towards the moor-house to put on his mining garments.
Towards this house a number of men had been converging while Oliver and his companion approached it, and the former observed, that whatever colour the men might be on entering it, they invariably came out light red, like lobsters emerging from a boiling pot.
In Botallack mine a large quantity of iron is mingled with the tin ore. This colours everything in and around the mine, including men’s clothes, hands, and faces, with a light rusty-red. The streams, of course, are also coloured with it, and the various pits and ponds for collecting the fluid mud of tin ore seem as if filled with that nauseous compound known by the name of “Gregory’s Mixture.”
In the moor-house there were rows of pegs with red garments hung thereon to dry, and there were numerous broad-shouldered men dressing and undressing—in every stage of the process; while in a corner two or three were washing their bodies in a tank of water. These last were men who had been at work all night, and were cleansing themselves before putting on what we may term their home-going clothes.
The mining dress is a very simple, and often a very ragged affair. It consists of a flannel shirt, a pair of linen trousers, a short coat of the same, and a hat in the form of a stiff wide-awake, but made so thick as to serve the purpose of a helmet to guard the head from the rocks, etcetera. Clumsy ankle-boots complete the costume. As each man issued from the house, he went to a group of wooden chests which lay scattered about outside, and, opening his own, took from it a bag of powder, some blasting fuse, several iron tools, which he tied to a rope so as to be slung over his shoulder, a small wooden canteen of water, and a bunch of tallow candles. These last he fastened to a button on his breast, having previously affixed one of them to the front of his hat.
Thus accoutred, they proceeded to a small platform close at hand, with a square hole in it, out of which protruded the head of a ladder. This was the “ladder road.” Through the hole these red men descended one by one, chatting and laughing as they went, and disappeared, leaving the moor-house and all around it a place of solitude.
Captain Dan now prepared to descend this ladder road with Oliver Trembath.
Chapter Seven.
Tells of the Great Mine and of a Royal Dive under the Sea
Botallack, to the dark depths of which we are now about to descend, is the most celebrated mine in the great mining county of Cornwall. It stands on the sea coast, a little more than a mile to the north of St. Just. The region around it is somewhat bleak and almost destitute of trees. In approaching it, the eyes of the traveller are presented with a view of engine-houses, and piles of stones and rubbish, in the midst of which stand a number of uncouth yet picturesque objects, composed of boards and timber, wheels, ropes, pulleys, chains, and suchlike gear. These last are the winding erections of the shafts which lead to the various mines, for the whole region is undermined, and Botallack is only one of several in St. Just parish. Wherever the eye turns, there, in the midst of green fields, where rocks and rocky fences abound, may be seen, rising prominently, the labouring arms, or “bobs,” of the pump and skip engines, and the other machinery required in mining operations; while the ear is assailed by the perpetual clatter of the “stamps,” or ore-crushing machines, which never cease their din, day or night, except on Sundays.
Botallack, like all the other mines, has several “shafts” or entrances to the works below, such as Boscawen Shaft, Wheal Button, Wheal Hazard, Chicornish Shaft, Davis Shaft, Wheal Cock, etcetera, the most interesting of which are situated among the steep rugged cliffs that front and bid defiance to the utmost fury of the Atlantic Ocean.
From whatever point viewed, the aspect of Botallack mine is grand in the extreme. On the rocky point that stretches out into the sea, engines with all their fantastic machinery and buildings have been erected. On the very summit of the cliff is seen a complication of timbers, wheels, and chains sharply defined against the sky, with apparently scarce any hold of the cliff, while down below, on rocky ledges and in black chasms, are other engines and beams and rods and wheels and chains, fastened and perched in fantastic forms in dangerous-looking places.
Here, amid the most savage gorges of the sea and riven rocks—half clinging to the land, half suspended over the water—is perched the machinery of, and entrance to, the most singular shaft of the mine, named the “Boscawen Diagonal Shaft.” This shaft descends under the sea at a steep incline. It is traversed, on rails, by an iron carriage called the “gig,” which is lowered and drawn up by steam power. Starting as it does from an elevated position in the rocks that are close to the edge of the sea, and slanting down through the cape, outward or seaward, this vehicle descends only a few fathoms when it is under the ocean’s bed, and then its further course is far out and deep down—about two-thirds of a mile out, and full 245 fathoms down! The gig conveys the men to and from their work—the ore being drawn up by another iron carriage. There is (or rather there was, before the self-acting brake was added) danger attending the descent of this shaft, for the rope, although good and strong, is not immaculate, as was proved terribly in the year 1864—when it broke, and the gig flew down to the bottom like lightning, dashing itself to pieces, and instantly killing the nine unfortunate men who were descending at the time.
Nevertheless, the Prince and Princess of Wales did not shrink from descending this deep burrow under the sea in the year 1865.
It was a great day for St. Just and Botallack that 24th of July on which the royal visit was paid. Great were the expectation and preparation on all hands to give a hearty welcome to the royal pair. The ladies arrayed themselves in their best to do fitting honour to the Princess; the balmaidens donned their holiday-attire, and Johnny Fortnight2 took care, by supplying the poor mine-girls with the latest fashions, that their appearance should be, if we may be allowed the word, splendiferous! The volunteers, too, turned out in force, and no one, looking at their trim, soldierly aspect, could have believed them to be the same miners who were wont to emerge each evening through a hole in the earth, red as lobsters, wet, ragged, and befouled—in a word, surrounded by a halo of dishevelment, indicative of their rugged toils in the regions below.
Everywhere the people turned out to line the roads, and worthily receive the expected visitors, and great was the cheering when they arrived, accompanied by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, the Earl of Mount Edgecumbe, Lady de Grey, Lord and Lady Vivian, General Knollys, and others, but louder still was the cheer when the Princess rode down the steep descent to the cliffs in a donkey-carriage.
The Botallack cliffs themselves, however, were the central point, not only of the interest, but of the grandeur of the scene, for here were presented such a view and combination as are not often witnessed—nature in one of her wildest aspects, combined with innumerable multitudes of human beings swayed by one feeling of enthusiastic loyalty. Above, on every attainable point, projection, and eminence, men and women clustered like gay flies on the giant cliffs, leaving immense gaps here and there, where no foot might venture save that of a bird. Midway, on the face of the precipice, clung the great beams and supports of the Boscawen Diagonal Shaft, with the little gig perched on them and the royal party seated therein, facing the entrance to the black abyss—the Princess arrayed in a white flannel cloak trimmed with blue, and a straw hat with a blue ribbon round it, and the Prince clad in miner’s costume. Underneath, a dizzy depth to gaze down, lay the rugged boulders of the shore, with the spray of the Atlantic springing over them.
Deafening was the cheer when the gig at last entered the shaft and disappeared, and intense the anxiety of the vast multitude as they watched the descent—in imagination, of course, for nothing could be seen but the tight wire-rope uncoiling its endless length, and disappearing like a thin snake down the jaws of some awful sea-monster that had climbed so far up the cliffs to meet and devour it! Now they are at the shore; now passing under the sea; fairly under it by this time; a few minutes more and they have reached the spot where yonder seagull is now wheeling above the waves, wondering what new species of bird has taken possession of its native cliffs. Five minutes are passed—yet still descending rapidly! They must be half a mile out from the land now—half of a mile out on the first part of a submarine tunnel to America! “Old England is on the lee,” but they are very much the reverse of afloat; solid rock is above, on either side and below—so close to them that the elbows must not be allowed to protrude over the edge of their car, nor the head be held too high. Here even royalty must stoop—not that we would be understood to imply that royalty cannot stoop elsewhere. Those who dwell in Highland cottages could contradict us if we did! Presently the rope “slows”—the lower depths are reached, and now for some time there is patient waiting, for it is understood that they are examining the “levels,” where the stout men of Cornwall tear out the solid rock in quest of copper and tin.
After a time the thin snake begins to ascend; they are coming up now, but not so fast as they went down. It is about ten minutes before the gig emerges from that black hole and bears the Prince and Princess once more into the light of day.
Yes, it was a great day for Botallack, and it will dwell long in the memories of those who witnessed it—especially of that fortunate captain of the mine who had the honour of conducting the Princess on the occasion, and of whose enthusiasm in recalling the event, and in commenting on her intelligence and condescension, we can speak from personal observation.
But, reader, you will say, What has all this to do with our story?