Chapter Three.Nights with the Fire Brigade.There are few lives, we should think, more trying or more full of curious adventure and thrilling incident than that of a London fireman.He must always be on the alert. No hour of the day or night can he ever count on as being his own, unless on those occasions when he obtains leave of absence, which I suppose are not frequent. If he does not absolutely sleep in his clothes, he sleeps beside them—arranged in such a way that he can jump into them at a moment’s notice.When the summons comes there must be no preliminary yawning; no soft transition from the land of dreams to the world of reality. He jumps into his boots which stand invitingly ready, pulls on his trousers, buttons his braces while descending to the street, and must be brass-helmeted on the engine and away like a fiery dragon-gone-mad within three minutes of “the call,” or thereabouts, if he is to escape a fine.Moreover, the London fireman must be prepared to face death at any moment. When the call comes he never knows whether he is turning out to something not much more serious than “a chimney,” or to one of those devastating conflagrations on the river-side in which many thousand pounds worth of property are swept away, and his life may go along with them. Far more frequently than the soldier or sailor is he liable to be ordered on a duty which shall turn out to be a forlorn hope, and not less pluckily does he obey.There is no respite for him. The field which the London Brigade covers is so vast that the liability to be sent into action is continuous—chiefly, of course, at night. At one moment he may be calmly polishing up the “brasses” of his engine, or skylarking with his comrades, or sedately reading a book, or snoozing in bed, and the next he may be battling fiercely with the flames. Unlike the lifeboat heroes, who may sleep when the world of waters is calm, he must be ever on the watch; for his enemy is a lurking foe—like the Red Indian who pounces on you when you least expect him, and does not utter his warwhoop until he deems his victory secure. The little spark smoulders while the fireman on guard, booted and belted, keeps watch at his station. It creeps while he waits, and not until its energies have gained considerable force does it burst forth with a grand roar and bid him fierce defiance.Even when conquered in one quarter it often leaps up in another, so that the fireman sometimes returns from the field twice or thrice in the same night to find that the enemy is in force elsewhere and that the fight must be resumed.In the spring of 1867 I went to London to gather material for my bookFighting the Flames, and was kindly permitted by Captain Shaw—then Chief of the Fire Brigade—to spend a couple of weeks at one of the principal west-end stations, and accompany the men to fires.My first experience was somewhat stirring.My plan was to go to the station late in the evening and remain up all night with the men on guard waiting for fires.One day, in the afternoon, when it was growing dusk, and before I had made my first visit to the station, a broad-shouldered jovial-looking fellow in blue coat, belted, and with a sailor’s cap, called on me and asked if I should like to “see a ’ouse as ’ad bin blowed up with gas.”Of course I was only too glad to follow him. He conducted me to an elegant mansion in Bayswater, and chatted pleasantly as we went along in somewhat nautical tones, for he had been a man-of-war’s man. His name was Flaxmore.I may remark here that the men of the London brigade were, and still are, I believe, chosen from among seamen.“You see, sir,” said Flaxmore, in explanation of this fact, “sailors are found to be most suitable for the brigade because they’re accustomed to strict discipline,—to turn out suddenly at all hours, in all weathers, and to climbing in dangerous circumstances.”Arrived at the mansion, we found that the outside looked all right except that most of the windows were broken. The interior, however, presented a sad and curious appearance. The house had been recently done up in the most expensive style, and its gilded cornices, painted pilasters and other ornaments, with the lath and plaster of walls and ceilings had been blown into the rooms in dire confusion.“Bin a pretty considerable smash here, sir,” said Flaxmore, with a genial smile on his broad countenance. I admitted the fact, and asked how it happened.“Well, sir, you see,” said he, “there was an ’orrid smell of gas in the ’ouse, an’ the missus she sent for a gas man to find out where it was, and,wouldyou believe it, sir, they went to look for itwith a candle! Sure enough they found it too, in a small cupboard. The gas had been escapin’, it had, but couldn’t git out o’ that there cupboard, ’cause the door was a tight fit, so it had made its way all over the ’ouse between the lath and plaster and the walls. As soon as ever it caught light, sir, it blowed the whole place into smash—as you see. It blowed the gas man flat on his back; (an’ sarved him right!) it blowed the missus through the doorway, an’ it blowed the cook—(as was on the landin’ outside)—right down the kitchen stairs, it did;—but there was none of ’em much hurt, sir, they wasn’t, beyond a bruise or two!”After examining this house, Flaxmore proposed that I should go and see his engine. He was proud of his engine, evidently, and spoke of it as a man might speak of his wife!On our way to the station the driver of a passing ’bus called out—“Fireman, there’s a fire in New Bond Street.”One word Flaxmore exchanged with the driver, and then, turning to me, said, “Come on, sir, I’ll give you a ride!”Off we went at a run, and burst into the station. “Get her out, Jim,” cried Flaxmore, (herbeing the engine). Jim, the man on duty, put on his helmet without saying a word, and hauled out the fire-engine, while a comrade ran for the horses, and another called up the men. In five minutes more I was seated beside seven men in blue uniforms and brass helmets, dashing through the streets of London at full gallop!Now, those who have never seen a London fire-engine go to a fire have no conception of what it is—much less have they any conception of what it is to ride on the engine! To those accustomed to it, no doubt, it may be tame enough—I cannot tell; but to those who mount an engine for the first time and dash through the crowded thoroughfares at a wild tearing gallop; it is probably the most exciting drive conceivable. It beats steeplechasing! It feels like driving to destruction—so desperate and reckless is it. And yet, it is not reckless in the strict sense of that word; for there is a stern need-be in the case. Every moment, (not to mention minutes or hours), is of the utmost importance in the progress of a fire, for when it gets the mastery and bursts into flames it flashes to its work, and completes it quickly. At such times one moment wasted may involve the loss of thousands of pounds, ay, and of human lives also. This is well-known to those whose profession it is to fight the flames. Hence the union of apparent mad desperation, with cool, quiet self-possession in their proceedings. When firemen can work in silence they do so. No unnecessary word is uttered, no voice is needlessly raised; but, when occasion requires it, their course is a tumultuous rush, amid a storm of shouting and gesticulation!So was it on the present occasion. Had the fire been distant, they would have had to commence their gallop somewhat leisurely, for fear of breaking down the horses; but it was not far off—not much more than a couple of miles—so they dashed round the corner of their own street and swept into the Edgeware Road at full speed.Here the noise of our progress began, for the great thoroughfare was crowded with vehicles and pedestrians.To pass through such a crowd without coming into collision with anything required not only dexterous driving, but rendered it necessary that two of the men on the engine should stand up and shout incessantly as we whirled along, clearing everything out of our way.The men seemed to shout with the memory of the boatswain strong upon them, for their tones were pitched in the deepest and gruffest bass-key. Sometimes there was a lull for a moment, as a comparatively clear space of 100 yards or so lay before us; then their voices rose like the roaring of the gale as a stupid or deaf cabman got in our way, or a plethoric ’bus threatened to interrupt our furious career. The cross streets were the points where the chief difficulties met us. There cab- and van-drivers turned into or crossed the great thoroughfare, all ignorant of the thunderbolt that was rushing on like a fiery meteor, with its lanterns casting a glare of light before, and the helmets of the stern charioteers flashing back the rays from street-lamps and windows. At the corner of one of the streets the crowd of vehicles was so great that the driver of the engine began to tighten his reins, while Flaxmore and his comrades raised a furious roar. Cabs, ’buses, and pedestrians scattered right and left in a marvellous manner; the driver slackened his reins, cracked his whip, and the horses stretched out again.“There, it shows a light,” observed Flaxmore, as we tore along Oxford Street. At that moment a stupid cabman blocked up the way. There was a terrific shout from all the firemen, at once! but the man did not hear. Our driver attempted both to pull up and to turn aside; the first was impossible, the latter he did so effectively that he not only cleared the cab but made straight at a lamp-post on the other side! A crash seemed inevitable, but Flaxmore, observing the danger, seized the rein next to him and swung the horses round. We flew past, just shaving the lamp-post, and in three minutes more pulled up at a house which was blazing in the upper floors. Three engines were already at work on it. Flaxmore and his men at once entered the burning house, which by that time was nearly gutted. I stood outside looking on, but soon became anxious to know what was doing inside, and attempted to enter. A policeman stopped me, but at that moment Flaxmore came out like a half-drowned rat, his face streaked with brick-dust and charcoal. Seeing what I wanted he led me into the house, and immediately I found myself in a hot shower-bath which did not improve my coat or hat! At the same time I stepped up to the ankles in hot water! Tons of water were being poured on the house by three powerful engines, and this, in passing through so much heated material had become comfortably warm. The first thing I saw on entering was a foaming cataract! This was the staircase, down which the water rushed, breaking over masses of fallen brickwork and débris, with a noise like a goodly Highland burn! Up this we waded, but could get no further than the room above, as the upper stair had fallen in. I was about to descend in order to try to reach the roof by some other way, when a fireman caught me by the collar, exclaiming— “Hold on, sir!” He thought the staircase was about to fall. “Bolt now, sir,” he added, releasing me. I bolted, and was out in the street in a moment, where I found that some of the firemen who had first arrived, and were much exhausted, were being served with a glass of brandy. If there were any case in which a teetotaller might be justified in taking spirits, it would be, I think, when exhausted by toiling for hours amid the heat and smoke and danger of a fire—nevertheless I found that several of the firemen there were teetotallers.There was a shout of laughter at this moment, occasioned by one of the firemen having accidentally turned thebranchor delivery pipe full on the faces of the crowd and drenched some of them. This was followed by a loud cheer when another fireman was seen to have clambered to the roof whence he could apply the water with better effect. At last their efforts were crowned with success. Before midnight the fire was extinguished, and we drove back to the Paddington Station at a more leisurely pace. Thus ended my first experience of a London fire.Accidents, as may be easily believed, are of frequent occurrence.Accidents.There were between forty to fifty a year. In 1865 they were as follows:—Cuts and Lacerated Wounds12Contusions15Fractures2Sprains9Burns and Scalds3Injury to Eyes546My friend Flaxmore himself met with an accident not long afterwards. He slipped off the roof of a house and fell on his back from a height of about fifteen feet. Being a heavy man, the fall told severely on him.For about two weeks I went almost every evening to the Regent Street Station and spent the night with the men, in the hope of accompanying them to fires. The “lobby”—as the watch room of the station was named—was a small one, round the walls of which the brass helmets and hatchets of the men were hung. Here, each night, two men slept on two trestle-beds. They were fully equipped, with the exception of their helmets. Their comrades slept at their own homes, which were within a few yards of the station. The furniture of the “lobby” was scanty—a desk, a bookcase, two chairs, a clock, an alarm-bell, and four telegraphic instruments comprised it all. These last formed part of a network of telegraphs which extended from the central station to nearly all the other stations in London. By means of the telegraph a “call” is given—i.e. a fire is announced to the firemen all over London, if need be, in a very few minutes. Those who are nearest to the scene of conflagration hasten to it at once with their engines, while each outlying or distant station sends forward a man on foot. These men, coming up one by one, relieve those who have first hastened to the fire.“Calls,” however, are not always sent by telegraph. Sometimes a furious ring comes to the alarm-bell, and a man or a boy rushes in shouting “fire!” with all his might. People are generally much excited in such circumstances,—sometimes half mad. In one case a man came with a “call” in such perturbation of mind that he could not tell where the fire was at all for nearly five minutes! On another occasion two men rushed in with a call at the same moment, and both were stutterers. My own opinion is that one stuttered by nature and the other from agitation. Be that as it may, they were both half mad with excitement.“F–f–f–fire!” roared one.“F–f–f–fire!” yelled the other.“Where away?” asked a fireman as he quietly buckled his belt and put on his helmet.“B–B–Brompton!”—“B–B–Bayswater!” burst from them both at the same moment. Then one cried, “I—I s–s–say Brompton,” and the other shouted, “I—I s–say Bayswater.”“What street?” asked the fireman.“W–W–Walton Street,” cried one.“N–No—P–P–orchester Terrace,” roared the other, and at the word the Walton Street man hit the Porchester Terrace man between the eyes and knocked him down. A regular scuffle ensued, in the midst of which the firemen got out two engines—and, before the stutterers were separated, went off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater, and found that, as they had guessed, there were in reality two fires!One night’s experience in the “lobby” will give a specimen of the fireman’s work. I had spent the greater part of the night there without anything turning up. About three in the morning the two men on duty lay down on their trestle-beds to sleep, and I sat at the desk reading the reports of recent fires. The place was very quiet—the sounds of the great city were hushed—the night was calm, and nothing was heard but the soft breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock as I sat there waiting for a fire. I often looked at the telegraph needles and, (I am half ashamed to say it), longed for them to move and give us “a call.” At last, when I had begun to despair, the sharp little telegraph bell rang. Up I started in some excitement—up started one of the sleepers too, quite as quickly as I did, but without any excitement whatever—he was accustomed to alarms! Reading the telegraph with sleepy eyes he said, with a yawn, “it’s only a stop for a chimbley.” He lay down again to sleep, and I sat down again to read and wait. Soon after the foreman came down-stairs to have a smoke and a chat. Among the many anecdotes which he told me was one which had a little of the horrible in it. He said he was once called to a fire in a cemetery, where workmen had been employed in filling some of the vaults with sawdust and closing them up. They had been smoking down there and had set fire to the sawdust, which set light to the coffins, and when the firemen arrived these were burning fiercely, and the stench and smoke were almost overpowering—nevertheless one of the men ran down the stair of the vaults, but slipped his foot and fell. Next moment he rushed up with a face like a ghost, having fallen, he said, between two coffins! Quickly recovering from his fright he again descended with his comrades, and they soon managed to extinguish the fire.The foreman went off to bed after relating this pleasant little incident and left me to meditate on it. Presently a sound of distant wheels struck my ear. On they came at a rattling pace. In a few minutes a cab dashed round the corner and drew up sharply at the door, which was severely kicked, while the bell was rung furiously. Up jumped the sleepers again and in rushed a cabman, backed by a policeman, with the usual shout of “fire.” Then followed “question brief and quick reply”—“a fire in Great Portland Street close at hand.”“Get her out, Bill,” was the order. Bill darted to the engine-shed and knocked up the driver in passing. He got out the horses while the other man ran from house to house of the neighbouring firemen giving adoublering to their bells. Before the engine was horsed one and another and another of the men darted into the station, donned his helmet, and buckled on his axe; then they all sprang to their places, the whip cracked, and off we went at full gallop only eight minutes after the alarm-bell rang. We spun through the streets like a rocket with a tail of sparks behind us, for the fire of the engine had been lighted before starting.On reaching the fire it was found to be only smouldering in the basement of the house, and the men of another engine were swarming through the place searching for the seat of it. I went in with our men, and the first thing I saw was a coffin lying ready for use! The foreman led me down into a vaulted cellar, and here, strange to say, I found myself in the midst of coffins! It seemed like the realisation of the story I had just heard. There were not fewer than thirty of them on the floor and ranged round the walls. Happily, however, they were not tenanted. In fact the fire had occurred in an undertaker’s workshop, and, in looking through the premises, I came upon several coffins laid out ready for immediate use. Two of these impressed me much. They lay side by side. One was of plain black wood—a pauper’s coffin evidently. The other was covered with fine cloth and gilt ornaments, and lined with padded white satin! I was making some moral reflections on the curious difference between the last resting-place of the rich man and the poor, when I was interrupted by the firemen who had discovered the fire and put it out, so we jumped on the engine once more, and galloped back to the station. Most of the men went off immediately to bed; the engine was housed; the horses were stabled; the men on guard hung up their helmets and lay down again on their trestle-beds; the foreman bade me “good-night,” and I was left once more in a silence that was broken only by the deep breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock—scarcely able to believe that the stirring events of the previous hour were other than a vivid dream.All over London, at short distances apart, fire-escapes may be seen rearing their tall heads in recesses and corners formed by the angles in churches or other public buildings. Each night these are brought out to the streets, where they stand in readiness for instant use.At the present time the escapes are in charge of the Fire Brigade. When I visited the firemen they were under direction of the Royal Society for the Protection of Life from Fire, and in charge of Conductors, who sat in sentry-boxes beside the escapes every night, summer and winter, ready for action.These conductors were clad like the firemen—except that their helmets were made of black leather instead of brass. They were not very different from other mortals to look at, but they were picked men—every one—bold as lions; true as steel; ready each night, at a moment’s notice, to place their lives in jeopardy in order to rescue their fellow-creatures from the flames. Of course they were paid for the work, but the pay was small when we consider that it was the price of indomitable courage, tremendous energy, great strength of limb, and untiring perseverance in the face of appalling danger.Here is a specimen of the way in which the escapes were worked.On the night of the 2nd March 1866, the premises of a blockmaker named George Milne caught fire. The flames spread with great rapidity, arousing Milne and his family, which consisted of his wife and seven children. All these sought refuge in the attics. At first Milne thought he could have saved himself, but with so many little children round him he found himself utterly helpless. Not far from the spot, Henry Douglas, a fire-escape conductor, sat in his sentry-box, reading a book, perchance, or meditating, mayhap, on the wife and little ones slumbering snugly at home, while he kept watch over the sleeping city. Soon the shout of fire reached his ears. At once his cloth-cap was exchanged for the black helmet, and, in a few seconds, the escape was flying along the streets, pushed by the willing hands of policemen and passers-by. The answer to the summons was very prompt on this occasion, but the fire was burning fiercely when Conductor Douglas arrived, and the whole of the lower part of the house was so enveloped in flames and smoke that the windows could not be seen at all. Douglas therefore pitched his escape, at a venture, on what hethoughtwould bring him to the second-floor windows, and up he went amid the cheers of the on-lookers. Entering a window, he tried to search the room, (and the cheers were hushed while the excited multitude gazed and listened with breathless anxiety—for they knew that the man was in a position of imminent danger). In a few moments he re-appeared on the escape, half suffocated. He had heard screams in the room above, and at once threw up the fly-ladder, by which he ascended to the parapet below the attic rooms. Here he discovered Milne and his family grouped together in helpless despair. We may conceive the gush of hope that must have thrilled their breasts when Conductor Douglas leaped through the smoke into the midst of them; but we can neither describe nor conceive, (unless we have heard it in similar circumstances), thetoneof the deafening cheers that greeted the brave man when he re-appeared on the ladders, and, (with the aid of a policeman named John Pead), bore the whole family, one by one, in safety to the ground! For this deed Conductor Douglas received the silver medal of the Society, and Pead, the policeman, received a written testimonial and a sovereign. Subsequently, in consequence of Conductor Douglas’s serious illness,—resulting from his efforts on this occasion—the Society voted him a gratuity of 5 pounds beyond his sick allowance to mark their strong approbation of his conduct. Now in this case it is obvious that but for the fire-escape, the blockmaker and his family must have perished.Here is another case. I quote the conductor’s own account of it, as given in the Fire Escape Society’s annual report. The conductor’s name was Shaw. He writes:—“Upon my arrival from Aldersgate Street Station, the fire had gained strong hold upon the lower portion of the building, and the smoke issuing therefrom was so dense and suffocating as to render all escape by the staircase quite impossible. Hearing cries for help from the upper part of the house, I placed my Fire Escape, ascended to the third floor, whence I rescued four persons—viz. Mrs Ferguson, her two children, and a lodger named Gibson. They were all leaning against the window-sill, almost overcome. I carried each down the Escape, (a height of nearly fifty feet), in perfect safety; and afterwards entered the back part of the premises, and took five young children from a yard where they were exposed to great danger from the fire.”There was a man in the London Brigade who deserves special notice—viz. Conductor Samuel Wood. Wood had been many years in the service, and had, in the course of his career, saved no fewer than 168 lives.On one occasion he was called to a fire in Church Lane. He found a Mr Nathan in the first-floor unable to descend the staircase, as the ground floor was in flames. He unshipped his first-floor ladder, and, with the assistance of a policeman, brought Mr Nathan down. Being informed that there was a servant girl in the kitchen, Wood took his crowbar, wrenched up the grating, and brought the young woman out in safety. Now this I give as a somewhat ordinary case. It involved danger; but not so much as to warrant the bestowal of the silver medal. Nevertheless, Wood and the policeman were awarded a written testimonial and a sum of money.I have had some correspondence with Conductor Wood, whose broad breast was covered with medals and clasps won in the service of the F.E. Society. At one fire he rushed up the escape before it was properly pitched, and caught in his arms a man named Middleton as he was in the act of jumping from a window.At another time, on arriving at a fire, he found that the family thought all had escaped, “but,” wrote the conductor to me, “they soon missed the old grandmother.—I immediately broke the shop door open and passed through to the first-floor landing, where I discovered the old lady lying insensible. I placed her on my back, and crawled back to the door, and I am happy to say she is alive now and doing well!”So risky was a conductor’s work that sometimes he had to be rescued by others—as the following extract will illustrate. It is from one of the Society’s reports:—“Case 10,620.“Awarded to James Griffin, Inspector of the K Division of Police, the Society’s Silver Medal, for the intrepid and valuable assistance rendered to Fire Escape Conductor Rickell at a Fire at the ‘Rose and Crown’ public-house, Bridge Street, at one o’clock on the morning of February 1st, when, but for his assistance there is little doubt that the Conductor would have perished. On the arrival of Conductor Rickell with the Mile End Fire Escape, not being satisfied that all the inmates had escaped, the Conductor entered the house, the upper part of which was burning fiercely; the Conductor not being seen for some time, the Inspector called to him, and, not receiving an answer, entered the house and ascended the stairs, and saw the Conductor lying on the floor quite insensible. With some difficulty the Inspector reached him, and, dragging him down the staircase, carried him into the air, where he gradually recovered.”While attending fires in London, I wore one of the black leather helmets of the Salvage Corps. This had the double effect of protecting my head from falling bricks, and enabling me to pass the cordon of police unquestioned.After a night of it I was wont to return home about dawn, as few fires occur after that. On these occasions I felt deeply grateful to the keepers of small coffee-stalls, who, wheeling their entire shop and stock-in-trade in a barrow, supplied early workmen with cups of hot coffee at a halfpenny a piece, and slices of bread and butter for the same modest sum. At such times I came to know that “man wants but little here below,” if he only gets it hot and substantial.Fire is such an important subject, and an element that any one may be called on so suddenly and unexpectedly to face, that, at the risk of being deemed presumptuous, I will, for a few minutes, turn aside from these reminiscences to put a few plain questions to my reader.Has it ever occurred to you to think what you would do if your house took fire at night? Do you know of any other mode of exit from your house than by the front or back doors and the staircase? Have you a rope at home which would support a man’s weight, and extend from an upper window to the ground? Nothing easier than to get and keep such a rope. A few shillings would purchase it. Do you know how you would attempt to throw water on the walls of one of your rooms, if it were on fire near the ceiling? A tea-cup would be of no use! A sauce-pan would not be much better. As for buckets or basins, the strongest man could not heave such weights of water to the ceiling with any precision or effect. But there are garden hand-pumps in every seedsman’s shop with which a man could deluge his property with the greatest ease.Do you know how to tie two blankets or sheets together, so that the knot shall not slip? Your life may one day depend on such a simple piece of knowledge.Still further, do you know that in retreating from room to room before a fire you should shut doors and windows behind you to prevent the supply of air which feeds the flames? Are you aware that by creeping on your hands and knees, and keeping your head close to the ground, you can manage to breathe in a room where the smoke would suffocate you if you stood up?—also, that a wet sponge or handkerchief held over the mouth and nose will enable you to breathe with less difficulty in the midst of smoke?—Do you know that many persons, especially children, lose their lives by being forgotten by the inmates of a house in cases of fire, and that, if a fire came to you, you ought to see to it that every member of your household is present to take advantage of any means of escape that may be sent to you?These subjects deserve to be considered thoughtfully by every one, especially by heads of families—not only for their own sakes, but for the sake of those whom God has committed to their care. For suppose that, (despite the improbability of such an event), your dwelling reallydidcatch fire, how inconceivable would be the bitterness added to your despair, if, in the midst of gathering smoke and flames—with death staring you in the face, and rescue all but hopeless—you were compelled to feel that you and yours might have escaped the impending danger if you had only bestowed on fire-prevention, fire-extinction, and fire-escape a very little forethought and consideration.
There are few lives, we should think, more trying or more full of curious adventure and thrilling incident than that of a London fireman.
He must always be on the alert. No hour of the day or night can he ever count on as being his own, unless on those occasions when he obtains leave of absence, which I suppose are not frequent. If he does not absolutely sleep in his clothes, he sleeps beside them—arranged in such a way that he can jump into them at a moment’s notice.
When the summons comes there must be no preliminary yawning; no soft transition from the land of dreams to the world of reality. He jumps into his boots which stand invitingly ready, pulls on his trousers, buttons his braces while descending to the street, and must be brass-helmeted on the engine and away like a fiery dragon-gone-mad within three minutes of “the call,” or thereabouts, if he is to escape a fine.
Moreover, the London fireman must be prepared to face death at any moment. When the call comes he never knows whether he is turning out to something not much more serious than “a chimney,” or to one of those devastating conflagrations on the river-side in which many thousand pounds worth of property are swept away, and his life may go along with them. Far more frequently than the soldier or sailor is he liable to be ordered on a duty which shall turn out to be a forlorn hope, and not less pluckily does he obey.
There is no respite for him. The field which the London Brigade covers is so vast that the liability to be sent into action is continuous—chiefly, of course, at night. At one moment he may be calmly polishing up the “brasses” of his engine, or skylarking with his comrades, or sedately reading a book, or snoozing in bed, and the next he may be battling fiercely with the flames. Unlike the lifeboat heroes, who may sleep when the world of waters is calm, he must be ever on the watch; for his enemy is a lurking foe—like the Red Indian who pounces on you when you least expect him, and does not utter his warwhoop until he deems his victory secure. The little spark smoulders while the fireman on guard, booted and belted, keeps watch at his station. It creeps while he waits, and not until its energies have gained considerable force does it burst forth with a grand roar and bid him fierce defiance.
Even when conquered in one quarter it often leaps up in another, so that the fireman sometimes returns from the field twice or thrice in the same night to find that the enemy is in force elsewhere and that the fight must be resumed.
In the spring of 1867 I went to London to gather material for my bookFighting the Flames, and was kindly permitted by Captain Shaw—then Chief of the Fire Brigade—to spend a couple of weeks at one of the principal west-end stations, and accompany the men to fires.
My first experience was somewhat stirring.
My plan was to go to the station late in the evening and remain up all night with the men on guard waiting for fires.
One day, in the afternoon, when it was growing dusk, and before I had made my first visit to the station, a broad-shouldered jovial-looking fellow in blue coat, belted, and with a sailor’s cap, called on me and asked if I should like to “see a ’ouse as ’ad bin blowed up with gas.”
Of course I was only too glad to follow him. He conducted me to an elegant mansion in Bayswater, and chatted pleasantly as we went along in somewhat nautical tones, for he had been a man-of-war’s man. His name was Flaxmore.
I may remark here that the men of the London brigade were, and still are, I believe, chosen from among seamen.
“You see, sir,” said Flaxmore, in explanation of this fact, “sailors are found to be most suitable for the brigade because they’re accustomed to strict discipline,—to turn out suddenly at all hours, in all weathers, and to climbing in dangerous circumstances.”
Arrived at the mansion, we found that the outside looked all right except that most of the windows were broken. The interior, however, presented a sad and curious appearance. The house had been recently done up in the most expensive style, and its gilded cornices, painted pilasters and other ornaments, with the lath and plaster of walls and ceilings had been blown into the rooms in dire confusion.
“Bin a pretty considerable smash here, sir,” said Flaxmore, with a genial smile on his broad countenance. I admitted the fact, and asked how it happened.
“Well, sir, you see,” said he, “there was an ’orrid smell of gas in the ’ouse, an’ the missus she sent for a gas man to find out where it was, and,wouldyou believe it, sir, they went to look for itwith a candle! Sure enough they found it too, in a small cupboard. The gas had been escapin’, it had, but couldn’t git out o’ that there cupboard, ’cause the door was a tight fit, so it had made its way all over the ’ouse between the lath and plaster and the walls. As soon as ever it caught light, sir, it blowed the whole place into smash—as you see. It blowed the gas man flat on his back; (an’ sarved him right!) it blowed the missus through the doorway, an’ it blowed the cook—(as was on the landin’ outside)—right down the kitchen stairs, it did;—but there was none of ’em much hurt, sir, they wasn’t, beyond a bruise or two!”
After examining this house, Flaxmore proposed that I should go and see his engine. He was proud of his engine, evidently, and spoke of it as a man might speak of his wife!
On our way to the station the driver of a passing ’bus called out—
“Fireman, there’s a fire in New Bond Street.”
One word Flaxmore exchanged with the driver, and then, turning to me, said, “Come on, sir, I’ll give you a ride!”
Off we went at a run, and burst into the station. “Get her out, Jim,” cried Flaxmore, (herbeing the engine). Jim, the man on duty, put on his helmet without saying a word, and hauled out the fire-engine, while a comrade ran for the horses, and another called up the men. In five minutes more I was seated beside seven men in blue uniforms and brass helmets, dashing through the streets of London at full gallop!
Now, those who have never seen a London fire-engine go to a fire have no conception of what it is—much less have they any conception of what it is to ride on the engine! To those accustomed to it, no doubt, it may be tame enough—I cannot tell; but to those who mount an engine for the first time and dash through the crowded thoroughfares at a wild tearing gallop; it is probably the most exciting drive conceivable. It beats steeplechasing! It feels like driving to destruction—so desperate and reckless is it. And yet, it is not reckless in the strict sense of that word; for there is a stern need-be in the case. Every moment, (not to mention minutes or hours), is of the utmost importance in the progress of a fire, for when it gets the mastery and bursts into flames it flashes to its work, and completes it quickly. At such times one moment wasted may involve the loss of thousands of pounds, ay, and of human lives also. This is well-known to those whose profession it is to fight the flames. Hence the union of apparent mad desperation, with cool, quiet self-possession in their proceedings. When firemen can work in silence they do so. No unnecessary word is uttered, no voice is needlessly raised; but, when occasion requires it, their course is a tumultuous rush, amid a storm of shouting and gesticulation!
So was it on the present occasion. Had the fire been distant, they would have had to commence their gallop somewhat leisurely, for fear of breaking down the horses; but it was not far off—not much more than a couple of miles—so they dashed round the corner of their own street and swept into the Edgeware Road at full speed.
Here the noise of our progress began, for the great thoroughfare was crowded with vehicles and pedestrians.
To pass through such a crowd without coming into collision with anything required not only dexterous driving, but rendered it necessary that two of the men on the engine should stand up and shout incessantly as we whirled along, clearing everything out of our way.
The men seemed to shout with the memory of the boatswain strong upon them, for their tones were pitched in the deepest and gruffest bass-key. Sometimes there was a lull for a moment, as a comparatively clear space of 100 yards or so lay before us; then their voices rose like the roaring of the gale as a stupid or deaf cabman got in our way, or a plethoric ’bus threatened to interrupt our furious career. The cross streets were the points where the chief difficulties met us. There cab- and van-drivers turned into or crossed the great thoroughfare, all ignorant of the thunderbolt that was rushing on like a fiery meteor, with its lanterns casting a glare of light before, and the helmets of the stern charioteers flashing back the rays from street-lamps and windows. At the corner of one of the streets the crowd of vehicles was so great that the driver of the engine began to tighten his reins, while Flaxmore and his comrades raised a furious roar. Cabs, ’buses, and pedestrians scattered right and left in a marvellous manner; the driver slackened his reins, cracked his whip, and the horses stretched out again.
“There, it shows a light,” observed Flaxmore, as we tore along Oxford Street. At that moment a stupid cabman blocked up the way. There was a terrific shout from all the firemen, at once! but the man did not hear. Our driver attempted both to pull up and to turn aside; the first was impossible, the latter he did so effectively that he not only cleared the cab but made straight at a lamp-post on the other side! A crash seemed inevitable, but Flaxmore, observing the danger, seized the rein next to him and swung the horses round. We flew past, just shaving the lamp-post, and in three minutes more pulled up at a house which was blazing in the upper floors. Three engines were already at work on it. Flaxmore and his men at once entered the burning house, which by that time was nearly gutted. I stood outside looking on, but soon became anxious to know what was doing inside, and attempted to enter. A policeman stopped me, but at that moment Flaxmore came out like a half-drowned rat, his face streaked with brick-dust and charcoal. Seeing what I wanted he led me into the house, and immediately I found myself in a hot shower-bath which did not improve my coat or hat! At the same time I stepped up to the ankles in hot water! Tons of water were being poured on the house by three powerful engines, and this, in passing through so much heated material had become comfortably warm. The first thing I saw on entering was a foaming cataract! This was the staircase, down which the water rushed, breaking over masses of fallen brickwork and débris, with a noise like a goodly Highland burn! Up this we waded, but could get no further than the room above, as the upper stair had fallen in. I was about to descend in order to try to reach the roof by some other way, when a fireman caught me by the collar, exclaiming— “Hold on, sir!” He thought the staircase was about to fall. “Bolt now, sir,” he added, releasing me. I bolted, and was out in the street in a moment, where I found that some of the firemen who had first arrived, and were much exhausted, were being served with a glass of brandy. If there were any case in which a teetotaller might be justified in taking spirits, it would be, I think, when exhausted by toiling for hours amid the heat and smoke and danger of a fire—nevertheless I found that several of the firemen there were teetotallers.
There was a shout of laughter at this moment, occasioned by one of the firemen having accidentally turned thebranchor delivery pipe full on the faces of the crowd and drenched some of them. This was followed by a loud cheer when another fireman was seen to have clambered to the roof whence he could apply the water with better effect. At last their efforts were crowned with success. Before midnight the fire was extinguished, and we drove back to the Paddington Station at a more leisurely pace. Thus ended my first experience of a London fire.
Accidents, as may be easily believed, are of frequent occurrence.
Accidents.
There were between forty to fifty a year. In 1865 they were as follows:—
My friend Flaxmore himself met with an accident not long afterwards. He slipped off the roof of a house and fell on his back from a height of about fifteen feet. Being a heavy man, the fall told severely on him.
For about two weeks I went almost every evening to the Regent Street Station and spent the night with the men, in the hope of accompanying them to fires. The “lobby”—as the watch room of the station was named—was a small one, round the walls of which the brass helmets and hatchets of the men were hung. Here, each night, two men slept on two trestle-beds. They were fully equipped, with the exception of their helmets. Their comrades slept at their own homes, which were within a few yards of the station. The furniture of the “lobby” was scanty—a desk, a bookcase, two chairs, a clock, an alarm-bell, and four telegraphic instruments comprised it all. These last formed part of a network of telegraphs which extended from the central station to nearly all the other stations in London. By means of the telegraph a “call” is given—i.e. a fire is announced to the firemen all over London, if need be, in a very few minutes. Those who are nearest to the scene of conflagration hasten to it at once with their engines, while each outlying or distant station sends forward a man on foot. These men, coming up one by one, relieve those who have first hastened to the fire.
“Calls,” however, are not always sent by telegraph. Sometimes a furious ring comes to the alarm-bell, and a man or a boy rushes in shouting “fire!” with all his might. People are generally much excited in such circumstances,—sometimes half mad. In one case a man came with a “call” in such perturbation of mind that he could not tell where the fire was at all for nearly five minutes! On another occasion two men rushed in with a call at the same moment, and both were stutterers. My own opinion is that one stuttered by nature and the other from agitation. Be that as it may, they were both half mad with excitement.
“F–f–f–fire!” roared one.
“F–f–f–fire!” yelled the other.
“Where away?” asked a fireman as he quietly buckled his belt and put on his helmet.
“B–B–Brompton!”—“B–B–Bayswater!” burst from them both at the same moment. Then one cried, “I—I s–s–say Brompton,” and the other shouted, “I—I s–say Bayswater.”
“What street?” asked the fireman.
“W–W–Walton Street,” cried one.
“N–No—P–P–orchester Terrace,” roared the other, and at the word the Walton Street man hit the Porchester Terrace man between the eyes and knocked him down. A regular scuffle ensued, in the midst of which the firemen got out two engines—and, before the stutterers were separated, went off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater, and found that, as they had guessed, there were in reality two fires!
One night’s experience in the “lobby” will give a specimen of the fireman’s work. I had spent the greater part of the night there without anything turning up. About three in the morning the two men on duty lay down on their trestle-beds to sleep, and I sat at the desk reading the reports of recent fires. The place was very quiet—the sounds of the great city were hushed—the night was calm, and nothing was heard but the soft breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock as I sat there waiting for a fire. I often looked at the telegraph needles and, (I am half ashamed to say it), longed for them to move and give us “a call.” At last, when I had begun to despair, the sharp little telegraph bell rang. Up I started in some excitement—up started one of the sleepers too, quite as quickly as I did, but without any excitement whatever—he was accustomed to alarms! Reading the telegraph with sleepy eyes he said, with a yawn, “it’s only a stop for a chimbley.” He lay down again to sleep, and I sat down again to read and wait. Soon after the foreman came down-stairs to have a smoke and a chat. Among the many anecdotes which he told me was one which had a little of the horrible in it. He said he was once called to a fire in a cemetery, where workmen had been employed in filling some of the vaults with sawdust and closing them up. They had been smoking down there and had set fire to the sawdust, which set light to the coffins, and when the firemen arrived these were burning fiercely, and the stench and smoke were almost overpowering—nevertheless one of the men ran down the stair of the vaults, but slipped his foot and fell. Next moment he rushed up with a face like a ghost, having fallen, he said, between two coffins! Quickly recovering from his fright he again descended with his comrades, and they soon managed to extinguish the fire.
The foreman went off to bed after relating this pleasant little incident and left me to meditate on it. Presently a sound of distant wheels struck my ear. On they came at a rattling pace. In a few minutes a cab dashed round the corner and drew up sharply at the door, which was severely kicked, while the bell was rung furiously. Up jumped the sleepers again and in rushed a cabman, backed by a policeman, with the usual shout of “fire.” Then followed “question brief and quick reply”—“a fire in Great Portland Street close at hand.”
“Get her out, Bill,” was the order. Bill darted to the engine-shed and knocked up the driver in passing. He got out the horses while the other man ran from house to house of the neighbouring firemen giving adoublering to their bells. Before the engine was horsed one and another and another of the men darted into the station, donned his helmet, and buckled on his axe; then they all sprang to their places, the whip cracked, and off we went at full gallop only eight minutes after the alarm-bell rang. We spun through the streets like a rocket with a tail of sparks behind us, for the fire of the engine had been lighted before starting.
On reaching the fire it was found to be only smouldering in the basement of the house, and the men of another engine were swarming through the place searching for the seat of it. I went in with our men, and the first thing I saw was a coffin lying ready for use! The foreman led me down into a vaulted cellar, and here, strange to say, I found myself in the midst of coffins! It seemed like the realisation of the story I had just heard. There were not fewer than thirty of them on the floor and ranged round the walls. Happily, however, they were not tenanted. In fact the fire had occurred in an undertaker’s workshop, and, in looking through the premises, I came upon several coffins laid out ready for immediate use. Two of these impressed me much. They lay side by side. One was of plain black wood—a pauper’s coffin evidently. The other was covered with fine cloth and gilt ornaments, and lined with padded white satin! I was making some moral reflections on the curious difference between the last resting-place of the rich man and the poor, when I was interrupted by the firemen who had discovered the fire and put it out, so we jumped on the engine once more, and galloped back to the station. Most of the men went off immediately to bed; the engine was housed; the horses were stabled; the men on guard hung up their helmets and lay down again on their trestle-beds; the foreman bade me “good-night,” and I was left once more in a silence that was broken only by the deep breathing of the sleepers and the ticking of the clock—scarcely able to believe that the stirring events of the previous hour were other than a vivid dream.
All over London, at short distances apart, fire-escapes may be seen rearing their tall heads in recesses and corners formed by the angles in churches or other public buildings. Each night these are brought out to the streets, where they stand in readiness for instant use.
At the present time the escapes are in charge of the Fire Brigade. When I visited the firemen they were under direction of the Royal Society for the Protection of Life from Fire, and in charge of Conductors, who sat in sentry-boxes beside the escapes every night, summer and winter, ready for action.
These conductors were clad like the firemen—except that their helmets were made of black leather instead of brass. They were not very different from other mortals to look at, but they were picked men—every one—bold as lions; true as steel; ready each night, at a moment’s notice, to place their lives in jeopardy in order to rescue their fellow-creatures from the flames. Of course they were paid for the work, but the pay was small when we consider that it was the price of indomitable courage, tremendous energy, great strength of limb, and untiring perseverance in the face of appalling danger.
Here is a specimen of the way in which the escapes were worked.
On the night of the 2nd March 1866, the premises of a blockmaker named George Milne caught fire. The flames spread with great rapidity, arousing Milne and his family, which consisted of his wife and seven children. All these sought refuge in the attics. At first Milne thought he could have saved himself, but with so many little children round him he found himself utterly helpless. Not far from the spot, Henry Douglas, a fire-escape conductor, sat in his sentry-box, reading a book, perchance, or meditating, mayhap, on the wife and little ones slumbering snugly at home, while he kept watch over the sleeping city. Soon the shout of fire reached his ears. At once his cloth-cap was exchanged for the black helmet, and, in a few seconds, the escape was flying along the streets, pushed by the willing hands of policemen and passers-by. The answer to the summons was very prompt on this occasion, but the fire was burning fiercely when Conductor Douglas arrived, and the whole of the lower part of the house was so enveloped in flames and smoke that the windows could not be seen at all. Douglas therefore pitched his escape, at a venture, on what hethoughtwould bring him to the second-floor windows, and up he went amid the cheers of the on-lookers. Entering a window, he tried to search the room, (and the cheers were hushed while the excited multitude gazed and listened with breathless anxiety—for they knew that the man was in a position of imminent danger). In a few moments he re-appeared on the escape, half suffocated. He had heard screams in the room above, and at once threw up the fly-ladder, by which he ascended to the parapet below the attic rooms. Here he discovered Milne and his family grouped together in helpless despair. We may conceive the gush of hope that must have thrilled their breasts when Conductor Douglas leaped through the smoke into the midst of them; but we can neither describe nor conceive, (unless we have heard it in similar circumstances), thetoneof the deafening cheers that greeted the brave man when he re-appeared on the ladders, and, (with the aid of a policeman named John Pead), bore the whole family, one by one, in safety to the ground! For this deed Conductor Douglas received the silver medal of the Society, and Pead, the policeman, received a written testimonial and a sovereign. Subsequently, in consequence of Conductor Douglas’s serious illness,—resulting from his efforts on this occasion—the Society voted him a gratuity of 5 pounds beyond his sick allowance to mark their strong approbation of his conduct. Now in this case it is obvious that but for the fire-escape, the blockmaker and his family must have perished.
Here is another case. I quote the conductor’s own account of it, as given in the Fire Escape Society’s annual report. The conductor’s name was Shaw. He writes:—
“Upon my arrival from Aldersgate Street Station, the fire had gained strong hold upon the lower portion of the building, and the smoke issuing therefrom was so dense and suffocating as to render all escape by the staircase quite impossible. Hearing cries for help from the upper part of the house, I placed my Fire Escape, ascended to the third floor, whence I rescued four persons—viz. Mrs Ferguson, her two children, and a lodger named Gibson. They were all leaning against the window-sill, almost overcome. I carried each down the Escape, (a height of nearly fifty feet), in perfect safety; and afterwards entered the back part of the premises, and took five young children from a yard where they were exposed to great danger from the fire.”
“Upon my arrival from Aldersgate Street Station, the fire had gained strong hold upon the lower portion of the building, and the smoke issuing therefrom was so dense and suffocating as to render all escape by the staircase quite impossible. Hearing cries for help from the upper part of the house, I placed my Fire Escape, ascended to the third floor, whence I rescued four persons—viz. Mrs Ferguson, her two children, and a lodger named Gibson. They were all leaning against the window-sill, almost overcome. I carried each down the Escape, (a height of nearly fifty feet), in perfect safety; and afterwards entered the back part of the premises, and took five young children from a yard where they were exposed to great danger from the fire.”
There was a man in the London Brigade who deserves special notice—viz. Conductor Samuel Wood. Wood had been many years in the service, and had, in the course of his career, saved no fewer than 168 lives.
On one occasion he was called to a fire in Church Lane. He found a Mr Nathan in the first-floor unable to descend the staircase, as the ground floor was in flames. He unshipped his first-floor ladder, and, with the assistance of a policeman, brought Mr Nathan down. Being informed that there was a servant girl in the kitchen, Wood took his crowbar, wrenched up the grating, and brought the young woman out in safety. Now this I give as a somewhat ordinary case. It involved danger; but not so much as to warrant the bestowal of the silver medal. Nevertheless, Wood and the policeman were awarded a written testimonial and a sum of money.
I have had some correspondence with Conductor Wood, whose broad breast was covered with medals and clasps won in the service of the F.E. Society. At one fire he rushed up the escape before it was properly pitched, and caught in his arms a man named Middleton as he was in the act of jumping from a window.
At another time, on arriving at a fire, he found that the family thought all had escaped, “but,” wrote the conductor to me, “they soon missed the old grandmother.—I immediately broke the shop door open and passed through to the first-floor landing, where I discovered the old lady lying insensible. I placed her on my back, and crawled back to the door, and I am happy to say she is alive now and doing well!”
So risky was a conductor’s work that sometimes he had to be rescued by others—as the following extract will illustrate. It is from one of the Society’s reports:—
“Case 10,620.“Awarded to James Griffin, Inspector of the K Division of Police, the Society’s Silver Medal, for the intrepid and valuable assistance rendered to Fire Escape Conductor Rickell at a Fire at the ‘Rose and Crown’ public-house, Bridge Street, at one o’clock on the morning of February 1st, when, but for his assistance there is little doubt that the Conductor would have perished. On the arrival of Conductor Rickell with the Mile End Fire Escape, not being satisfied that all the inmates had escaped, the Conductor entered the house, the upper part of which was burning fiercely; the Conductor not being seen for some time, the Inspector called to him, and, not receiving an answer, entered the house and ascended the stairs, and saw the Conductor lying on the floor quite insensible. With some difficulty the Inspector reached him, and, dragging him down the staircase, carried him into the air, where he gradually recovered.”
“Awarded to James Griffin, Inspector of the K Division of Police, the Society’s Silver Medal, for the intrepid and valuable assistance rendered to Fire Escape Conductor Rickell at a Fire at the ‘Rose and Crown’ public-house, Bridge Street, at one o’clock on the morning of February 1st, when, but for his assistance there is little doubt that the Conductor would have perished. On the arrival of Conductor Rickell with the Mile End Fire Escape, not being satisfied that all the inmates had escaped, the Conductor entered the house, the upper part of which was burning fiercely; the Conductor not being seen for some time, the Inspector called to him, and, not receiving an answer, entered the house and ascended the stairs, and saw the Conductor lying on the floor quite insensible. With some difficulty the Inspector reached him, and, dragging him down the staircase, carried him into the air, where he gradually recovered.”
While attending fires in London, I wore one of the black leather helmets of the Salvage Corps. This had the double effect of protecting my head from falling bricks, and enabling me to pass the cordon of police unquestioned.
After a night of it I was wont to return home about dawn, as few fires occur after that. On these occasions I felt deeply grateful to the keepers of small coffee-stalls, who, wheeling their entire shop and stock-in-trade in a barrow, supplied early workmen with cups of hot coffee at a halfpenny a piece, and slices of bread and butter for the same modest sum. At such times I came to know that “man wants but little here below,” if he only gets it hot and substantial.
Fire is such an important subject, and an element that any one may be called on so suddenly and unexpectedly to face, that, at the risk of being deemed presumptuous, I will, for a few minutes, turn aside from these reminiscences to put a few plain questions to my reader.
Has it ever occurred to you to think what you would do if your house took fire at night? Do you know of any other mode of exit from your house than by the front or back doors and the staircase? Have you a rope at home which would support a man’s weight, and extend from an upper window to the ground? Nothing easier than to get and keep such a rope. A few shillings would purchase it. Do you know how you would attempt to throw water on the walls of one of your rooms, if it were on fire near the ceiling? A tea-cup would be of no use! A sauce-pan would not be much better. As for buckets or basins, the strongest man could not heave such weights of water to the ceiling with any precision or effect. But there are garden hand-pumps in every seedsman’s shop with which a man could deluge his property with the greatest ease.
Do you know how to tie two blankets or sheets together, so that the knot shall not slip? Your life may one day depend on such a simple piece of knowledge.
Still further, do you know that in retreating from room to room before a fire you should shut doors and windows behind you to prevent the supply of air which feeds the flames? Are you aware that by creeping on your hands and knees, and keeping your head close to the ground, you can manage to breathe in a room where the smoke would suffocate you if you stood up?—also, that a wet sponge or handkerchief held over the mouth and nose will enable you to breathe with less difficulty in the midst of smoke?—Do you know that many persons, especially children, lose their lives by being forgotten by the inmates of a house in cases of fire, and that, if a fire came to you, you ought to see to it that every member of your household is present to take advantage of any means of escape that may be sent to you?
These subjects deserve to be considered thoughtfully by every one, especially by heads of families—not only for their own sakes, but for the sake of those whom God has committed to their care. For suppose that, (despite the improbability of such an event), your dwelling reallydidcatch fire, how inconceivable would be the bitterness added to your despair, if, in the midst of gathering smoke and flames—with death staring you in the face, and rescue all but hopeless—you were compelled to feel that you and yours might have escaped the impending danger if you had only bestowed on fire-prevention, fire-extinction, and fire-escape a very little forethought and consideration.
Chapter Four.A War of Mercy.There is a great war in which the British Nation is at all times engaged.No bright seasons of peace mark the course of this war. Year by year it is waged unceasingly, though not at all times with the same fury, nor always with the same results.Sometimes, as in ordinary warfare, there are minor skirmishes in which many a deed of heroism is done, though not recorded, and there are pitched battles in which all our resources are called into action, and the papers teem with the news of the defeats, disasters, and victories of the great fight.This war costs us hundreds of lives, thousands of ships, and millions of money every year. Our undying and unconquerable enemy is the storm, and our great engines of war with which, through the blessing of God, we are enabled to fight more or less successfully against the foe, are the Lifeboat and the Rocket.These engines, and the brave men who work them, are our sentinels of the coast. When the storm is brewing; when grey clouds lower, and muttering thunder comes rolling over the sea, men with hard hands and bronzed faces, clad in oilskin coats and sou’westers, saunter down to our quays and headlands, all round the kingdom. These are the Lifeboat crews on the look-out. The enemy is moving, and the sentinels are being posted—or, rather, they are posting themselves—for the night, for all the fighting men in this great war are volunteers. They need no drilling to prepare them for the field; no bugle or drum to sound the charge. Their drum is the rattling thunder, their trumpet the roaring storm. They began to train for this warfare when they were not so tall as their fathers’ boots, and there are no awkward squads among them now. Their organisation is rough and ready, like themselves, and simple too. The heavens call them to action; the coxswain grasps the helm; the men seize the oars; the word is given, and the rest is straightforward fighting—over everything, through everything, in the teeth of everything, until the victory is gained, and rescued men and women and children are landed in safety on our shores.In the winter of 1863 my enthusiasm in the Lifeboat cause was aroused by the reading in the papers of that wonderful achievement of the famous Ramsgate Lifeboat, which, on a terrible night in that year, fought against the storm for sixteen hours, and rescued a hundred and twenty souls from death.A strange fatality attaches to me somehow—namely, that whenever I have an attack of enthusiasm, a book is the result!Immediately after reading this episode in the great war, I called on the Secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who kindly gave me minute information as to the working of his Society, and lent me its journals.Then I took train to the coast of Deal, and spent a considerable part of the succeeding weeks in the company of Isaac Jarman—at that time the coxswain of the Ramsgate Lifeboat, and the chief hero in many a gallant fight with the sea.The splendid craft which he commanded was one of the self-righting, insubmergible boats of the Institution. Jarman’s opinion of her was expressed in the words “she’s parfect, sir, and if you tried to improve her you’d only spile her.” From him I obtained much information, and many a yarn about his experiences on the famous and fatal Goodwin Sands, which, if recorded, would fill a volume. Indeed a volume has already been written about them, and other deeds of daring on those Sands, by one of the clergymen of Ramsgate.I also saw the captain of the steam-tug that attends upon that boat. He took me on board his vessel and showed me the gold and silver medals he had received from his own nation, and from the monarchs of foreign lands, for rescuing human lives. I chatted with the men of Deal whose profession it is to work in the storm, and succour ships in distress, and who have little to do but lounge on the beach and spin yarns when the weather is fine. I also listened to the thrilling yarns of Jarman until I felt a strong desire to go off with him to a wreck. This, however, was not possible. No amateur is allowed to go off in the Ramsgate boat on any pretext whatever, but the restriction is not so absolute in regard to the steamer which attends on her. I obtained leave to go out in this tug, which always lies with her fires banked up ready to take the Lifeboat off to the sands, if her services should be required. Jarman promised to rouse me if a summons should come. As in cases of rescue from fire, speed is all-important. I slept for several nights with my clothes on—boots and all—at the hotel nearest to the harbour. But it was not to be. Night after night continued exasperatingly calm.No gale would arise or wreck occur. This was trying, as I lay there, wakeful and hopeful, with plenty of time to study the perplexing question whether it is legitimate, under any circumstance, to wish for a wreck or a fire!When patience was worn out I gave it up in despair.At another time, however, I had an opportunity of seeing the Lifeboat in action. It was when I was spending a couple of weeks on board of the “Gull” Lightship, which lies between Ramsgate and the Goodwins.A “dirty” day had culminated in a tempestuous night. The watch on deck, clad in drenched oil-skins, was tramping overhead, rendering my repose fitful. Suddenly he opened the skylight, and shouted that the Southsand Head Lightship was firing, and sending up rockets. As this meant a wreck on the sands we all rushed on deck, and saw the flare of a tar-barrel in the far distance. Already our watch was loading, and firing our signal-gun, and sending up rockets for the purpose of calling off the Ramsgate Lifeboat. It chanced that the Broadstairs boat observed the signals first, and, not long after, she flew past us under sail, making for the wreck.A little later we saw the signal-light of the Ramsgate tug, looming through the mist like the great eye of the storm-fiend. She ranged close up, in order to ask whereaway the wreck was. Being answered, she sheared off, and as she did so, the Lifeboat, towing astern, came full into view. It seemed as if she had no crew, save only one man—doubtless my friend Jarman—holding the steering lines; but, on closer inspection, we could see the men crouching down, like a mass of oilskin coats and sou’westers. In a few minutes they were out of sight, and we saw them no more, but afterwards heard that the wrecked crew had been rescued and landed at Deal.In this manner I obtained information sufficient to enable me to writeThe Lifeboat: a Tale of our Coast Heroes, andThe Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands.A curious coincidence occurred when I was engaged with the Lifeboat story, which merits notice.Being much impressed with the value of the Lifeboat service to the nation, I took to lecturing as well as writing on this subject. One night, while in Edinburgh in the spring of 1866, a deputation of working men, some of whom had become deeply interested in Lifeboat work, asked me to re-deliver my lecture. I willingly agreed to do so, and the result was that the working men of Edinburgh resolved to raise 400 pounds among themselves, and present a boat to the Institution. They set to work energetically; appointed a Committee, which met once a week; divided the city into districts; canvassed all the principal trades and workshops, and, before the year was out, had almost raised the necessary funds.In the end, the boat was ordered and paid for, and sent to Edinburgh to be exhibited. It was drawn by six magnificent horses through the principal streets of the city, with a real lifeboat crew on board, in their sou’westers and cork life-belts. Then it was launched in Saint Margaret’s Loch, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, where it was upset—with great difficulty, by means of a large erection with blocks and ropes—in order to show its self-righting and self-emptying qualities to the thousands of spectators who crowded the hill-sides.At this time the good people of Glasgow had been smitten with a desire to present a lifeboat to the Institution, and, in order to create an interest in the movement, asked the loan of the Edinburgh boat for exhibition. The boat was sent, and placed on view in a conspicuous part of the city.Among the thousands who paid it a visit was a lady who took her little boy to see it, and who dropped a contribution into the box, which stood invitingly alongside. That lady was the wife of a sea-captain, who lost his ship on the coast of Wigton, where the Edinburgh boat was stationed, and whose life was saved by that identical boat. And not only so, but the rescue was accomplished on the anniversary of the very day on which his wife had put her contribution into the collecting-box!Sixteen lives were saved by it at that time, and, not long afterwards, fourteen more people were rescued by it from the insatiable sea; so that the working men of Edinburgh have reason to be thankful for the success which has attended them in their effort to “rescue the perishing.”Moreover, some time afterwards, the ladies of Edinburgh—smitten with zeal for the cause of suffering humanity, and for the honour of their “own romantic town”—put their pretty, if not lusty, shoulders to the wheel, raised a thousand pounds, and endowed the boat, so that, with God’s blessing, it will remain in all time coming on that exposed coast, ready for action in the good cause.
There is a great war in which the British Nation is at all times engaged.
No bright seasons of peace mark the course of this war. Year by year it is waged unceasingly, though not at all times with the same fury, nor always with the same results.
Sometimes, as in ordinary warfare, there are minor skirmishes in which many a deed of heroism is done, though not recorded, and there are pitched battles in which all our resources are called into action, and the papers teem with the news of the defeats, disasters, and victories of the great fight.
This war costs us hundreds of lives, thousands of ships, and millions of money every year. Our undying and unconquerable enemy is the storm, and our great engines of war with which, through the blessing of God, we are enabled to fight more or less successfully against the foe, are the Lifeboat and the Rocket.
These engines, and the brave men who work them, are our sentinels of the coast. When the storm is brewing; when grey clouds lower, and muttering thunder comes rolling over the sea, men with hard hands and bronzed faces, clad in oilskin coats and sou’westers, saunter down to our quays and headlands, all round the kingdom. These are the Lifeboat crews on the look-out. The enemy is moving, and the sentinels are being posted—or, rather, they are posting themselves—for the night, for all the fighting men in this great war are volunteers. They need no drilling to prepare them for the field; no bugle or drum to sound the charge. Their drum is the rattling thunder, their trumpet the roaring storm. They began to train for this warfare when they were not so tall as their fathers’ boots, and there are no awkward squads among them now. Their organisation is rough and ready, like themselves, and simple too. The heavens call them to action; the coxswain grasps the helm; the men seize the oars; the word is given, and the rest is straightforward fighting—over everything, through everything, in the teeth of everything, until the victory is gained, and rescued men and women and children are landed in safety on our shores.
In the winter of 1863 my enthusiasm in the Lifeboat cause was aroused by the reading in the papers of that wonderful achievement of the famous Ramsgate Lifeboat, which, on a terrible night in that year, fought against the storm for sixteen hours, and rescued a hundred and twenty souls from death.
A strange fatality attaches to me somehow—namely, that whenever I have an attack of enthusiasm, a book is the result!
Immediately after reading this episode in the great war, I called on the Secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who kindly gave me minute information as to the working of his Society, and lent me its journals.
Then I took train to the coast of Deal, and spent a considerable part of the succeeding weeks in the company of Isaac Jarman—at that time the coxswain of the Ramsgate Lifeboat, and the chief hero in many a gallant fight with the sea.
The splendid craft which he commanded was one of the self-righting, insubmergible boats of the Institution. Jarman’s opinion of her was expressed in the words “she’s parfect, sir, and if you tried to improve her you’d only spile her.” From him I obtained much information, and many a yarn about his experiences on the famous and fatal Goodwin Sands, which, if recorded, would fill a volume. Indeed a volume has already been written about them, and other deeds of daring on those Sands, by one of the clergymen of Ramsgate.
I also saw the captain of the steam-tug that attends upon that boat. He took me on board his vessel and showed me the gold and silver medals he had received from his own nation, and from the monarchs of foreign lands, for rescuing human lives. I chatted with the men of Deal whose profession it is to work in the storm, and succour ships in distress, and who have little to do but lounge on the beach and spin yarns when the weather is fine. I also listened to the thrilling yarns of Jarman until I felt a strong desire to go off with him to a wreck. This, however, was not possible. No amateur is allowed to go off in the Ramsgate boat on any pretext whatever, but the restriction is not so absolute in regard to the steamer which attends on her. I obtained leave to go out in this tug, which always lies with her fires banked up ready to take the Lifeboat off to the sands, if her services should be required. Jarman promised to rouse me if a summons should come. As in cases of rescue from fire, speed is all-important. I slept for several nights with my clothes on—boots and all—at the hotel nearest to the harbour. But it was not to be. Night after night continued exasperatingly calm.
No gale would arise or wreck occur. This was trying, as I lay there, wakeful and hopeful, with plenty of time to study the perplexing question whether it is legitimate, under any circumstance, to wish for a wreck or a fire!
When patience was worn out I gave it up in despair.
At another time, however, I had an opportunity of seeing the Lifeboat in action. It was when I was spending a couple of weeks on board of the “Gull” Lightship, which lies between Ramsgate and the Goodwins.
A “dirty” day had culminated in a tempestuous night. The watch on deck, clad in drenched oil-skins, was tramping overhead, rendering my repose fitful. Suddenly he opened the skylight, and shouted that the Southsand Head Lightship was firing, and sending up rockets. As this meant a wreck on the sands we all rushed on deck, and saw the flare of a tar-barrel in the far distance. Already our watch was loading, and firing our signal-gun, and sending up rockets for the purpose of calling off the Ramsgate Lifeboat. It chanced that the Broadstairs boat observed the signals first, and, not long after, she flew past us under sail, making for the wreck.
A little later we saw the signal-light of the Ramsgate tug, looming through the mist like the great eye of the storm-fiend. She ranged close up, in order to ask whereaway the wreck was. Being answered, she sheared off, and as she did so, the Lifeboat, towing astern, came full into view. It seemed as if she had no crew, save only one man—doubtless my friend Jarman—holding the steering lines; but, on closer inspection, we could see the men crouching down, like a mass of oilskin coats and sou’westers. In a few minutes they were out of sight, and we saw them no more, but afterwards heard that the wrecked crew had been rescued and landed at Deal.
In this manner I obtained information sufficient to enable me to writeThe Lifeboat: a Tale of our Coast Heroes, andThe Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands.
A curious coincidence occurred when I was engaged with the Lifeboat story, which merits notice.
Being much impressed with the value of the Lifeboat service to the nation, I took to lecturing as well as writing on this subject. One night, while in Edinburgh in the spring of 1866, a deputation of working men, some of whom had become deeply interested in Lifeboat work, asked me to re-deliver my lecture. I willingly agreed to do so, and the result was that the working men of Edinburgh resolved to raise 400 pounds among themselves, and present a boat to the Institution. They set to work energetically; appointed a Committee, which met once a week; divided the city into districts; canvassed all the principal trades and workshops, and, before the year was out, had almost raised the necessary funds.
In the end, the boat was ordered and paid for, and sent to Edinburgh to be exhibited. It was drawn by six magnificent horses through the principal streets of the city, with a real lifeboat crew on board, in their sou’westers and cork life-belts. Then it was launched in Saint Margaret’s Loch, at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, where it was upset—with great difficulty, by means of a large erection with blocks and ropes—in order to show its self-righting and self-emptying qualities to the thousands of spectators who crowded the hill-sides.
At this time the good people of Glasgow had been smitten with a desire to present a lifeboat to the Institution, and, in order to create an interest in the movement, asked the loan of the Edinburgh boat for exhibition. The boat was sent, and placed on view in a conspicuous part of the city.
Among the thousands who paid it a visit was a lady who took her little boy to see it, and who dropped a contribution into the box, which stood invitingly alongside. That lady was the wife of a sea-captain, who lost his ship on the coast of Wigton, where the Edinburgh boat was stationed, and whose life was saved by that identical boat. And not only so, but the rescue was accomplished on the anniversary of the very day on which his wife had put her contribution into the collecting-box!
Sixteen lives were saved by it at that time, and, not long afterwards, fourteen more people were rescued by it from the insatiable sea; so that the working men of Edinburgh have reason to be thankful for the success which has attended them in their effort to “rescue the perishing.”
Moreover, some time afterwards, the ladies of Edinburgh—smitten with zeal for the cause of suffering humanity, and for the honour of their “own romantic town”—put their pretty, if not lusty, shoulders to the wheel, raised a thousand pounds, and endowed the boat, so that, with God’s blessing, it will remain in all time coming on that exposed coast, ready for action in the good cause.
Chapter Five.Descent into the Cornish Mines.From Lighthouses, Lifeboats, and Fire-brigades into the tin and copper mines of Cornwall is a rather violent leap, but by no means an unpleasant one.In the year 1868 I took this leap when desirous of obtaining material forDeep Down: a Tale of the Cornish Mines.For three months my wife and I stayed in the town of Saint Just, close to the Land’s End, during which time I visited some of the principal mines in Cornwall; associated with the managers, “captains,” and miners, and tried my best to become acquainted with the circumstances of the people.The Cornish tin trade is very old. In times so remote that historical light is dim, the Phoenicians came in their galleys to trade with the men of Cornwall for tin.Herodotus, (writing 450 years B.C.) mentions the tin islands of Britain under the name of theCassiteridesand Diodorus Siculus, (writing about half a century B.C.), says:“The inhabitants of that extremity of Britain which is called Bolerion, excel in hospitality, and also, by their intercourse with foreign merchants, they are civilised in their mode of life. These prepare the tin, working very skilfully the earth which produces it.”There is said to be ground for believing that Cornish tin was used in the construction of the temple of Jerusalem. At the present time the men of Cornwall are to be found toiling, as did their forefathers in the days of old, deep down in the bowels of the earth—and even out under the bed of the sea—in quest of tin.“Tin, Copper, and Fish” is one of the standing toasts in Cornwall, and in these three words lie the head, backbone, and tail of the county, the sources of its wealth, and the objects of its energies.As my visit, however, was paid chiefly for the purpose of investigating the mines, I will not touch on fish here. Having obtained introduction to the managers of Botallack—the most famous of the Cornish Mines—I was led through miles of subterranean tunnels and to depths profound, by the obliging, amiable, and anecdotal Captain Jan—one of the “Captains” or overseers of the mine.He was quite an original, this Captain Jan; a man who knew the forty miles of underground workings in Botallack as well, I suppose, as a postman knows his beat; a man who dived into the bowels of the earth with the vigour and confidence of a mole and the simple-minded serenity of a seraph.The land at this part of Cornwall is not picturesque, except at the sea-cliffs, which rise somewhere about three hundred feet sheer out of deep water, where there is usually no strip of beach to break the rush of the great Atlantic billows that grind the rocks incessantly.The most prominent objects elsewhere are masses of débris; huge pieces of worn-out machinery; tall chimneys and old engine-houses, with big ungainly beams, or “bobs,” projecting from them. These “bobs” are attached to pumps which work continually to keep the mines dry. They move up and down very slowly, with a pause between each stroke, as if they were seriously considering whether it was worth while continuing the dreary work any longer, and could not make up their minds on the point. Their slow motions, however, give evidence of life and toil below the surface. Other “bobs” standing idle tell of disappointed hopes and broken fortunes. There are not a few such landmarks at the Land’s End—stern monitors, warning wild and wicked speculators to beware.One day—it might have been night as far as our gloomy surroundings indicated—Captain Jan and I were stumbling along one of the levels of Botallack, I know not how many fathoms down. We wore miners’ hats with a candle stuck in front of each by means of a piece of clay. The hats were thicker than a fireman’s helmet, though by no means as elegant. You might have plunged upon them head first without causing a dint.Captain Jan stopped beside some fallen rocks. We had been walking for more than an hour in these subterranean labyrinths and felt inclined to rest.“You were asking about the wordwheal,” said the captain, sticking his candle against the wall of the level and sitting down on a ledge, “it do signify a mine, as Wheal Frances, Wheal Owles, Wheal Edwards, and the like. When Cornishmen do see a London Company start a mine on a grand scale, with a deal of fuss and superficial show, and an imposing staff of directors, etcetera, while, down in the mine itself, where the real work ought to be done, perhaps only two men and a boy are known to be at work, they shake their heads and button up their pockets; perhaps they call the affair whealDo-em, and when that mine stops, (becomes what we call a ‘knacked bal’) it may be styled whealDonem!”A traveller chanced to pass a water-wheel not long ago, near Saint Just.“What’s that?” he said to a miner who sat smoking his pipe beside it.“That, sur? why, that’s a pump, that is.”“What does it pump?” asked the traveller.“Pump, sur?” replied the man with a grim smile, “why, et do pump gold out o’ the Londoners!”There have been too many whealDo-emsin Cornwall.Botallack mine is not, I need scarcely say, a wheal Do-em. It is a grand old mine—grand because its beginning is enveloped in the mists of antiquity; because it affords now, and has afforded for ages back, sustenance to hundreds of miners and their families, besides enriching the country; because its situation on the wild cliffs is unusually picturesque, and because its dark shafts and levels not only descend to an immense depth below the surface, but extend far out under the bottom of the sea. Its engine-houses and machinery are perched upon the edge of a steep cliff, and scattered over its face and down among its dark chasms in places where one would imagine that only a sea-gull would dare to venture.Underground there exists a vast region of shafts and levels, or tunnels—mostly low, narrow, and crooked places—in which men have to stoop and walk with caution, and where they work by candlelight—a region which is measured to the inch, and has all its parts mapped out and named as carefully as are the fields above. Some idea of the extent of this mine may be gathered from the fact that it is 245 fathoms, (1470 feet), deep, and that all the levels put together form an amount of cutting through almost solid granite equal to nearly 40 miles in extent. The deepest part of the mine is that which lies under the bottom of the sea, three-quarters of a mile from the shore; and, strange to say, that is also thedriestpart of the mine. The Great Eastern would find depth of water sufficient to permit of her anchoring and floating securely in places where miners are at work, blowing up the solid rock, 1470 feet below her keel—a depth so profound that the wildest waves that ever burst upon the shore, or the loudest thunder that ever reverberated among the cliffs, could not send down the faintest echo of a sound.The ladder-way by which the men descend to their work is 1230 feet deep. It takes half an hour to descend and an hour to climb to the surface.It was a bright morning in May when I walked over from Saint Just with Captain Jan to pay my first underground visit to Botallack.Arrayed in the red-stained canvas coat and trousers of the mine, with a candle stuck in the front of our very strong hats and three spare ones each hung at our breasts, we proceeded to the ladder-way. This was a small platform with a hole in it just big enough to admit a man, out of which projected the head of a strong ladder. Before descending Captain Jan glanced down the hole and listened to a distant, regular, clicking sound—like the ticking of a clock. “A man coming up,” said he, “we’ll wait a minute.”I looked down, and, in the profound abyss, saw the twinkling of, apparently, a little star. The steady click of the miner’s nailed shoes on the iron rounds of the ladder continued, and the star advanced, until, by its feeble light I saw the hat to which it was attached. Presently a man emerged from the hole, and raising himself erect, gave vent to a long, deep-drawn sigh. It was, I may say, a suggestive sigh, for there was a sense of intense relief conveyed by it. The man had just completed an hour of steady, continuous climbing up the ladders, after eight hours of night-work in impure atmosphere, and the first great draught of the fresh air of heaven must have seemed like nectar to his soul! His red garments were soaking, perspiration streamed from every pore in his body, and washed the red earth in streaks down his pale countenance. Although pale, however, the miner was strong and in the prime of life. Chills and bad air, (the two great demons of the mines), had not yet smitten his sturdy frame with “miner’s complaint.” He looked tired, but not exhausted, and bestowed a grave glance on me and a quiet nod on Captain Jan as he walked away to change his dress in the drying-house. My contemplation of the retiring miner was interrupted by Captain Jan saying—“I’ll go first, sir, to catch you if you should fall.” This remark reminded me of many stories I had heard of men “falling away from the ladders;” of beams breaking and letting them tumble into awful gulfs; of stones giving way and coming down the shafts like grape or cannon-shot, and the like. However, I stepped on the ladder and prepared to follow my guide into the regions of unchanging night! A few fathoms’ descent brought us into twilight and to a small platform on which the foot of the first ladder rested. Through a hole in this the head of the second ladder appeared.Here we lighted the candles, for the next ladder—a longer one, 50 feet or so—would have landed us in midnight darkness. Half way down it, I looked up and saw the hole at the top like a large white star. At the foot I looked up again, the star was gone, and I felt that we were at last in a region where, (from the time of creation), sunlight had never shone. Down, down, everdownwards, was the uppermost idea in my mind for some time after that. Other thoughts there were, of course, but that one of never-ending descent outweighed them all for a time. As we got lower the temperature increased; then perspiration broke out. Never having practised on the treadmill, my muscles ere long began to feel the unwonted exercise, and I thought to myself, “If you are in this state so soon, what will you be when you get to the bottom, and how will you get up again?”At this point we reached the foot of another ladder, and Captain Jan said, “We’ll walk a bit in the level here and then go down the pump-shaft.” The change of posture and action in the level we had now entered was agreeable, but the path was not a good one. It was an old, low, and irregular level, with a rugged floor full of holes with water in them, and with projections in the roof that rendered frequent stooping necessary. The difficulty of one’s progress in such places is that, while you are looking out for your head, you stumble into the holes, and when the holes claim attention you run your head against the roof; but, thanks to the miner’s hat, no evil follows.We were now in a region of profoundsilence! When we paused for a minute to rest, it felt as if the silence of the tomb itself had surrounded us—for not the faintest echo reached us from the world above, and the miners at work below us were still far down out of ear-shot. In a few seconds we came to a yawning hole in the path, bridged by a single plank. Captain Jan crossed. “How deep is it?” I asked, preparing to follow. “About 60 feet,” said he, “it’s a winze, and goes down to the next level!”I held my breath and crossed with caution.“Are there many winzes, Captain Jan?”“Yes, dozens of ’em. There are nigh 40 miles of levels and lots of winzes everywhere!”The possibility of anything happening to Captain Jan, and my light getting blown out occurred to me, but I said nothing. When we had walked a quarter of a mile in this level, we came to the point where it entered the pump-shaft. The shaft itself was narrow—about 8 or 10 feet in diameter—but everything in it was ponderous and gigantic. The engine that drove the pump was 70 horse power; the pump-rod was a succession of wooden beams, each like the ridge-pole of a house, jointed together—a rugged affair, with iron bolts, and nuts, and projections at the joints. In this shaft the kibbles were worked. These kibbles are iron buckets by which ore is conveyed to the surface. Two are worked together by a chain—one going up full while the other comes down empty. Both are free to clatter about the shaft and bang against each other in passing, but they are prevented from damaging the pump-rod by a wooden partition. Between this partition and the pump was the ladder we had now to descend, with just space for a man to pass.Captain Jan got upon it, and as he did so the pump went up, (a sweep of 10 or 12 feet), with a deep watery gurgle, as if a giant were being throttled. As I got upon the ladder the pump came down with another gurgle, close to my shoulder in passing. To avoid this I kept close to the planks on the other side, but at that moment I heard a noise as if of distant thunder. “It’s only the kibbles,” said Captain Jan.Up came one and down went the other, passing each other with a dire crash, not far from where we stood, and causing me to shrink into the smallest possible space. “There’s no danger,” said the Captain encouragingly, “if you only keep cool and hold on.” Water was coursing freely down the shaft and spirting over us in fine spray, so that, ere long, we were as wet and dirty as any miner in Botallack. At last we reached the 120 fathom level, 720 feet from “grass.”Here the Captain told me men were at work not far off and he wished to visit them. “Would I wait where I was until he returned?”“What!” said I, “wait in a draughty level with an extinguishable candle close to the main shaft, with 30 or 40 miles of levels around, and no end of winzes? No, no, Captain Jan, go on; I’ll stick to younowthrough thick and thin like your own shadow!”With one of his benignant smiles the captain resumed his progress. In a few minutes I heard the clink of hammers, and, soon after, came to a singular cavern. It was a place where the lode had been very wide and rich. Years before it had been all cut away from level to level, leaving a void space so high and deep that the rays of our candles were lost in obscurity. We walked through it in mid-air, as it were, supported on cross beams with planks laid thereon. Beyond this we came to a spot where a number of miners were at work in various places and positions.One, a big, broad-shouldered man named Dan, was seated on a wooden box hammering at the rock with tremendous energy. With him Captain Jan conversed a few minutes on the appearance of the lode, and then whispered to me, “A good specimen of a man that, sir, and he’s got an uncommon large family,”—then, turning to the man—“I say, Dan, you’ve got a biggish family, haven’t you?”“Iss, a’w iss, Cap’n Jan, I’ve a braave lot o’ child’n.”“How many have you had altogether, Dan?”“I’ve had seventeen, sur, but ten of ’em’s gone dead—only seven left. My brother Jim, though, he’s had more than me.”After a few more words we left this man, and, in another place, found this brother Jim, working in the roof of the level with several others. They had cut so high up in a slanting direction that they appeared to be in another chamber, which was brilliantly lighted with their candles. Jim, stripped naked to the waist, stood on the end of a plank, hammering violently. Looking up into his curious burrow, Captain Jan shouted—“Hallo! Jim!”“Hallo, Captain Jan.”“Here’s a gentleman wants to know how many children you’ve had.”“How many child’n, say ’ee? Why, I’ve had nineteen, sur, but there’s eleven of ’em gone dead. Seven of ’em did come in three years and a half—three doubles and a single—but there’s only eight of ’em alive now!”I afterwards found that, although this man and his brother were exceptions, the miners generally had very large families.While we were talking, a number of shots were heard going off in various directions. This was explained by Captain Jan. All the forenoon the miners employ their time in boring and charging the blast-holes. About mid-day they fire them and then hasten to a clear part of the mine to eat luncheon and smoke their pipes while the gunpowder smoke clears away. This it does very slowly, taking sometimes more than an hour to clear sufficiently so as to let the men resume work.Immediately after the shots were heard, the men began to assemble. They emerged from the gloom on all sides like red hobgoblins—wet and perspiring. Some walked out of darkness from either end of the level; some stalked out from diverging levels; others slid, feet first, from holes in the roof and sides, and some rose, head-foremost, from yawning gulfs in the floor. They all saluted Captain Jan as they came up, and each stuck his candle against the wall and sat down on a heap of wet rubbish, to lunch. Some had Cornish pasty, and others a species of heavy cake—so heavy that the fact of their being able to carry it at all said much for their digestive organs—but most of them ate plain bread, and all of them drank water which had been carried down from the realms of light in little canteens. Frugal though the fare was, it sufficed to brace them for the rest of the day’s work.After a short talk with these men Captain Jan and I continued our descent of the ladders—down we went, ever downwards, until at last we reached the very bottom of that part of the mine—1230 feet below the surface.Here we found only two men at work, with whom Captain Jan conversed for a time while we rested, and then proceeded to ascend “to grass” by the same ladder-ways. If I felt that the descent was like never getting to the bottom, much more did the ascent seem like never getting to the top!I may remark here that the bottom which we had reached was not the bottom under the sea. At another time Captain Jan took me to that submarine cavern where, as I have said, no sound ever reaches the ear from the world above. There is, however, a level close under the sea where the roar of Ocean is distinctly heard. It is in a part of Botallack Mine named Wheal Cock. It was very rich in copper ore, and the miners worked at the roof of it so vigorously, that they began to fear it would give way. One of them, therefore, in order to ascertain what thickness of solid rock still lay between them and the sea, bored a small hole upwards, and advanced about three feet or so before the water rushed in. Of course they had a wooden plug ready and stopped up the hole. But, as it was dangerous to cut away any more of the roof, they were finally obliged unwillingly to forsake that part of the mine.This occurred some thirty years before my visit, yet when I went to see the place, I found the wooden plug still hard and fast in the hole and quite immoveable. As I stood and listened I could well understand the anxiety of the miners, for at the upward rush of each wave, I could hear the rattle of the boulders overhead, like monster cannon balls, and a repetition of the thunder when the waves retreated.On our way up the ladders we stopped several times to rest. At such times Captain Jan related various anecdotes illustrative of mining life.“This is a place,” said he, on one occasion, “which reminds me of a man who was always ready to go in for dangerous work. His name was Old Maggot. He was not really old, but he had a son named after himself, and his friends had to distinguish him from the young Maggot.”So saying, Captain Jan trimmed his candle with nature’s own pair of snuffers—the finger and thumb—and proceeded as follows:“Some time ago the miners in Botallack came to an old deserted mine that was full of water—this is what miners call a ‘house of water.’ The ore there was rich, but the men were afraid to work it lest they should come suddenly on the old mine and break a hole through to it—in other words ‘hole to that house of water.’ They stopped working at last, and no one seemed willing to run the risk of driving the hole and letting out the water. In this difficulty they appealed to Old Maggot, who at once agreed to do it. The old mine was about three-quarters of a mile back from the sea-shore, but at that time it could only be got at by entering theaditlevel from the shore. It was through this level that the water would have to escape. At the mouth of it a number of men assembled to see Old Maggot go in. In he went, alone, with a bunch of candles, and, as he walked along, he stuck a lighted candle every here and there against the wall to light him out,—for he expected to have to run for it.“When he came to the place, the water was spirting out everywhere. But Old Maggot didn’t mind. He grasped his hammer and borer and began. The work was done sooner than he had expected! Suddenly the rock gave way and the water burst upon him, putting out his candle and turning him heels over head. He jumped up and tried to run, but the flood rose on him, carried him off his legs, swept him right through the level, and hurled him through the adit-mouth at last, upon the sea-shore! He was stunned a little, but soon recovered, and, beyond a few bruises and a wetting, was nothing the worse of his adventure.“That,” said Captain Jan, pointing to the rock beside us, “was the place where Old Maggot holed to the house of water, andthiswas the level through which he was washed and through part of which I will now conduct you.”Accordingly, we traversed the level, and, coming to another shaft, continued our upward progress.While we were slowly toiling up, step by step, we were suddenly arrested by the sound of voices singing in the far distance above us. The music was slow and solemn. Coming as it did so unexpectedly in such a strange place, it sounded quite magical and inexpressibly sweet.“Miners descending to work,” said my guide, as we listened. The air was familiar to me, and, as it grew louder and louder, I recognised that beautiful tune called “French,” to which we are accustomed to sing the 121st Psalm, “I to the hills will lift mine eyes.” Gradually the men came down to us. We stood on one side. As they passed they ceased singing and nodded to Captain Jan. There were five or six stout fellows and a boy. The latter was as active as his companions, and his treble voice mingled tunefully with theirs as they continued the descent, and resumed the psalm, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their steps. We watched until their lights disappeared, and then resumed our upward way, while the sweet strains grew fainter and fainter, until they were gradually lost in the depths below. The pleasant memory of that psalm still remained with me, when I emerged from the ladder-shaft of Botallack mine, and—after having been five hours underground—once more drank in, (with a new and intensified power of appreciation), the fresh air of heaven and the blessed influences of green fields and sunshine.To many a weird and curious part of the great mine did the obliging Captain Jan lead me, but perhaps the most interesting part was the lowest depth under the sea, to which my wife accompanied us. This part is reached by the Boscawen shaft, a sloping one which the men descend in an iron car or gig. The car is let down and hauled up by an iron rope. Once this rope broke, the car flew to the bottom, was dashed against the rock, and all the men—eight in number—were killed.In 1865 the Prince and Princess of Wales descended this shaft, and Captain Jan was their amiable, not to say eccentric, guide. The Captain was particularly enthusiastic in praise of the Princess. He said that she was a “fine intelligent young lady; that she asked no end of questions, would not rest until she understood everything, and afterwards undertook to explain it all to her less-informed companions.” A somewhat amusing incident occurred while they were underground.When about to begin his duty as guide it suddenly flashed across the mind of poor Captain Jan that, in the excitement of the occasion, he had forgotten to take gloves with him. He was about to lead the Princess by the hand over the rugged floors of the levels. To offer to do so without gloves was not to be thought of. To procure gloves 200 fathoms below the sea was impossible. To borrow from the Prince or the Duke of Sutherland, who were of the party, was out of the question. What was he to do? Suddenly he remembered that he had a newspaper in his pocket. In desperation he wrapped his right hand in a piece of this, and, thus covered, held it out to the Princess. She, innocently supposing that the paper was held up to be looked at, attempted to read. This compelled Captain Jan to explain himself, whereupon she burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and, flinging away the paper, took the ungloved hand of the loyal but bashful miner.
From Lighthouses, Lifeboats, and Fire-brigades into the tin and copper mines of Cornwall is a rather violent leap, but by no means an unpleasant one.
In the year 1868 I took this leap when desirous of obtaining material forDeep Down: a Tale of the Cornish Mines.
For three months my wife and I stayed in the town of Saint Just, close to the Land’s End, during which time I visited some of the principal mines in Cornwall; associated with the managers, “captains,” and miners, and tried my best to become acquainted with the circumstances of the people.
The Cornish tin trade is very old. In times so remote that historical light is dim, the Phoenicians came in their galleys to trade with the men of Cornwall for tin.
Herodotus, (writing 450 years B.C.) mentions the tin islands of Britain under the name of theCassiteridesand Diodorus Siculus, (writing about half a century B.C.), says:
“The inhabitants of that extremity of Britain which is called Bolerion, excel in hospitality, and also, by their intercourse with foreign merchants, they are civilised in their mode of life. These prepare the tin, working very skilfully the earth which produces it.”
There is said to be ground for believing that Cornish tin was used in the construction of the temple of Jerusalem. At the present time the men of Cornwall are to be found toiling, as did their forefathers in the days of old, deep down in the bowels of the earth—and even out under the bed of the sea—in quest of tin.
“Tin, Copper, and Fish” is one of the standing toasts in Cornwall, and in these three words lie the head, backbone, and tail of the county, the sources of its wealth, and the objects of its energies.
As my visit, however, was paid chiefly for the purpose of investigating the mines, I will not touch on fish here. Having obtained introduction to the managers of Botallack—the most famous of the Cornish Mines—I was led through miles of subterranean tunnels and to depths profound, by the obliging, amiable, and anecdotal Captain Jan—one of the “Captains” or overseers of the mine.
He was quite an original, this Captain Jan; a man who knew the forty miles of underground workings in Botallack as well, I suppose, as a postman knows his beat; a man who dived into the bowels of the earth with the vigour and confidence of a mole and the simple-minded serenity of a seraph.
The land at this part of Cornwall is not picturesque, except at the sea-cliffs, which rise somewhere about three hundred feet sheer out of deep water, where there is usually no strip of beach to break the rush of the great Atlantic billows that grind the rocks incessantly.
The most prominent objects elsewhere are masses of débris; huge pieces of worn-out machinery; tall chimneys and old engine-houses, with big ungainly beams, or “bobs,” projecting from them. These “bobs” are attached to pumps which work continually to keep the mines dry. They move up and down very slowly, with a pause between each stroke, as if they were seriously considering whether it was worth while continuing the dreary work any longer, and could not make up their minds on the point. Their slow motions, however, give evidence of life and toil below the surface. Other “bobs” standing idle tell of disappointed hopes and broken fortunes. There are not a few such landmarks at the Land’s End—stern monitors, warning wild and wicked speculators to beware.
One day—it might have been night as far as our gloomy surroundings indicated—Captain Jan and I were stumbling along one of the levels of Botallack, I know not how many fathoms down. We wore miners’ hats with a candle stuck in front of each by means of a piece of clay. The hats were thicker than a fireman’s helmet, though by no means as elegant. You might have plunged upon them head first without causing a dint.
Captain Jan stopped beside some fallen rocks. We had been walking for more than an hour in these subterranean labyrinths and felt inclined to rest.
“You were asking about the wordwheal,” said the captain, sticking his candle against the wall of the level and sitting down on a ledge, “it do signify a mine, as Wheal Frances, Wheal Owles, Wheal Edwards, and the like. When Cornishmen do see a London Company start a mine on a grand scale, with a deal of fuss and superficial show, and an imposing staff of directors, etcetera, while, down in the mine itself, where the real work ought to be done, perhaps only two men and a boy are known to be at work, they shake their heads and button up their pockets; perhaps they call the affair whealDo-em, and when that mine stops, (becomes what we call a ‘knacked bal’) it may be styled whealDonem!”
A traveller chanced to pass a water-wheel not long ago, near Saint Just.
“What’s that?” he said to a miner who sat smoking his pipe beside it.
“That, sur? why, that’s a pump, that is.”
“What does it pump?” asked the traveller.
“Pump, sur?” replied the man with a grim smile, “why, et do pump gold out o’ the Londoners!”
There have been too many whealDo-emsin Cornwall.
Botallack mine is not, I need scarcely say, a wheal Do-em. It is a grand old mine—grand because its beginning is enveloped in the mists of antiquity; because it affords now, and has afforded for ages back, sustenance to hundreds of miners and their families, besides enriching the country; because its situation on the wild cliffs is unusually picturesque, and because its dark shafts and levels not only descend to an immense depth below the surface, but extend far out under the bottom of the sea. Its engine-houses and machinery are perched upon the edge of a steep cliff, and scattered over its face and down among its dark chasms in places where one would imagine that only a sea-gull would dare to venture.
Underground there exists a vast region of shafts and levels, or tunnels—mostly low, narrow, and crooked places—in which men have to stoop and walk with caution, and where they work by candlelight—a region which is measured to the inch, and has all its parts mapped out and named as carefully as are the fields above. Some idea of the extent of this mine may be gathered from the fact that it is 245 fathoms, (1470 feet), deep, and that all the levels put together form an amount of cutting through almost solid granite equal to nearly 40 miles in extent. The deepest part of the mine is that which lies under the bottom of the sea, three-quarters of a mile from the shore; and, strange to say, that is also thedriestpart of the mine. The Great Eastern would find depth of water sufficient to permit of her anchoring and floating securely in places where miners are at work, blowing up the solid rock, 1470 feet below her keel—a depth so profound that the wildest waves that ever burst upon the shore, or the loudest thunder that ever reverberated among the cliffs, could not send down the faintest echo of a sound.
The ladder-way by which the men descend to their work is 1230 feet deep. It takes half an hour to descend and an hour to climb to the surface.
It was a bright morning in May when I walked over from Saint Just with Captain Jan to pay my first underground visit to Botallack.
Arrayed in the red-stained canvas coat and trousers of the mine, with a candle stuck in the front of our very strong hats and three spare ones each hung at our breasts, we proceeded to the ladder-way. This was a small platform with a hole in it just big enough to admit a man, out of which projected the head of a strong ladder. Before descending Captain Jan glanced down the hole and listened to a distant, regular, clicking sound—like the ticking of a clock. “A man coming up,” said he, “we’ll wait a minute.”
I looked down, and, in the profound abyss, saw the twinkling of, apparently, a little star. The steady click of the miner’s nailed shoes on the iron rounds of the ladder continued, and the star advanced, until, by its feeble light I saw the hat to which it was attached. Presently a man emerged from the hole, and raising himself erect, gave vent to a long, deep-drawn sigh. It was, I may say, a suggestive sigh, for there was a sense of intense relief conveyed by it. The man had just completed an hour of steady, continuous climbing up the ladders, after eight hours of night-work in impure atmosphere, and the first great draught of the fresh air of heaven must have seemed like nectar to his soul! His red garments were soaking, perspiration streamed from every pore in his body, and washed the red earth in streaks down his pale countenance. Although pale, however, the miner was strong and in the prime of life. Chills and bad air, (the two great demons of the mines), had not yet smitten his sturdy frame with “miner’s complaint.” He looked tired, but not exhausted, and bestowed a grave glance on me and a quiet nod on Captain Jan as he walked away to change his dress in the drying-house. My contemplation of the retiring miner was interrupted by Captain Jan saying—“I’ll go first, sir, to catch you if you should fall.” This remark reminded me of many stories I had heard of men “falling away from the ladders;” of beams breaking and letting them tumble into awful gulfs; of stones giving way and coming down the shafts like grape or cannon-shot, and the like. However, I stepped on the ladder and prepared to follow my guide into the regions of unchanging night! A few fathoms’ descent brought us into twilight and to a small platform on which the foot of the first ladder rested. Through a hole in this the head of the second ladder appeared.
Here we lighted the candles, for the next ladder—a longer one, 50 feet or so—would have landed us in midnight darkness. Half way down it, I looked up and saw the hole at the top like a large white star. At the foot I looked up again, the star was gone, and I felt that we were at last in a region where, (from the time of creation), sunlight had never shone. Down, down, everdownwards, was the uppermost idea in my mind for some time after that. Other thoughts there were, of course, but that one of never-ending descent outweighed them all for a time. As we got lower the temperature increased; then perspiration broke out. Never having practised on the treadmill, my muscles ere long began to feel the unwonted exercise, and I thought to myself, “If you are in this state so soon, what will you be when you get to the bottom, and how will you get up again?”
At this point we reached the foot of another ladder, and Captain Jan said, “We’ll walk a bit in the level here and then go down the pump-shaft.” The change of posture and action in the level we had now entered was agreeable, but the path was not a good one. It was an old, low, and irregular level, with a rugged floor full of holes with water in them, and with projections in the roof that rendered frequent stooping necessary. The difficulty of one’s progress in such places is that, while you are looking out for your head, you stumble into the holes, and when the holes claim attention you run your head against the roof; but, thanks to the miner’s hat, no evil follows.
We were now in a region of profoundsilence! When we paused for a minute to rest, it felt as if the silence of the tomb itself had surrounded us—for not the faintest echo reached us from the world above, and the miners at work below us were still far down out of ear-shot. In a few seconds we came to a yawning hole in the path, bridged by a single plank. Captain Jan crossed. “How deep is it?” I asked, preparing to follow. “About 60 feet,” said he, “it’s a winze, and goes down to the next level!”
I held my breath and crossed with caution.
“Are there many winzes, Captain Jan?”
“Yes, dozens of ’em. There are nigh 40 miles of levels and lots of winzes everywhere!”
The possibility of anything happening to Captain Jan, and my light getting blown out occurred to me, but I said nothing. When we had walked a quarter of a mile in this level, we came to the point where it entered the pump-shaft. The shaft itself was narrow—about 8 or 10 feet in diameter—but everything in it was ponderous and gigantic. The engine that drove the pump was 70 horse power; the pump-rod was a succession of wooden beams, each like the ridge-pole of a house, jointed together—a rugged affair, with iron bolts, and nuts, and projections at the joints. In this shaft the kibbles were worked. These kibbles are iron buckets by which ore is conveyed to the surface. Two are worked together by a chain—one going up full while the other comes down empty. Both are free to clatter about the shaft and bang against each other in passing, but they are prevented from damaging the pump-rod by a wooden partition. Between this partition and the pump was the ladder we had now to descend, with just space for a man to pass.
Captain Jan got upon it, and as he did so the pump went up, (a sweep of 10 or 12 feet), with a deep watery gurgle, as if a giant were being throttled. As I got upon the ladder the pump came down with another gurgle, close to my shoulder in passing. To avoid this I kept close to the planks on the other side, but at that moment I heard a noise as if of distant thunder. “It’s only the kibbles,” said Captain Jan.
Up came one and down went the other, passing each other with a dire crash, not far from where we stood, and causing me to shrink into the smallest possible space. “There’s no danger,” said the Captain encouragingly, “if you only keep cool and hold on.” Water was coursing freely down the shaft and spirting over us in fine spray, so that, ere long, we were as wet and dirty as any miner in Botallack. At last we reached the 120 fathom level, 720 feet from “grass.”
Here the Captain told me men were at work not far off and he wished to visit them. “Would I wait where I was until he returned?”
“What!” said I, “wait in a draughty level with an extinguishable candle close to the main shaft, with 30 or 40 miles of levels around, and no end of winzes? No, no, Captain Jan, go on; I’ll stick to younowthrough thick and thin like your own shadow!”
With one of his benignant smiles the captain resumed his progress. In a few minutes I heard the clink of hammers, and, soon after, came to a singular cavern. It was a place where the lode had been very wide and rich. Years before it had been all cut away from level to level, leaving a void space so high and deep that the rays of our candles were lost in obscurity. We walked through it in mid-air, as it were, supported on cross beams with planks laid thereon. Beyond this we came to a spot where a number of miners were at work in various places and positions.
One, a big, broad-shouldered man named Dan, was seated on a wooden box hammering at the rock with tremendous energy. With him Captain Jan conversed a few minutes on the appearance of the lode, and then whispered to me, “A good specimen of a man that, sir, and he’s got an uncommon large family,”—then, turning to the man—“I say, Dan, you’ve got a biggish family, haven’t you?”
“Iss, a’w iss, Cap’n Jan, I’ve a braave lot o’ child’n.”
“How many have you had altogether, Dan?”
“I’ve had seventeen, sur, but ten of ’em’s gone dead—only seven left. My brother Jim, though, he’s had more than me.”
After a few more words we left this man, and, in another place, found this brother Jim, working in the roof of the level with several others. They had cut so high up in a slanting direction that they appeared to be in another chamber, which was brilliantly lighted with their candles. Jim, stripped naked to the waist, stood on the end of a plank, hammering violently. Looking up into his curious burrow, Captain Jan shouted—“Hallo! Jim!”
“Hallo, Captain Jan.”
“Here’s a gentleman wants to know how many children you’ve had.”
“How many child’n, say ’ee? Why, I’ve had nineteen, sur, but there’s eleven of ’em gone dead. Seven of ’em did come in three years and a half—three doubles and a single—but there’s only eight of ’em alive now!”
I afterwards found that, although this man and his brother were exceptions, the miners generally had very large families.
While we were talking, a number of shots were heard going off in various directions. This was explained by Captain Jan. All the forenoon the miners employ their time in boring and charging the blast-holes. About mid-day they fire them and then hasten to a clear part of the mine to eat luncheon and smoke their pipes while the gunpowder smoke clears away. This it does very slowly, taking sometimes more than an hour to clear sufficiently so as to let the men resume work.
Immediately after the shots were heard, the men began to assemble. They emerged from the gloom on all sides like red hobgoblins—wet and perspiring. Some walked out of darkness from either end of the level; some stalked out from diverging levels; others slid, feet first, from holes in the roof and sides, and some rose, head-foremost, from yawning gulfs in the floor. They all saluted Captain Jan as they came up, and each stuck his candle against the wall and sat down on a heap of wet rubbish, to lunch. Some had Cornish pasty, and others a species of heavy cake—so heavy that the fact of their being able to carry it at all said much for their digestive organs—but most of them ate plain bread, and all of them drank water which had been carried down from the realms of light in little canteens. Frugal though the fare was, it sufficed to brace them for the rest of the day’s work.
After a short talk with these men Captain Jan and I continued our descent of the ladders—down we went, ever downwards, until at last we reached the very bottom of that part of the mine—1230 feet below the surface.
Here we found only two men at work, with whom Captain Jan conversed for a time while we rested, and then proceeded to ascend “to grass” by the same ladder-ways. If I felt that the descent was like never getting to the bottom, much more did the ascent seem like never getting to the top!
I may remark here that the bottom which we had reached was not the bottom under the sea. At another time Captain Jan took me to that submarine cavern where, as I have said, no sound ever reaches the ear from the world above. There is, however, a level close under the sea where the roar of Ocean is distinctly heard. It is in a part of Botallack Mine named Wheal Cock. It was very rich in copper ore, and the miners worked at the roof of it so vigorously, that they began to fear it would give way. One of them, therefore, in order to ascertain what thickness of solid rock still lay between them and the sea, bored a small hole upwards, and advanced about three feet or so before the water rushed in. Of course they had a wooden plug ready and stopped up the hole. But, as it was dangerous to cut away any more of the roof, they were finally obliged unwillingly to forsake that part of the mine.
This occurred some thirty years before my visit, yet when I went to see the place, I found the wooden plug still hard and fast in the hole and quite immoveable. As I stood and listened I could well understand the anxiety of the miners, for at the upward rush of each wave, I could hear the rattle of the boulders overhead, like monster cannon balls, and a repetition of the thunder when the waves retreated.
On our way up the ladders we stopped several times to rest. At such times Captain Jan related various anecdotes illustrative of mining life.
“This is a place,” said he, on one occasion, “which reminds me of a man who was always ready to go in for dangerous work. His name was Old Maggot. He was not really old, but he had a son named after himself, and his friends had to distinguish him from the young Maggot.”
So saying, Captain Jan trimmed his candle with nature’s own pair of snuffers—the finger and thumb—and proceeded as follows:
“Some time ago the miners in Botallack came to an old deserted mine that was full of water—this is what miners call a ‘house of water.’ The ore there was rich, but the men were afraid to work it lest they should come suddenly on the old mine and break a hole through to it—in other words ‘hole to that house of water.’ They stopped working at last, and no one seemed willing to run the risk of driving the hole and letting out the water. In this difficulty they appealed to Old Maggot, who at once agreed to do it. The old mine was about three-quarters of a mile back from the sea-shore, but at that time it could only be got at by entering theaditlevel from the shore. It was through this level that the water would have to escape. At the mouth of it a number of men assembled to see Old Maggot go in. In he went, alone, with a bunch of candles, and, as he walked along, he stuck a lighted candle every here and there against the wall to light him out,—for he expected to have to run for it.
“When he came to the place, the water was spirting out everywhere. But Old Maggot didn’t mind. He grasped his hammer and borer and began. The work was done sooner than he had expected! Suddenly the rock gave way and the water burst upon him, putting out his candle and turning him heels over head. He jumped up and tried to run, but the flood rose on him, carried him off his legs, swept him right through the level, and hurled him through the adit-mouth at last, upon the sea-shore! He was stunned a little, but soon recovered, and, beyond a few bruises and a wetting, was nothing the worse of his adventure.
“That,” said Captain Jan, pointing to the rock beside us, “was the place where Old Maggot holed to the house of water, andthiswas the level through which he was washed and through part of which I will now conduct you.”
Accordingly, we traversed the level, and, coming to another shaft, continued our upward progress.
While we were slowly toiling up, step by step, we were suddenly arrested by the sound of voices singing in the far distance above us. The music was slow and solemn. Coming as it did so unexpectedly in such a strange place, it sounded quite magical and inexpressibly sweet.
“Miners descending to work,” said my guide, as we listened. The air was familiar to me, and, as it grew louder and louder, I recognised that beautiful tune called “French,” to which we are accustomed to sing the 121st Psalm, “I to the hills will lift mine eyes.” Gradually the men came down to us. We stood on one side. As they passed they ceased singing and nodded to Captain Jan. There were five or six stout fellows and a boy. The latter was as active as his companions, and his treble voice mingled tunefully with theirs as they continued the descent, and resumed the psalm, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their steps. We watched until their lights disappeared, and then resumed our upward way, while the sweet strains grew fainter and fainter, until they were gradually lost in the depths below. The pleasant memory of that psalm still remained with me, when I emerged from the ladder-shaft of Botallack mine, and—after having been five hours underground—once more drank in, (with a new and intensified power of appreciation), the fresh air of heaven and the blessed influences of green fields and sunshine.
To many a weird and curious part of the great mine did the obliging Captain Jan lead me, but perhaps the most interesting part was the lowest depth under the sea, to which my wife accompanied us. This part is reached by the Boscawen shaft, a sloping one which the men descend in an iron car or gig. The car is let down and hauled up by an iron rope. Once this rope broke, the car flew to the bottom, was dashed against the rock, and all the men—eight in number—were killed.
In 1865 the Prince and Princess of Wales descended this shaft, and Captain Jan was their amiable, not to say eccentric, guide. The Captain was particularly enthusiastic in praise of the Princess. He said that she was a “fine intelligent young lady; that she asked no end of questions, would not rest until she understood everything, and afterwards undertook to explain it all to her less-informed companions.” A somewhat amusing incident occurred while they were underground.
When about to begin his duty as guide it suddenly flashed across the mind of poor Captain Jan that, in the excitement of the occasion, he had forgotten to take gloves with him. He was about to lead the Princess by the hand over the rugged floors of the levels. To offer to do so without gloves was not to be thought of. To procure gloves 200 fathoms below the sea was impossible. To borrow from the Prince or the Duke of Sutherland, who were of the party, was out of the question. What was he to do? Suddenly he remembered that he had a newspaper in his pocket. In desperation he wrapped his right hand in a piece of this, and, thus covered, held it out to the Princess. She, innocently supposing that the paper was held up to be looked at, attempted to read. This compelled Captain Jan to explain himself, whereupon she burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and, flinging away the paper, took the ungloved hand of the loyal but bashful miner.