They tried to work out their position first in relation to the world they remembered. But that world was lost and they could not even agree exactly where it had been. Then in relation to each other? Pilotti said someone lay across his legs. Charley Beard said, 'That's me, Benno'."
Pilotti knew some warm liquid was flowing near his knee. He guessed it was blood. Whose blood he was not sure so he did not mention it.
Elisha Thomas touched no one, he said. But Arthur Cole insisted that he touched Elisha, and they argued.
Wesley could tell he lay on his back and someone's sharp bone was beneath one shoulder. Arthur said it was his knee and he did not find it comfortable, either.
They discussed all this thoroughly until they began to repeat too much.
Then Arthur remarked that they had air and Elisha snorted. It was obvious that they had air.
"Not going to suffocate, I mean," Arthur insisted. His voice—all that could be known of him—was querulous.
"Nah," said Elisha, wheezing and sawing. "We breathe, boys, till we die. It's not coal, neyther. Gases there. Poisons."
"It's good it's not coal," said Wesley's cheerful tenor.
The rich music of Pilotti's voice began to recite some litany, softly. The others listened. Wesley felt his hair stir in superstitious dismay. It did not seem to be his father's God to whom the Catholic man was pleading. Yet Charley Beard, a staunch Methodist, said "Amen," in his high voice. He had a voice like a woman. A little man, Charley, who had looked more frail than he was in the past time, the long ago, when he could be seen.
Elisha wheezed.
"Don't move," said Arthur alarmed. "Wlio is moving? What you doing?"
"Feelin' for my pail, bit of that there pie would go good."
"It would," Charley said with a sucking sound.
"You won't find it."
"Found it," rumbled Elisha. " 'Ad it in my 'and. I thought so."
"You got two 'ands?" Charley said tremulously.
"So far," said Elisha. "Two 'ands and a mouth—all that's needful." In the silence came the pop of a tin lid.
"I'd give it you," Elisha said.
"No."
"No."
"No thanks," said Wesley politely.
Couldn't pass a piece of pie without seeing it and nobody knowing where another's hand was.
Elisha's eating was loud and comforting in the black dark.
Pilotti kept on praying. It seemed to Wesley to be a soft patter, a song without a tune. It was not like the soul-searching effort of Captain Trezona, who often led prayer at church, for his voice was good and he was able.
Pilotti must be in pain, Wesley thought with surprise, examining the sound that was all he could know of the other man now—the middle-aged, black-haired Italian he scarcely knew at all.
Arthur Cole's fingers searched carefully around him as far as they could reach. His hand touched Wesley's.
"Who's that?"
"Trezona."
"Don't move."
"I can't much. Timber above me."
"All right." Arthur's cold fingers walked away. "Hey, I'm lying on the pipe."
"Well, then!" Elisha was sharp.
"It'll lead out." Pilotti broke off his prayer and his voice went up an octave. "Hit it—bang on it—make noise—go on —tell 'em we're in here."
"Wait a minute—I will. I will. Wait a minute."
Then, covering their quick excited breathing and the wispy sound of gentle water that was always around them, the only sound in the world became that bang, bang, bang on the pipe. For it was a bang to tliem. A hard, loud racket. So tremendous a noise it must resound like thunder somewhere.
"My ear! My ear! Right on it," gasped Wesley. "You're pounding directly in my ear."
"No help for that. Listen." Cole stopped, but there was nothing. Nothing but breath and that soft, malicious whispering of seeping moisture. Or, if sound, it was so far away that it was hardly sound at all but more like pressure. Something felt on the flesh—soft, blob-like—not reaching the sharp instrument of the ear.
Pilotti tried to believe that blood was water—for it did not stop spreading and soaking—but he knew it was too warm to be water.
Arthur Cole's wrist began to ache, but he kept up the pounding on the pipe stubbornly, doggedly, forever, until, in the clap of silence as he stopped to shift the rock in his cramped fingers, they all heard the answer.
Hearts leaped like five fish swarming up to feed. The fact of communication seemed to legalize the expression of hope.
"They'll 'ave us out of 'ere," Charley chirped, "yet! Captain Trezona, 'e's a smart one . . ."He coughed with excitement.
"Pa'll do it," Wesley said. " 'E'll never quit."
"Nah, never," Elisha said. "Not 'im."
And then Wesley was crying in the dark, his face soaked by the silent tears. "Ah, Pa. Ah, Pa," for his heart swelled and shook to hear Pa praised in this black place. And Pilot-ti's prayer was a murmuring obbligato to the paean of the heart.
Arthur said, "Shut up! Listen! What's that? Must be pulling this pipe open . . . eh? Don't you say?"
Far away in the world the vibration began but they were well aware of it.
"Somebody's yelling. Listen to that."
"I can hear," gasped Wesley, "but I can't make out what he says."
It was alive. It was a living voice, little they cared what it said. Pain, where there was pain, was forgotten, and Arthur banged merrily. Yet smce they lived by the ear alone now, thev could not help straining to understand.
When the slow-paced sound of Duncane's voice began to come creeping to them, it was very different. Nothing was left of it but the vowels really and the tune the syllables played. "Ow . . . en . . . ee . . . n . . . a . . . iive , . . ?" They scanned it and at last they read it and they answered.
"Wants to know 'ow many's alive,"
"Well, tell 'im! Tell 'im!"
They kept answering.
"Ow . . . en . . . ee . . . urr . . . ?"
"What's 'e after?"
It took them some time.
"Hurt," gasped Pilotti. "Hurt. He wants to know how many is hurt."
"Well, tell 'im! Tell 'im!"
"Well, 'ow many, then?" asked Elisha solemnly.
"I don't think I'm hurt much," said Wesley, diffidently. "I don't feel anything. Timber on my thigh aches me."
"Nothing wrong with me," said Arthur truculently. "You O.K., Charley?"
"I'm fine," said Charley feebly.
"He ain't fine," groaned Pilotti. "Nor me. That's two of us."
"I been better," said Elisha dr}ly. "You might say I was 'urt, boys, to be honest . . ."
"Three," tapped Arthur then. It sobered them to know that three of them were hurt.
But when Arthur cried "He got it!" then they were jubilant again.
no
" 'E's talkin', be still!"
"What now?"
The distance pushed and throbbed but the vowels came on the pipe.
"Says they'll get us out. Out! That's what it is! Going to get us out, he says!"
"Ah."
"And they'll do it!"
"Never quit!"
"Be able to hear them soon. . . ."
"Should be."
They were pleased. The pleasure they felt was innocent and satisfying. What was it to lie in the dark awhile? Why nothing much when work was going, men were doing, striving. None of them said he had any doubt. Not one.
In another part of the world. Captain Gideon Trezona bent his head and spoke aloud, beseeching God. The words were his own but they fell into Bible music for the man loved the Book and knew it well. So his words drew on centuries of memories of reverence, and they rang in that cavernous place. No man within the sound of them refused to bow his head or say "Amen,"
After that the captain did not so much as turn his face away from the work in progress. His blue eye was keen, his voice quick, his attention sharp on everything. This was no job for anyone but a master. The men went warily but as
he sent them, for he was a master.
McKeever said to Gilchrist, "Do you judge they're going in at the best angle?"
"I?" Gilchrist put out his palms. "Leave it to Trezona. Have to." Under his hatbrim his nervous eyes shifted.
Davies said, "I think he's allowing for too much side-slip. After all, they're alive. They couldn't have shifted far. I don't like . . ."
"Then you tell him you don't like it," Gilchrist snapped. "I'm willing to let him alone."
"He should know best," McKeever murmured. "A good man,"
"He'll kill himself to get the boy out/' Gilchrist said. "If anybody can do it."
Davies said, "That's what I don't like."
"What's on your mind?" the Old Man asked.
"Get Captain Jacka's idea." Davies made a gesture.
"If Trezona thinks . . ,"
"But does he?" muttered Davies. "I'd like to see you ask Captain Jacka, who is a good man too."
McKeever said, "Jacka's under Trezona."
"Let Trezona alone," said Gilchrist impatiently. "He'll get that boy out, God willing."
Davies closed his lips. He felt he was being of no use so he left that place.
Henry Duncane was leaving the spot where the pipe had been opened when Davies came along.
"Poor devils," Davies said when he heard. "Well, they'll get out alive or they won't get out alive. Can't see, myself, how the man can think straight when his head's full of begging the Mercy of God to save his own son. . . ."
"Whose son?"
"Trezona's. He's in there. Don't you know? Marcom, Pilotti, Cole, Beard and Trezona."
Henry stopped walking.
"Yeah. It's been checked," Davies assured him.
"Trezona, Beard, Marcom, Pilotti and Arthur Cole?"
"That's right." Davies sounded angry. "Trezona's a smart miner and all that. But look at the Will of God. All right. So it's the Will of God, or something, that if a thing isn't held up it falls down. Isn't that so?"
"Seems so," said Henry.
They stepped on the cage to ascend.
"All right," said Davies in a low, rapid voice. "Then the old boy's got the drive and he'd kill himself, as Gilchrist says, to get the boy out. But, by golly, it takes a cold brain and you know it ... to figure out the Will of God. . . . And where is the cold brain?"
"In Trezona's head, as usual," said Henry calmly.
"Aaah," said Davies. "People don't work that way."
"What are you driving at?" Henry seemed distracted.
"Listen ... if you're too scared or too damned anxious, your brain's not going to work right."
"Why not?"
"It can't, that's all. People make all kinds of fools of themselves. . . ."
"Henry said, "Some people—"
"Well—"
"Is Trezona scared?"
Davies fidgeted. "He's got to be, bound to be, one way or another. It'll do something to him, affect his judgment."
"What it'll do depends on the man."
"Maybe," said Davies gloomily. "But Captain Jacka isn't even down there and I don't know if it's wise to leave the whole thing to Trezona under the circumstances."
They stepped off. The night sky was clear with many stars. They stood and looked up as if someone had pointed.
"What I know about mining," Henry said, "you can put in a thimble. I suppose there is a time factor."
"Quicker the better, that's pretty clear."
"It's a gamble?"
"Yeah, sure. Speed, direction, guessing right. Maybe Trezona can weigh all that, and maybe riobody can. I guess it's if God is willing, as Gilchrist says." Davies was nervous and a little sheepish.
"It's Trezona's job." Henry began to walk up the hill briskly.
"Yeah, poor old devil, to have that on his back, too."
"Poor what.'" Henry broke his stride. He was astonished. "Pity him if it wasn't," he snapped.
Davies tagged at Henry's heels, "Well ... I don't know. But I still don't see how he can think straight."
"Simple," said Henry. "He's got to."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Through the darkest part of that night there were houses Ht in the town of Thor. Not all. Many households would not know until morning what shadow lay on the town and lay darkest on the houses where the lights were burning.
At the Trezonas' the kitchen was very warm and filled with savor)' smells. Eedie and Dorothy had worked long and hard baking as many pasties as they could find ingredients to make.
A Cornish pasty ('a' as in man) is a heap of cut-up beef and potatoes, carrots and onions, turnips and parsley, seasoning and suet, all wrapped around in piecrust, folded over and buttoned along a curve by pinching fingers, stabbed with a fork to let the steam out, and baked in the oven. It is a complete meal to hold in the hand. A Cornishman will eat one hot, cold or lukewarm. Many a pasty has gone down a mine.
When Eedie took the pasties hot and fragrant out of the oven, she wrapped them carefully and packed them into a box.
Dickie would deliver them.
He was young to go off at three in the morning by himself on such a night to such a place. But Eedie consented. He was the one to go. It was not so far as it would seem in the night. He would come to no harm. It was a task for him, a good helpful thing that he could do.
She filled as many thermos jugs as she had with strong hot tea and milk. She saw that his jacket was buttoned.
He set off marching with the burden. She saw him begin to scamper before the dimness swallowed him.
She turned back into the house. The kitchen was already
tidy. Nothing to do? Tlie little boy was on his errand but Eedie could not think of anything now to keep her daughter occupied.
Dorothy was not in the kitchen. Eedie peered through and saw that she was sitting on the black leather couch in the dining-room corner. As her mother watched, Dorothy toppled sleepily,
Eedie was thankful. Quietly she waited and when the time came, she laid a coverlet over the sleeping girl. Worn out, she thought tenderly.
Now she was alone.
She made her way into the dark parlor, a room they used only on the most formal occasions. From here a window let her see out to the west. She could distinguish the tip of West Thor shafthouse, and she could see the road to West Thor Mine.
She settled and looked out. The night grew lighter to her sight. The stars were fine.
Eedie Trezona prayed and feared God. She could see the world wheel through space. How small it was, the little world! How vast the heaven! And in simplicity she thought that God must have so much to attend to. If he, in His Wisdom, took Wesley so young, He wouldn't have the time, the need, or any obligation to lay bare before one little, limited, human woman the meaning of this in all His vast eternal purposes.
What He would do, she could not know. And never why.
Wliere the light burned, at the Coles', Madeline sat with her head on her arms, arms on the dining-room table.
''How long will it be?" she said through her teeth. "How long will it take?"
"Nobody knows." Cyril shrugged.
"How can we hear? Who will call us or tell us?"
"Don't know." 1 m gomg.
"Don't go."
"Can't stand waiting here."
"Better wait here."
"No, I don't think so." She rolled her head.
"Don't fuss," said Cyril.
She lifted her head, sat up and pushed at her hair.
"You're a mess," he told her.
"Naturally." She bit down on her teeth, hard. "If it gets light and we haven't heard anything, I'm going to take your car whether you like it or not." Her lids were puffy, she looked sullen and angry.
Cyril didn't want to play. The old game of baiting each other, of insult and contempt, had no appeal. He shrugged.
"Be a mistake," he said.
He was thinking of the struggle going on under the ground. He was thinking how the townspeople would wake and find this over them. He was thinking there would n
ot remain one living soul, except the youngest of the children, who would not know and be thereafter thinking about the struggle, and he wondered what the concentration of so much attention did. Did it affect anything, or not?
His sister said, "Why? Why a mistake just to go nearer? I don't care if it doesn't look dignified. I can't help that."
He looked at her. To bait her was a strong habit and she asked for it. "You'll convince nobody," he told her sourly.
"My husband's down there dying!" she shrieked.
Cyril smiled and turned his cigar.
"You're a monster," his sister said hoarsely. "You're a monster."
"Not I," said Cyril. "I'm only telling you. Better stay here and keep quiet."
She got up and began to walk restlessly nowhere. "What's it like down there?"
"Don't know. Not nice."
"Dark?"
"Probably."
"Cold?"
He shrugged.
"Cyril, how could they be buried and not, not crushed?"
"Miracle." He looked up sideways.
"Can they be saved?"
"It's been done."
"I don't suppose you know anything about it," she said wearily. "Who does?"
"Don't know."
"What a comfort you are!" She was blazing again.
"Keep it up. Keep snarhng. You don't hke waiting. You want to know right now, whether you're going to be a widow or not. Go on. Cut your own throat."
"What!"
"Unbecoming," he snapped.
She began to weep.
"That's a httle better," he said coldly.
"Monster," she sobbed. "You don't under—"
". . . stand," he mocked. "Don't understand. Cut it out, Maddy. Don't waste it on me. And you've got to wait like everybody else."
She was sobbing, bending over the table again.
"Although it's hard on your nerves, I know," he said nastily.
"Oh . . ." she turned her head sideways and was quiet.
"Cyril," she said in a minute, her wide eyes staring at the wall, "they're all together?"
The trouble in Thor Page 12
