Robert Michael Ballantyne
Personal Reminiscences in Book Making, and Some Short Stories
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 write The Lifeboat: a Tale of our Coast Heroes, and The 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 for Deep 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 the Cassiterides and 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 word wheal,” 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 wheal Do-em, and when that mine stops, (becomes what we call a ‘knacked bal’) it may be styled wheal Donem!”
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 wheal Do-ems in 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 the driest part 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, ever downwards, 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 profound silence! 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 you now through 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 the adit level 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.
