Not used to thinking in terms of fathoms, Christy had to calculate. They’d come a hundred and fifty feet straight down, with another two hundred and seventy to go before they reached Tranter. Already he could feel the muscles in his calves vibrating. The short, stocky captain wasn’t even breathing hard, and a minute later he swung out onto the next ladder. Christy followed, grasping the clay-caked sides and trying not to think about how endless a two-hundred-and-seventy-foot fall would be in the pitch black.
It wasn’t a straight drop, though; at forty fathoms, they stepped off another ladder and turned into a level side gallery, sixty feet long and barely wide enough for two men to pass abreast. The heat was becoming severe, and Christy felt glad that he’d left his coat at the shaft entrance. He was grateful for his hat, too, when more than once it cushioned him from a stout blow caused by the odd lump of solid rock protruding from the six-foot ceiling.
The going was not only rough, it was dangerous. “Mind here,” Jenks threw over his shoulder repeatedly, alerting him just in time to the presence of a thin, shaky, slippery plank of wood, the only covering over some dismal trap-hole leading to nothing but deep, dark disaster. At length, after ceaseless walking, stooping, creeping, and occasional crawling, they came to another ladder, shorter than the ones that had brought them to this depth, that led down another shaft to another gallery. This happened four or five more times before the long ladders began again. Christy was soaked with perspiration, sucking in gulps of the hot, unhealthy air when Jenks stepped off the last ladder and told him Tranter’s pitch lay at this level, in a wider excavation beyond the next gallery.
“Shall I go on by myself?” Christy asked, noticing that Jenks seemed unwilling to proceed.
“Don’t be daft,” he snapped, then ducked his head. “Beg your pardon, Vicar,” he muttered.
“It’s all right, Mr. Jenks. You know, you’re not at fault for what happened here.” He hadn’t meant to say that; something in Jenks’s manner had prompted it. A moment later, he understood why.
“I am, though,” the captain said stiffly, speaking to the black, dripping wall straight ahead of him. “In a way. I’m the one that told the gang to costean so close to the mill. ’Twasn’t safe, and I knew it. I didn’t tell Dickon or Miss Deene because I knew they’d be against it. But I thought it was worth the risk. And now look what’s happened.”
Christy could barely see his face in the weird shadows cast by the candle in his hat. “Perhaps that was bad judgment,” he conceded quietly. “You couldn’t have prevented the second explosion, though, and Tranter would still be trapped, wouldn’t he?”
The captain sighed. “Aye. But Bob Thacker wouldn’t have got scalded by the steam, and without the sinkholes the flooding’s made between us and Fox, mayhap we could’ve gotten to him earlier. Even gotten him out, for all I know.”
“Maybe, but you—”
“I ain’t looking for any comfort, Vicar. Meaning no disrespect, I know what I done, and I’ve got to live with it.” With that, he pushed past Christy and started down the narrow shaft. “Now I’ll take you to the closest place a man can safely go, and leave you for five minutes to your prayers. After that, we must be away.”
Without answering, Christy followed him.
Seventy feet later, they came to a stop. “Oh, sweet Christ,” Jenks whispered. “‘Tis much worse now.” He took another candle from his buttonhole, lit it from the one in his hat, and held it aloft. By its weak white flicker, Christy saw what he meant.
They were standing at the low, smoky entrance to hell. The smell of hot metal and gunpowder was so strong, he could taste it in the back of his throat, see it floating, cloudlike, in the dirty air. Through the fog, the dark shapes of twisted iron and splintered wood jutted at every angle, like tombstones in an underground cemetery. The red metal wreckage must be the stamping mill, or what was left of it; the scattered timbers were joists and ceiling supports, and the remains of the wooden housing around the water pump. Over half the gallery was simply gone, crushed under the weight of the fallen solid-rock ceiling; the rest was a broad ruin of metal, granite, soft ore, and timber, chest-high in places, underwater in others. Over everything a scalding mist of steam still hissed, spewing out the last of the pressurized water in the broken mill’s boiler.
Numbed, Christy asked, “Where is he?”
Jenks held his candle higher and pointed. “Yonder. You can’t see the place from here in this light, ’tis too far away. He’s walled in and can’t be reached for the hazards in the way. What’s left of this ceiling won’t last much longer, and then he’ll be tombed up proper.” He turned aside, as much to avert his face as to attach his extra candle to the wall with another lump of clay. Then he cupped his mouth and hollered, “Hullo, Tranter Fox! Can you hear me?”
Immediately an appallingly faint voice called back, “Hullo! Hullo, Captain. I can ’ear you!”
“Reverend Morrell’s come down with me! He wants to speak to you!”
Christy winced when nothing but silence greeted this, imagining what Tranter must be thinking right now: that if the vicar was here, he must be doomed indeed. Jenks couldn’t stand the silence, either; backing out of the shattered portal, he mumbled, “You’ll be wantin’ privacy. I’ll come back in a short while, Vicar.” Christy watched his dim form recede into the black.
He knew little of mines or mining, but he knew enough to see that a hundred perils lay between him and the invisible wall beyond which Tranter was trapped. He also knew that bellowing out spiritual consolation from this distance was out of the question. He had to go closer.
The weakening spray of steam was no longer deadly, but it was still an obstacle. To avoid it, he abandoned the thought of moving toward Tranter’s vogal in a straight line and instead struck out to the right, close to the only wall that remained completely intact—so far. His candle had barely been adequate in the long, unobstructed shaft, with a sturdy guide to lead the way; here it was almost useless, illuminating a sharp-edged hindrance a few feet before he collided with or cut himself on it. When he wasn’t scrambling over hulking tangles of contorted metal, he was knee-deep in hot water, holding on to whatever was nearby to avoid sliding on the slippery, unsteady mud underfoot. Fox yelled out something he couldn’t hear, and he called back, “I’m coming! Hold on a minute!” But it was slow going, and much longer than a minute before he’d covered another six feet.
“Vicar?” the miner called again, his voice still distressingly faint. “Ee don’t care t’ be comin’ too close! The whole roof’s fallin’ in, an’ there’m sinkholes underneath to suck you down to hell!” Christy smacked his shin on sharp metal, muttered to himself, and kept coming.
Two blind, faltering steps later, a sinkhole to hell nearly swallowed him whole. His own outflung arms were all that saved him from sliding straight down to oblivion. With no sturdy handholds within flailing distance, he had to haul his body out of the chest-high pit using only his arms—even his feet were useless against the walls of the narrow, slick-sided tube of muddy stone. He’d no sooner hoisted himself out and half-fallen, panting, onto the wet rubble, when a harsh, splintering sound from above made him cover his head with his arms. Something struck him hard between the shoulder blades; he grunted in pain, listening to the thud of falling wood and rock all around him. When the sounds subsided, he looked up. Miraculously, his candle hadn’t gone out; his body ached, but he wasn’t injured, and nothing much seemed to have changed. He murmured a prayer of thanks and set off again toward Tranter’s wall.
At last he could go no farther: with only about eight feet between himself and the collapsed vogal, the way was blocked by the great iron pestle of the stamping machine, cantilevered upward on Tranter’s side by the fallen weight of its own engine. “Can you hear me?” Christy called, sinking to the addle-strewn floor and resting against the rusty metal bulk of the pestle.
“Aye, Vicar, I hear fine, but ee’re
a fool fer creepin’ this close to me, no offense, what wi’ the—”
“Reverend Morrell, where are you? Reverend Morrell!”
“Here,” Christy shouted to Jenks. “Go up without me, Captain! I know my way back, and I’ll follow as soon as may be.”
Jenks’s reply was so profane, Christy felt glad the man was a Methodist and none of his spiritual responsibility. They shouted orders and refusals to each other across the murky wasteland for another minute or two; then, with a final outburst of obscenity, Jenks fell silent and—presumably—went away. The candle he left on the wall at the gallery entrance was like a lit pinprick in the pitch-black distance, a feeble beacon offering little light and less hope. Christy turned his back on it and drew his prayer book out of his pocket.
He and Fox no longer had to shout at each other to be heard. “Your father’s above,” he told the miner, in something close to his normal voice. It seemed monstrous to be this near and not be able to help him.
“Is he? Tes a bit nasty fer ’im t’ be out an’ about. I hope he’s well wrapped.”
“How are you, Tranter? Are you injured?”
“A couple o’ snicks, and I’ve breaked a finger on my left and, but naught else.”
“What’s it like where you are?”
“Small.” Christy could imagine the wry look on Tranter’s monkey face. “I can’t stand. I can sit wi’ my legs straight out, but I can’t lie flat. Got air, an’ now I can see gray instead o’ black on account o’ yer candle. Before, ’twur dark as a blathering sack.”
“Miss Deene says she’s sending a crew down to begin excavating from the other side. If they can get through the wall behind you—”
“They’ll find a bag o’ dry bones fer their trouble. I helped pick, hammer, blast, an’ break this lode yer standin’ in, Vicar. Three of us together digged out six inches on especial good days.”
“But if they use explosives—”
“Then they’ll kill me all the sooner. Same if they tried blasting the great pestle out there that’s flush wi’ this tomb I’m in—except that’d kill everybody instead o’ only me.”
Christy was silent.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer grace, but what the ruddy hell ’ave ee come down ’ere for?”
“To talk to you.”
“Well, thur were no need fer that. If tes my soul ee’re that anxious after, you of all men oughter know tes a lost cause and there bain’t any help for it at this late day.”
“Do you truly feel that way, Tranter? That God has abandoned you?”
“Tes more me that’s abandoned him, like.”
“Then the case isn’t so dire. Are you afraid to die?”
“Naw. Every man dies.”
“That’s true. But he doesn’t have to die alone.”
“If ee was thinkin’ o’ lingerin’ down ’ere an’ waitin’ whilst I draws my last gasp—”
“I didn’t mean myself. You can have God with you if you want him.”
“Well, now, I bain’t just so sure o’ that. Me an’ God, we bain’t what you’d call close.”
“Do you ever pray?”
“Me?” He laughed uneasily. “Whatever should I say to a great gaffer like the Lord?”
“Whatever’s in your heart. The things you hope for, the things you fear.”
There was a long silence. At the end of it, Tranter said quietly, “I’m scairt to die. I lied before. Christy?”
“Yes?”
“Oughtn’t I to confess or something?”
“You can if you want to.”
“You can forgive me, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then I’ll do it.” Another pause. “I’m a loose, low man, a miserable blinkin’ sinner an’ no mistake. I’ve breaked every commandment in the book. Do I ’ave to say ’em out loud?”
“No.”
“Good, for I ha’n’t the heart.”
“Are you truly sorry for your sins?”
“Sink me if I ain’t!”
“Then they—”
“But . . .”
Christy waited, then asked, “What is it?”
“Well, Christy, let’s look on it straight. Don’t the Lord know I’m only repentin’ because I know tes my last chance?”
He almost smiled. “I expect he does.”
“Well, don’t ’e care? If he knows I’m only confessin’ on account o’ I’m scairt out o’ my mind, don’t that make ’im suspicious? Don’t it make ’im take it all wi’ a grain o’ salt, so to say?”
He sighed. “God isn’t like us, Tranter. He doesn’t hold grudges or keep score. What God is—he’s love. That’s it, that’s the simple truth of it. He can come to us at the end of our lives and tell us we won’t die unloved. Our death gets swallowed up in love. It goes with us as we cross over, it’s waiting for us on the other side. If you can believe that, you can let go of your fear.”
“But how can it be? How can it be?”
Christy heard the desperation of the well-meaning unbeliever in Tranter’s hopeful, hopeless question, and he thought of Anne. “Listen to me,” he said with quiet ferocity. “God had a son, and he sent him into the world to face down evil. His enemies took him and hung him on a cross and killed him. And now the bond between God and us is the love of a father for his children. It won’t pass away; it’s a love that endures forever. It includes you and it includes me.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I do. I believe it.” And he did.
“Christy, am I forgiven?”
“If you repent, you are forgiven.”
Tranter grew quiet. The minutes stretched, and Christy fancied it was a peaceful silence until he heard the soft, unmistakable sounds of weeping. “Tranter? Talk to me.”
He heard a thudding sound, as if the miner were striking out at the rock prison around him. “How can I die like this?” he burst out. “What if it’s slow? I’m scairt I’ll go mad before I die. What if I lose control o’ myself? I can’t die in this little hole, slow, breath by breath. How could this happen to me? How can God do it to me, Christy? How can I bear it?”
He said the only thing he could think of. “I won’t leave you alone. You’re a good man, a strong man. I’ve always respected you, Tranter.”
“That’s a bloody lie.”
“No, it’s the truth.”
“But I’m a sinner.”
“Do you think that makes you unloveable? I love you, and I’m only a man. Think what God’s love for you is like. You’ve a good heart. You honor your father, you work hard and steady to support him. You’re as kind to him as a mother to her child. What man have you ever hurt? What woman? Your sins are the easiest to forgive, because they’re the sins of excess, the sins of a full heart.
“I can’t tell you dying is easy. God has sent you a trial—I can’t tell you why. But he’s with you right now, just as I am. You’re not alone. You’re forgiven, and you’re loved.”
Another lengthy silence. Christy took the candle out of his hat and stuck it in a crevice under a piece of broken metal. “Tranter? What are you thinking about?”
“One thing I’m thinkin’ is that if you don’t hurry an’ get yer saintly arse up to grass, Vicar, we could be crossin’ over into the next life ’and-in-’and.”
Christy chuckled. “What else?”
“I’m thinkin’ . . . I wouldn’t mind singing something. A hymn, like.”
Christy’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know you were a singing man.”
“Oh, aye, all Cornishmen are great for singing.”
“I thought it was all Welshmen.”
“Nay, Cornishmen. So what might be a good song, Vicar? For this particular situation, so to say.”
He thought. “Do you know ‘Abide with Me’? A young priest wrote it as he was
facing his own early death. We’ve sung it in church, but you may have forgotten it,” he said tactfully. “I’ll start it off.” He cleared his throat and sang,
Abide with me: fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Tranter knew the hymn. In a fine tenor voice, he sang out every slow, solemn verse.
Hold now the cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee:
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
The last note faded away in the rock chamber. In the new silence, Christy began to pray, and he knew Tranter was praying with him. The words came to him easily, humble and heartfelt, as simple as the words to the hymn. It seemed strange that he could feel profound sadness and profound peace at the same time, both equally, neither disturbing the other. He didn’t pray for a boon; he prayed for the ability to accept God’s will with humility, and he prayed for the grace to minister in his name with thoughtfulness and courage. Most of all, he gave thanks to God because his way was clear now. Everything had been revealed.
“Get up, Christy! Get up, now!”
The panic in Tranter’s voice made no sense until a soft groaning sound finally registered, several notes lower than the lessening hiss of steam that Christy’s ears had long since grown accustomed to. There was no other warning except a light shower of dust, gentle as snowflakes. The sudden rip of wood sounded like a gun exploding in his ear.
“Get under something! Duck!”
But there was no cover. The heavy pestle might save him if he could wedge his body under the spare foot of space between its lower end and the rubble beneath it—or it might crush him to death even sooner than the giant beam that was splitting directly over his head. Christy flung himself sideways and buried his head in his arms. “If God is for us, who is against us?” he prayed over the roar of breaking timbers. “For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor things present or to come, nor powers, nor height—” Something struck him on the back of his wrist, momentarily stunning him. “Nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God. Tranter! Can you hear me?” No answer. The ceiling was collapsing all around him. He curled into a tighter ball. “Father,” he prayed, “into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
To Loveand To Cherish Page 31
