Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  The pit bottom onsetter was Patrick O’Connor, a middle-aged man who had lost a hand in a roof collapse. A Catholic, he was inevitably known as Pat Pope. He stared with incredulity. “Billy-with-Jesus!” he said. “Where the bloody hell have you come from?”

  “From the Four-Foot Coal,” Billy answered. “We heard the bang.”

  Tommy followed Billy out of the shaft and said: “What’s happened, Pat?”

  “Far as I can make out, the explosion must have been at the other end of this level, near Thisbe,” said Pat. “The deputy and everyone else have gone to see.” He spoke calmly, but there was desperation in his look.

  Billy went to the phone and turned the handle. A moment later he heard his father’s voice. “Williams here, who’s that?”

  Billy did not pause to wonder why a union official was answering the colliery manager’s phone—anything could happen in an emergency. “Da, it’s me, Billy.”

  “God in his mercy be thanked, you’re all right,” said his father, with a break in his voice; then he became his usual brisk self. “Tell me what you know, boy.”

  “Me and Tommy were in the Four-Foot Coal. We’ve climbed down Pyramus to the Main Level. The explosion was over towards Thisbe, we think. There’s a bit of smoke, not much. But the cage isn’t working.”

  “The winding mechanism have been damaged by the upward blast,” Pa said in a calm voice. “But we’re working on it and we’ll have it fixed in a few minutes. Get as many men as you can to the pit bottom so we can start bringing them up as soon as the cage is fixed.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “The Thisbe shaft is completely out of action, so make sure no one tries to escape that way—they could get trapped by the fire.”

  “Right.”

  “There’s breathing apparatus outside the deputies’ office.”

  Billy knew that. It was a recent innovation, demanded by the union and made compulsory by the Coal Mines Act of 1911. “The air’s not bad at the moment,” he said.

  “Where you are, perhaps, but it may be worse farther in.”

  “Right.” Billy put the earpiece back on the hook.

  He repeated to Tommy and Pat what his father had said. Pat pointed to a row of new lockers. “The key should be in the office.”

  Billy ran to the deputies’ office, but he could see no keys. He guessed they were on someone’s belt. He looked again at the row of lockers, each labeled: “Breathing Apparatus.” They were made of tin. “Got a crowbar, Pat?” he said.

  The onsetter had a tool kit for minor repairs. Pat handed him a stout screwdriver. Billy swiftly broke open the first locker.

  It was empty.

  Billy stared, unbelieving.

  Pat said: “They tricked us!”

  Tommy said: “Bastard capitalists.”

  Billy opened another locker. It, too, was empty. He broke open the others with angry savagery, wanting to expose the dishonesty of Celtic Minerals and Perceval Jones.

  Tommy said: “We’ll manage without.”

  Tommy was impatient to get going, but Billy was trying to think clearly. His eye fell on the fire dram. It was the management’s pathetic excuse for a fire engine: a coal dram filled with water, with a hand pump strapped to it. It was not completely useless: Billy had seen it operate after what the miners called a “flash,” when a small quantity of firedamp close to the roof of the tunnel would ignite, briefly, and they would all throw themselves to the floor. The flash would sometimes light the coal dust on the tunnel walls, which then had to be sprayed.

  “We’ll take the fire dram,” he shouted to Tommy.

  It was already on rails, and the two of them were able to push it along. Billy thought briefly of harnessing a pony to it, then decided it would take too long, especially as the beasts were all in a panic.

  Pat Pope said: “My boy Micky is working in Marigold district, but I can’t go and look for him, I’ve got to stay here.” There was desperation in his face, but in an emergency the onsetter had to stay by the shaft—it was an inflexible rule.

  “I’ll keep an eye open for him,” Billy promised.

  “Thank you, Billy boy.”

  The two lads pushed the dram along the main road. Drams had no brakes: their drivers slowed them by sticking a stout piece of wood into the spokes. Many deaths and countless injuries were caused by runaway drams. “Not too fast,” Billy said.

  They were a quarter of a mile into the tunnel when the temperature rose and the smoke thickened. Soon they heard voices. Following the sound they turned into a branch tunnel. This part of the seam was currently being worked. On either side Billy could see, at regular intervals, the entrances to miners’ workplaces, usually called gates, but sometimes just holes. As the noise grew, they stopped pushing the dram and looked ahead.

  The tunnel was on fire. Flames licked up from walls and floor. A handful of men stood at the edge of the conflagration, silhouetted against the glow like souls in hell. One held a blanket and was batting it ineffectually at a blazing stack of timber. Others were shouting; no one was listening. In the distance, dimly visible, was a train of drams. The smoke had a strange whiff of roast meat, and Billy realized with a sick feeling that it must come from the pony that had been pulling the drams.

  Billy spoke to one of the men. “What’s happening?”

  “There’s men trapped in their gates—but we can’t get to them.”

  Billy saw that the man was Rhys Price. No wonder nothing was being done. “We’ve brought the fire dram,” he said.

  Another man turned to him, and he was relieved to see John Jones the Shop, a more sensible character. “Good man!” said Jones. “Let’s have the hose on this bloody lot.”

  Billy ran out the hose while Tommy connected the pump. Billy aimed the jet at the ceiling of the tunnel, so that the water would run down the walls. He soon realized that the mine’s ventilation system, blowing down Thisbe and up Pyramus, was forcing the flames and smoke toward him. As soon as he got the chance he would tell the people on the surface to reverse the fans. Reversible fans were now mandatory—another requirement of the 1911 act.

  Despite the difficulty, the fire began to die back, and Billy was able to go forward slowly. After a few minutes the nearest gate was clear of flame. Immediately two miners ran out, gasping the relatively good air of the tunnel. Billy recognized the Ponti brothers, Giuseppe and Giovanni, known as Joey and Johnny.

  Some of the men ran into the gate. John Jones came out carrying the limp form of Dai Ponies, the horse wrangler. Billy could not tell whether he was dead or just unconscious. He said: “Take him to Pyramus, not Thisbe.”

  Price butted in: “Who are you to be giving orders, Billy-with-Jesus?”

  Billy was not going to waste time arguing with Price. He addressed Jones. “I spoke on the phone to the surface. Thisbe is badly damaged but the cage should soon be operating in Pyramus. I was told to tell everyone to head for Pyramus.”

  “Right, I’ll spread the word,” said Jones, and he went off.

  Billy and Tommy continued to fight the fire, clearing further gates, freeing more trapped men. Some were bleeding, many were scorched, and a few had been hurt by falling rock. Those who could walk carried the dead and the seriously injured in a grim procession.

  Too soon, their water was gone. “We’ll push the dram back and fill it from the pond at the bottom of the shaft,” Billy said.

  Together they hurried back. The cage was still not working, and there were now a dozen or so rescued miners waiting, and several bodies on the ground, some groaning in agony, others ominously still. While Tommy filled the dram with muddy water, Billy picked up the phone. Once again his father answered. “The winding gear will be operating in five minutes,” he said. “How is it down there?”

  “We’ve got some dead and injured out of the gates. Send down drams full of water as soon as you can.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m all right. Listen, Da, you should reverse the ventilation.
Blow down Pyramus and up Thisbe. That will drive the smoke and afterdamp away from the rescuers.”

  “Can’t be done,” said his father.

  “But it’s the law—pit ventilation must be reversible!”

  “Perceval Jones told the inspectors a sob story, and they gave him another year to modify the blowers.”

  Billy would have cursed if anyone other than his father had been on the line. “How about turning on the sprinklers—can you do that?”

  “Aye, we can,” said Da. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He spoke to someone else.

  Billy replaced the earpiece. He helped Tommy refill the dram, taking turns with the hand pump. It took as long to fill as it had to empty. The flow of men from the afflicted district slowed while the fire raged unchecked. At last the tub was full and they started back.

  The sprinklers came on, but when Billy and Tommy reached the fire, they found that the flow of water from the narrow overhead pipe was too slight to put out the flames. However, Jones the Shop had now got the men organized. He was keeping the uninjured survivors with him, for rescue work, and sending the walking wounded to the shaft. As soon as Billy and Tommy had connected the hose, he seized it and ordered another man to pump. “You two go back and get another dram of water!” he said. “That way we can keep on hosing.”

  “Right,” said Billy, but before he turned to go something caught his eye. A figure came running through the flames with his clothes on fire. “Good God!” Billy said, horrified. As he watched, the runner stumbled and fell.

  Billy shouted at Jones: “Hose me!” Without waiting for acknowledgment, he ran into the tunnel. He felt a jet of water strike his back. The heat was terrible. His face hurt and his clothes smoldered. He grabbed the prone miner under the shoulders and pulled, running backward. He could not see the face but he could tell it was a boy of his own age.

  Jones kept the hose on Billy, soaking his hair, his back, and his legs, but the front of him was dry, and he could smell his skin scorching. He screamed in pain but managed to keep hold of the unconscious body. A second later he was out of the fire. He turned and let Jones spray his front. The water on his face was blessed relief: though he still hurt, it was bearable.

  Jones sprayed the boy on the floor. Billy turned him over and saw that it was Michael O’Connor, known as Micky Pope, the son of Pat. Pat had asked Billy to look out for him. Billy said: “Dear Jesus, have mercy on Pat.”

  He bent down and picked Micky up. The body was limp and lifeless. “I’ll take him to the shaft,” Billy said.

  “Aye,” said Jones. He was staring at Billy with an odd expression. “You do that, Billy boy.”

  Tommy went with Billy. Billy felt light-headed, but he was able to carry Micky. On the main road they encountered a rescue team with a pony pulling a small train of drams filled with water. They must have come from the surface, which meant the cage was operating and the rescue was now being properly managed, Billy reasoned wearily.

  He was right. As he reached the shaft, the cage arrived again and disgorged more rescuers in protective clothing and more drams of water. When the newcomers had dispersed, heading for the fire, the wounded began to board the cage, carrying the dead and unconscious.

  When Pat Pope had sent the cage up, Billy went to him, holding Micky in his arms.

  Pat stared at Billy with a terrified look, shaking his head in negation, as if he could deny the news.

  “I’m sorry, Pat,” said Billy.

  Pat would not look at the body. “No,” he said. “Not my Micky.”

  “I pulled him out of the fire, Pat,” said Billy. “But I was too bloody late, that’s all.” Then he began to cry.

  { VI }

  The dinner had been a great success in every way. Bea had been in a sparkling mood: she would have liked a royal party every week. Fitz had gone to her bed, and as he expected she had welcomed him. He stayed until morning, slipping away only just before Nina arrived with the tea.

  He was afraid the debate amongst the men might have been too controversial for a royal dinner, but he need not have worried. The king thanked him at breakfast, saying: “Fascinating discussion, very illuminating, just what I wanted.” Fitz had glowed with pride.

  Thinking it over as he smoked his after-breakfast cigar, Fitz realized that the thought of war did not horrify him. He had spoken of it as a tragedy, in an automatic way, but it would not be entirely a bad thing. War would unite the nation against a common enemy, and dampen the fires of unrest. There would be no more strikes, and talk of republicanism would be seen as unpatriotic. Women might even stop demanding the vote. And in a personal way he found himself strangely drawn to the prospect. War would be his chance to be useful, to prove his courage, to serve his country, to do something in return for the wealth and privilege that had been lavished on him all his life.

  The news from the pit, coming at midmorning, took the sparkle off the party. Only one of the guests actually went into Aberowen—Gus Dewar, the American. Nevertheless, they all had the feeling, unusual for them, of being far from the center of attention. Lunch was a subdued affair, and the afternoon’s entertainments were canceled. Fitz feared the king would be displeased with him, even though he had nothing to do with the operation of the mine. He was not a director or shareholder of Celtic Minerals. He merely licensed the mining rights to the company, which paid him a royalty per ton. So he felt sure that no reasonable person could possibly blame him for what had happened. Still, the nobility could not be seen to indulge in frivolous pursuits while men were trapped underground, especially when the king and queen were visiting. That meant that reading and smoking were just about the only acceptable pursuits. The royal couple were sure to be bored.

  Fitz was angered. Men died all the time: soldiers were killed in battle, sailors went down with their ships, railway trains crashed, hotels full of sleeping guests burned to the ground. Why did a pit disaster have to happen just when he was entertaining the king?

  Shortly before dinner Perceval Jones, mayor of Aberowen and chairman of Celtic Minerals, came to the house to brief the earl, and Fitz asked Sir Alan Tite whether the king might like to hear the report. His Majesty would, came the reply, and Fitz was relieved: at least the monarch had something to do.

  The male guests gathered in the small drawing room, an informal space with soft chairs and potted palms and a piano. Jones was wearing the black tailcoat he had undoubtedly put on for church this morning. A short, pompous man, he looked like a strutting bird in a double-breasted gray waistcoat.

  The king was in evening dress. “Good of you to come,” he said briskly.

  Jones said: “I had the honor of shaking Your Majesty’s hand in 1911, when you came to Cardiff for the investiture of the Prince of Wales.”

  “I’m glad to renew our acquaintanceship, though sorry it should happen in such distressing circumstances,” the king replied. “Tell me what happened in plain words, just as if you were explaining it to one of your fellow directors, over a drink at your club.”

  That was clever, Fitz thought; it set just the right tone—though no one offered Jones a drink, and the king did not invite him to sit down.

  “So kind of Your Majesty.” Jones spoke with a Cardiff accent, harsher than the lilt of the valleys. “There were two hundred and twenty men down the pit when the explosion occurred, fewer than normal as this is a special Sunday shift.”

  “You know the exact figure?” the king asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir, we note the name of each man going down.”

  “Forgive the interruption. Please carry on.”

  “Both shafts were damaged, but firefighting teams brought the blaze under control, with the help of our sprinkler system, and evacuated the men.” He looked at his watch. “As of two hours ago, two hundred and fifteen had been brought up.”

  “It sounds as if you have dealt with the emergency very efficiently, Jones.”

  “Thank you very much, Your Majesty.”

  “Are all the two hundred
and fifteen alive?”

  “No, sir. Eight are dead. Another fifty have injuries sufficiently serious to require a doctor.”

  “Dear me,” said the king. “How very sad.”

  As Jones was explaining the steps being taken to locate and rescue the remaining five men, Peel slipped into the room and approached Fitz. The butler was in evening clothes, ready to serve dinner. Speaking very low, he said: “Just in case it’s of interest, my lord . . . ”

  Fitz whispered: “Well?”

  “The maid Williams just came back from the pithead. Her brother was something of a hero, apparently. Whether the king might like to hear the story from her own lips . . . ?”

  Fitz thought for a moment. Williams would be upset, and might say the wrong thing. On the other hand, the king would probably like to speak to someone directly affected. He decided to take a chance. “Your Majesty,” he said. “One of my servants has just returned from the pithead, and may have more up-to-date news. Her brother was underground when the gas exploded. Would you care to question her?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the king. “Send her in, please.”

  A few moments later Ethel Williams entered. Her uniform was smudged with coal dust, but she had washed her face. She curtsied, and the king said: “What is the latest news?”

  “Please, Your Majesty, there are five men trapped in Carnation district by a fall of rock. The rescue team are digging through the debris but the fire is still burning.”

  Fitz noticed that the king’s manners with Ethel were subtly different. He had hardly looked at Perceval Jones, and had tapped a finger restlessly on the arm of his chair while listening; but he gave Ethel a direct look, and seemed more interested in her. In a softer voice, he asked: “What does your brother say?”

  “The explosion of firedamp set light to the coal dust, and that’s what’s burning. The fire trapped many of the men in their workplaces, and some suffocated. My brother and the others couldn’t rescue them because they had no breathing apparatus.”

  “That’s not so,” Jones said.

  “I think it is,” Gus Dewar contradicted him. As always, the American was a bit diffident in his manner, but he made an effort to speak insistently. “I spoke to some of the men coming up. They said the lockers marked ‘Breathing Apparatus’ turned out to be empty.” He seemed to be suppressing anger.