The Stars Look Down

by A. J. Cronin

  The waste was cold and full of a curious smell. It was not styfe, though there was black damp about, but the smell of disuse. The waste had not been worked for eighty years.

  Led by Robert they pressed forward with rising hope… it was dry here, they were leaving the water. Oh, thank God, they were leaving all that water. Six of them had lamps still lit, and Harry Brace had three pit candles in his pocket. They could see the way. There was no difficulty. There was only one road, the main road, the road that struck due east.

  For about a quarter of a mile they followed the abandoned road. Then they checked. In front of them the roof had fallen.

  “Never mind, lads,” shouted Slogger. “It’s nowt but rubble. Us’ll soon be through.” He threw off his jacket and tightened his leather belt. He led the attack on the fall.

  They had no tools, all their tools, bait pokes and water-bottles lay submerged half a mile away. They worked with their bare hands, scraping, scraping, tearing out the loose stones. They worked in pairs: and Slogger worked double shift. How long they worked nobody knew, they worked so hard they did not think of time, nor of their bleeding hands, but they worked actually seven hours straight and went through fifteen yards of fallen rubble. Slogger crawled through first:

  “Hurrah!” he yelled, pulling Pat Reedy after him. They all came through, all talking at once, laughing, triumphant. Famous it was to be through that fallen rubble. They laughed like children.

  But fifty yards further on they stopped laughing. Another fall, and this time no rubble. Stone, hard solid whinstone, impenetrable to anything but a diamond drill. And they had their bare hands. Only one road. And the one road blocked. Solid whinstone, thick and hard as the face of a cliff. Their bare and bleeding hands. A silence. A long, cold silence.

  “Well, lads,” Robert said with studied cheerfulness, “here we are and not that far off the Scupperhole either. They’re comin’ in for us now. They’re sure to reach us sooner or later. We’ve nowt to do but crook our houghs and jowl. And keep our spirits up.”

  They all sat down. Harry Brace, crouched next the fallen roof, picked up a heavy lump of whinstone and began to jowl, beating out a sort of tattoo on the rock face so that the rescuers might hear. Occasionally he raised his voice and let out a long high call. Deep in the abandoned waste, quarter of a mile inbye from the old Scupperhole shaft, they waited. Jowling and calling, they waited there.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A little before six that morning Richard Barras was wakened by a light knocking on his door. The knocking had been going on for some time. He called out:

  “Who is it?”

  Aunt Carrie’s voice, diffident and frightened, came through the door:

  “I don’t wish to disturb you, Richard, but the underviewer is here from the pit. He will see you.” Aunt Carrie shrank from the word which Hudspeth had flatly used… let Hudspeth himself say that terrifying word to Richard.

  Richard dressed and came downstairs; it was in any case near his usual time for rising.

  “Good morning, Hudspeth.” He saw that Hudspeth was only half clothed and extremely agitated; he saw that Hudspeth had been running. And Hudspeth burst out immediately:

  “There’s water in both main shafts, Mr. Barras, covering all levels. We can’t drop the cage below Five Quarter Seam.”

  There was a terrible pause.

  “I see.” It came out just like that, reflex, with automatic composure.

  “The whole of the foreshift has gone into Globe Coal and Paradise.” Hudspeth’s usually stolid voice shook. “We can’t get near them, not one of them has come outbye.”

  Barras carefully inspected Hudspeth:

  “How many in the shift?” he asked, with that mechanical precision.

  “A round hundred men and boys, I don’t know, something like that, I’m not five minutes out of my bed, one of the lamp-men fetched me, I sent him running to Mr. Armstrong and came on up here as fast as I could.”

  Richard hesitated no longer. Six minutes later they were in the pit yard. Jimmy, the lamp-man, stood with the banksman, the assistant banksman and Cousins, the timekeeper, in a silent, intimidated group. As Barras arrived the banksman said:

  “Mr. Armstrong has just come, sir. He went up in the winding room.”

  Barras said to Hudspeth:

  “Fetch him.”

  Hudspeth ran up the steps to the winding room. Meanwhile Barras went into the office where the round clock fixed on to the wall above the fireplace indicated six-fifteen. As Barras entered the empty office the underground telephone rang. He picked up the receiver instantly. In his hard impersonal voice he said:

  “Hello, hello, hello…”

  Robert Fenwick’s voice answered from Scupper Flats. It was the call from the entombed party, and when the conversation had terminated and the instrument lay dead in his hand Barras blindly replaced the receiver. Then he inflated his chest, took command of himself. A moment later Armstrong and Hudspeth came into the office.

  “Now tell me, Mr. Armstrong,” Barras began instantly in a voice of authority, “tell me everything you know.”

  Armstrong, labouring under some strain, told him. All the time Armstrong was speaking, which was about two minutes, Armstrong kept thinking, the end of this is the end of my job. The skin under one of his eyes began to twitch, he put up his hand to hide it.

  “I see,” Barras said; then, abruptly: “Ring Mr. Jennings.”

  Armstrong answered hurriedly:

  “I sent Saul Pickings for him, Mr. Barras, that’s the first thing I did; he’ll be here any minute now.”

  “That was well done,” said Barras in a pleased manner. His command was perfect, under that beautiful command Armstrong and Hudspeth were recovering themselves. Armstrong especially. Barras continued: “Get on the telephone, Mr. Armstrong. Instantly. Ring the Rigger and Headstock Co., Tynecastle, ring Messrs. T. & R. Henderson of Seaton, ring Amalgamated Collieries, and the Horton Iron Co.—ask especially for Mr. Probert senr. here—give them all my compliments, inform them of our situation, ask for every assistance, every assistance if you please. We shall want headgear, all pumping and electrical equipment they can give us. Ask Tynecastle especially for steam winding gear. Ask Amalgamated Collieries for any rescue men they can spare. At once if you please, Mr. Armstrong.”

  Armstrong ran to the telephone in his office. Barras turned to Hudspeth:

  “Take ten men and go to the Old Scupper shaft. Make an inspection. As quick and complete as you can. Find out all you can about the condition of the shaft. Then hurry back to me.”

  As Hudspeth went out, Mr. Jennings arrived. The mines inspector was a blunt, compact, red-faced man with a cheerfully determined manner. It was well known that Jennings would stand no nonsense, he was unassertive yet strong, rather too hail-fellow-well-met perhaps, yet everybody liked and respected him. Just now he had a large boil on the back of his neck.

  “Ouch,” he said as he clumped down in a chair. “This hurts me like hell. What’s up?”

  Barras told him.

  Jennings forgot about his boil. All of a sudden he looked perfectly aghast.

  “No,” he said, in a tone of absolute dismay.

  There was a silence. Barras said formally:

  “Will you inspect the bank?”

  Although he had just sat down Jennings got up. He said:

  “Yes, I’ll have a look up top.”

  Barras led the way. Jennings and Barras inspected the bank. The pumps were completely overcome, the water had risen another six feet in both shafts. Jennings questioned the winding-engineman. Jennings and Barras returned to the office. Jennings said:

  “You’ll need extra pumps on these shafts, Mr. Barras. You’ll need them soon. But there’s that much head of water I question if they’ll do much good…”

  Barras listened with determined patience. He let Jennings talk himself out. He made no comment whatsoever. But when Jennings had finished he declared, in his clear, judicial voice, as though Jennings
had not spoken at all:

  “It will take days to dewater these main shafts. We must go in from Scupperhole in the hope of travelling a roadway. That much is positive. Hudspeth will be back immediately from Old Scupperhole shaft. The instant it is possible we must go in.”

  Jennings looked a little put down. He felt the impact of a personality stronger than his own, it subordinated and depressed him. His boil was paining him too. Yet Barras’s definition of the position was crystal clear, his scheme for the rescue the only logical course. A grudging admiration showed in Jennings’ blunt face.

  “That’s about it,” he said, and then: “But how’ll you manage without plans?”

  “We must manage,” retorted Barras with sudden intensity.

  “Well, well,” Jennings conciliated, “we can but try.” He sighed. “But if only we’d had these plans we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess now. God, what idiots they were in those days!” He winced from the pain in his neck. “Oh, damn this carbuncle I’ve got on me. I’m taking yeast for it. But I don’t think it’s doing a hate of good.”

  As Jennings fumbled painfully with the dressing on his boil Hudspeth returned. Hudspeth said:

  “I’ve had a good look, Mr. Barras, sir. The shaft at Old Scupperhole isn’t that bad. There’s rubbish in the shaft, not that much though. But there’s black damp there too, a bad bit of black damp. We lowered a man on a crab rope and he came out pretty sick. I fancy we could clear the shaft of stowing and black damp in twenty-four hours.”

  Barras said:

  “Thank you, Mr. Hudspeth. We’ll go over to Scupperhole shaft now.” There was no question: Barras was in charge. There was something sublime in his calm and resolute command, he dominated without effort, he subdued panic, he was absolute.

  As the four men came out of the office young Dr. Lewis, who was now Dr. Scott’s partner, came hurrying across the pit yard. He said:

  “I’ve just heard… on my way back from a confinement case…. Can I do anything?” He paused expectantly, seeing himself doing dramatic heroism down the mine. He was pink-cheeked and eager, his ideals and enthusiasms simply bubbled within him; in Sleescale he was always referred to as young Dr. Lewis. Jennings looked as if he would like to kick young Dr. Lewis’s young backside. He turned away.

  Barras said kindly:

  “Thank you very much, Dr. Lewis. We may need you. Go in the office and Saul Pickings will make you a hot cup of cocoa. We may need you later.”

  Young Dr. Lewis bustled away happily. Barras, Jennings, Armstrong and Hudspeth went on to Old Scupperhole shaft. It was only now beginning to get light. It was very cold. A few thin snow-flakes began to fall, trembling gently out of the unseen sky. A party of twenty-five men went with them, moving in silence across the troubled ground, until the snow enwrapped and curtained them. This was the first rescue party.

  And now the news began to travel through the town. Doors in the Terraces flew open and men and women rushed through the open doors. They ran down Cowpen Street. As they ran, more ran with them. They ran as if they could not help themselves, as if the pit had suddenly become a magnet drawing them, drawing them irrespective of their own volition. They ran because they had to run. They ran in silence.

  Martha heard the news from Mrs. Brace. Her first thought was less of anguish than of gratitude: Thank God my Sammy isn’t down. Clutching her breast, she wakened Sammy, then threw on her coat and ran with Sammy to the pit. Old Hans Messuer was running too. Hans had been shaving an early customer when he heard, and running, he still held the lather brush in his left hand. David heard as he cycled into the town. He tore straight to the pit. The Slogger’s wife heard in bed, and Cha, the Slogger’s son, heard at the side-door of the Salutation. Susan Wept heard as she said her morning prayer. Mrs. Reedy, the midwife, heard at her case with young Dr. Lewis. Jack Reedy, her eldest son, heard on his way to pick up a stiffener at the pub. Joining Cha Leeming, Jack ran towards the pit. Ned Softley’s mother heard on her way to the public wash-house. Old Tom Ogle heard in the closet. Buttoning his trousers, Tom Ogle ran.

  In no time at all five hundred men and women stood packed on the outskirts of the pit yard and there were more outside. They stood in silence, the women mostly in shawls, the men without overcoats, all very black against the white snow. They stood like some vast chorus, massed in silence under the snow-dark sky. They were not the actors in the drama but they were of it none the less. In silence they stood, in mortal silence, under that immortal snow-dark silent sky.

  It was nine o’clock and snowing hard when Barras, Jennings and Armstrong recrossed the Snook and came into the pit yard. Armstrong looked at the crowd. Armstrong said:

  “Will I have the yard gates shut?”

  “No!” said Barras, inspecting the people with his remote, myopic eyes. “Have a fire lighted in the yard. A large fire. Light it in the middle of the yard. It is cold for them standing there.”

  They lit the fire. Charley Gowlan, Jake Wicks and the banksmen brought lots of timbering to feed the fire. Just as the fire was going well the first party of volunteers rolled in from the Seaton collieries. They went immediately to the Scupperhole. Then the riggers came from Tynecastle bringing three truckloads of their gear. Armstrong stood by the telephone. Barras and Jennings went back to the Scupperhole. The black damp made it impossible to descend the shaft but soon they would clear the black damp. Already they had started to fit headgear, winding engine and a fan.

  At eleven o’clock Arthur Barras arrived. Arthur had been spending the week-end with the Todds at Tynecastle, he had just arrived by the ten forty-five train. He dashed into the office with nervous haste.

  “Father!” he exclaimed, “this is terrible.”

  Barras turned slowly.

  “It is heart-breaking.”

  “What can I do? I’ll do anything. What a thing to happen, father.”

  Barras looked at his son with heavy eyes. He made a gesture with his hand. He said:

  “It is the will of God, Arthur.”

  Arthur stared back at his father with anguish in his face.

  “The will of God,” he repeated in a strange voice. “What does that mean?”

  At that moment Armstrong rushed in.

  “They’re pulling out two pumps at the Amalgamated. They’ll be on their way over presently. A new turbine pump is coming from Horton’s, Mr. Probert says no trouble is too great.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong,” Barras said mechanically.

  There was a strained silence until old Saul Pickings limped in with three large cups of hot cocoa. He was over seventy was Saul, and though he had a wooden leg he could get along very fast; he limped about doing surface jobs and was good at cocoa. Arthur and Armstrong each took a cup; Barras refused. But Arthur and Armstrong pressed Barras to drink the cocoa, saying that it would do him good, Armstrong adding that it was impossible to work on an empty stomach. But Barras still refused; he seemed a little exalted.

  Saul Pickings said:

  “Young Dr. Lewis wants to know if you still want him. If he’s to wait I’ll take him in this cup of cocoa.” Young Dr. Lewis had already had four cups of cocoa, his heroism was slightly diluted now. And he had been obliged to ask, politely, for the lavatory.

  Barras looked at Armstrong.

  “It would be a good thing if the doctors of the town could manage for one of their number always to be on duty here for the next few days. Let them take turns.”

  “That’s a splendid idea, Mr. Barras,” Armstrong exclaimed. He hurried out to use the telephone again.

  “Father,” Arthur said in a kind of desperation, “how did this happen? I’ve got to know.”

  “Not now,” Barras answered. “Not now.”

  Arthur turned away and pressed his brow against the cold, feathered window-pane. For the moment his father’s tone had silenced him.

  Then Firemaster Ebenezer Camhow puffed in. He had changed into his uniform, which carried a pleasant amount of bright red braid and eight important br
ass buttons kept beautifully shined by Mrs. Camhow. The firemaster was short, round and bald-headed, he was like an orb. He was fond of uniforms, had started early with a pill-box cap in the boys’ brigade, was now both firemaster and bandmaster of Sleescale. He played four musical instruments, including the triangle, and won prizes regularly for his sweet peas at the county show. In the last five years he had extinguished one small fire at a disused brewery.

  “I’m at your service, Mr. Barras,” he declared. “I’ve got my men outside. Outside in the yard. They’re there in a row. Every one has a first-aid certificate. You’ve only got to command me, sir.”

  Barras thanked the firemaster, Saul Pickings gave the firemaster the cup of cocoa that was left over, then the firemaster went out. As he went into the yard the firemaster looked so official and important that two reporters who had just arrived from Tynecastle took his portrait, which appeared next morning in the Tynecastle Argus. The firemaster cut it out.

  Offers of assistance kept pouring in, telegrams, telephone calls, Mr. Probert of the Horton Iron Co. came over in person, three further relays of rescue men came in from Amalgamated Collieries.

  Before twelve o’clock Barras and Arthur went out to inspect the erection work at Old Scupperhole shaft. The shaft lay in the wretched piece of waste land known as the Snook, all hummocks and subsidences, covered with snow and swept by a bitter wind. Troubled land was what they called it. In spite of the fire in the pit yard nearly everybody had left the yard and stood gathered on the Snook. They stood well back from the riggers who were raising headgear, working fast and hard. As Barras and Arthur approached the crowd parted silently, but one group of men did not give way. It was then that Arthur saw David.

  David stood at the head of the group of men which did not give way. Jack Reedy, Cha Leeming and old Tom Ogle were also in the group. David waited until Barras came up to him. His skin seemed drawn upon his cheek-bones with cold and the hidden tension of his mind. His eyes met the eyes of Barras. Under that accusation Barras dropped his gaze. Then David spoke.