Wreckers Must Breathe

by Hammond Innes

  Anyway, that’s why I’m fussing over the mine. I’m also interested in this engineer from London—long lean fellow with horn-rimmed spectacles, thinning hair and what is thought to have been the makings of a Scotch accent. The name is Jesse Maclean. See what you can get?

  It was the landlord who put me on to Alf Davies. Davies is a Welshman, whatever, and was foreman of the Wheal Garth under Maclean. I thanked him and asked whether it would be possible to have a look over the mine. He said it was closed, but that Alf Davies would be able to tell me all about it.

  Davies is a proper little Welsh miner, short and broad, a bundle of muscle and vitality, with false teeth and a sour glum-looking face beaten brown by the wind. But for all his glumness, he’s got a sense of humour and smiles sometimes. When I asked him after tea this afternoon whether he could take me down Wheal Garth he said, ‘Indeed and I’d like to, but look you the mine is closed.’ I said there must surely be some way in and offered him a fiver for his trouble—please note for expenses! I saw him hesitate, for he is on the dole now, and then he said, ‘Well, if you’re so anxious that it’s worth that much to you to go down a lousy mine like Wheal Garth I can’t stop you. But there’s no dependence on the old workings whatever and it’s rough going, by damn it is.’ I said I didn’t mind, so it’s all fixed up. In due course I’ll let you know what happens. I must admit I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m expecting to find. It’s just that I’m curious.

  Yours,

  MAUREEN.

  Transcript of code wire from Detective-inspector Fuller to Superintendent McGlade at Scotland Yard, dispatched from Penzance at 3.15 p.m. on September 13:

  All information John Desmond Wilson mine owner and gold prospector please stop Formed Cornish Coastal Wilson Mines Ltd April thirty seven—Fuller.

  Transcript of a code wire from Superintendent McGlade to Detective-inspector Fuller at police station, Penzance, dispatched at 5.55 p.m. on September 13:

  Wilson born Dusseldorf ninety four naturalized British twenty two stop No police record stop Daily Recorder made similar inquiries today stop Intelligence officer meeting you in morning—McGlade.

  Letter from Maureen Weston posted at Penzance on the evening of September 14 and received by Charles Patterson of the Daily Recorder on the Friday afternoon:

  DEAR CHARLIE,

  Further to my report of September 13, I have examined the mine and quite frankly the experience was not a pleasant one. For one thing, you’ve no idea how eerie the place was. It reeked of water and the air was pretty stale. For another, my guide seemed to become rather uneasy when we reached the lower levels. I know that must sound silly—it does to me now I am sitting writing about it in the cosy warmth of my little bedroom. But, believe me, it is unpleasant enough going down a discarded Cornish tin mine without your guide getting scared. Perhaps ‘scared’ isn’t quite the right word. ‘Puzzled’ might be better—and yet he was more than just puzzled. He was quite confident when we started. After all, it was his mine, so to speak. But there are all sorts of funny noises in those empty galleries. The drip of water echoes and is magnified. There are strange creaking sounds where old props are taking a strain, queer glimpses of pale light where old shafts come down, the sound of falling stones, the weird echo of one’s own footsteps going up one gallery and coming back at one down another, and at the lower levels a faint roar as of water falling. I didn’t worry much about all these weird sounds until I sensed that Alf was uneasy. Then these sounds became so magnified in my imagination that at times I could have sworn we were being followed and at other times that the roof of the gallery was coming down.

  This probably reads rather like the hysterical blathering of a woman who has been thoroughly frightened by her first experience of going down a mine, so I had better begin at the beginning. To start with, I’ll go over my conversation with Alf Davies on the previous night in greater detail. When I asked him whether he could take me over the mine and he hesitated at the suggestion of a fiver, he told me one or two things. First, that so far as he knew the mine had not been entered since it had closed down in 1937. Second, that the new main shaft had been blocked at the bottom. Third, that the only possible means of getting into the mine was the way they had got into it when they opened it up in 1937. Fourth, that this entrance meant going through the old workings which were not particularly safe, and that to get into them necessitated climbing down an old half-ruined shaft with the aid of a rope. I must admit the prospect was not exactly encouraging, but I had made up my mind to have a look at the mine, so I put the best face I could on it and said I adored climbing down unsafe shafts on the end of a rope.

  Well, we left at eight-thirty this morning equipped with a coil of rope, a pair of electric torches and a packet of sandwiches apiece. Fortunately I had had the sense to bring a pair of old corduroy trousers with me on this assignment of yours so that I looked reasonably business-like. We walked for about a quarter of a mile through the waste of old mine workings opposite the cottage and then went through a gate and crossed a field. Thence through another gate on to the sort of heath that runs to the cliff edge. There were no mine chimneys here, but grass mounds and barrows pointed to old workings, and here and there were the small circular walls that marked a shaft. We struck away to the left along the wall that circled the field, pushing our way through a tangle of briars. We then came to a vague fork in the path and bore right, away from the wall. The ground here was covered with briar and heather—or heath, I never know which.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a frighteningly desolate spot. The ground about us was pock-marked with old workings, all overgrown and ruined. Some of the shafts had only pieces of rotting timber across them with a few lumps of rock thrown carelessly on top. One or two we passed were practically unprotected, with ferns growing out of the sides and very wet. Alf told me that the cattle quite often fall down these shafts. ‘Quite a good place for a murder,’ I said, wondering whether to make this the setting for my next book. But Alf—I’d told him what I did for a living—said, ‘Yes, indeed, it is creepy enough, but you would not get away with it.’ Apparently as soon as a carcase that has fallen down a shaft begins to rot the birds gather over it in clouds. That was the moment he chose to introduce me to the entrance to the old workings of Wheal Garth and I had an immediate vision of ravens and gulls and choughs wheeling in a monotonous screaming symphony of black and white over our decaying bodies.

  A more evil-looking spot than the entrance to those workings I cannot imagine. Out of a tangle of briars rose an old lichen-covered wall that was rapidly disintegrating. It was circular, like all the rest, and about twelve feet in diameter. And when I looked over, it was to peer down into a black wet pit surrounded by ferns and water-weed. ‘Do I have to go down that?’ I asked. At that he grinned. ‘Indeed and ye don’t have to, miss, it’s your own party.’

  I smiled a little weakly. He was right—I didn’t have to. Quite frankly I nearly walked out on him. However, I asked him whether he thought it was all right, and he said, ‘Yes, indeed, why not?’ And he seemed so confident about it and so matter-of-fact that I said nothing when he began looking around for a suitable rock to which he could secure the rope.

  By the way, I think I owe you an apology for writing you such long screeds when from your own point of view there is very little news in them. But I am regarding these daily reports to you as a sort of diary, and whatever material you don’t use I shall probably incorporate in a book.

  Well, he secured the rope to a good-sized rock, clambered over the wall and dropped the other end of it down the shaft. He then asked me whether I thought I was capable of climbing down the rope or if it would be better for him to lower me down. When I discovered that if he lowered me it would necessitate my going down first and waiting at the bottom alone, I decided to risk the climb. The depth of the shaft was apparently only a matter of thirty or forty feet. As he lowered his legs into the shaft he looked up at me and said, ‘Don’t ye mind about anything
else but the rope.’ I asked him what he meant and he grinned and quoted, ‘Fra’ ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties. I’m not saying there mayn’t be a bat or two down here,’ he explained. ‘Just you remember to hang on to the rope.’ Then he caught hold of the rope and disappeared. It was a good start.

  I could hear his feet scrabbling against the uneven stone sides of the shaft, and several times stones clattered down into the depths, making a hollow unreal sound. Then the rope went slack and his voice came up the shaft, deep and cavernous. I climbed over the wall and sat down with my legs dangling over the edge of the shaft. And there I remained for what seemed an age. I suppose it was, in fact, only a few seconds, but I thought I should be rooted there for ever. There were large ferns in the shaft and the stone sides were all slimy with water. And there were little noises that I could not recognize.

  The feeling I had sitting on top of that shaft was horribly primitive. It’s funny. I wouldn’t have minded going down a new shaft. In fact, I shouldn’t have hesitated. We’re quite accustomed to going underground. We do it every day in London. But when the shaft leading underground is shorn of its civilized trappings you suddenly realize that when you descend you will be going under ground.

  Then Alf’s voice came floating up to me again, and I knew it was very little different from the first bathe of the season and that the sooner I got on with it the better. So, before I could change my mind and start panicking again, I had swung my legs over, gripped the rope with my feet and was lowering away. Strange as it may seem, it wasn’t as unpleasant as I had expected, chiefly, I imagine, because my whole attention was concentrated on the task of keeping hold of the rope. I thought my arms would never stand it. I couldn’t come down gripping the rope with my feet because it swung close to the wall and was apt to rub my nose against the slimy water-weed. I had to let my arms take the strain and brace my feet against the many crevices that I found in the side. There were quite a number of cobwebs and I’m sure that I should have hated it if I’d had a torch. But as soon as I had got about ten feet down it was quite impossible to see a thing except the glaring white circle of daylight at the top, and this gradually diminished in size. Once, I did encounter a bat, but by that time I was too concerned about whether or not I should ever last out till the bottom to worry about it. It fluttered about for a few moments and then settled again. I think it was dark enough for it to see me and avoid me. What I should have done if it had flown in my face I don’t know.

  Just as I thought my arms would be wrenched from their sockets, I felt Alf’s hand grip me and I stepped down on to the level floor of the shaft. ‘Ye ought to come to Wales and do some real climbing,’ he said. It was a compliment which I felt I had deserved. I moved my feet and immediately there was a dry rattle. I flashed my torch and stared a little uncomfortably at the skeleton of what I presumed had once been a cow.

  Alf switched his torch on and disappeared along a wet stale-smelling tunnel that gradually sloped at a steeper and steeper angle. I followed him. It was rather like exploring a long cave. There was little to show that the walls had been cut by human hands. They were rough and not hewn to any definite shape. Here and there were slight falls that had to be negotiated, sometimes with considerable difficulty, and the floor was irregular and strewn with stones that made it treacherous. In places it was like the bed of a stream. Alf told me that he believed these particular workings dated back more than two centuries. I could well believe it. But the thought that they had stood for that long comforted me. In one part, however, there had been a particularly bad fall and for a time we thought we should not be able to get through. But by removing one or two rocks we were able to crawl under it on our hands and knees. Alf spent some time examining this fall, and when I asked him what he was up to, he said he was just wondering what had caused it.

  After about half an hour’s very uncomfortable travelling, mostly down a sharp incline, we suddenly struck the level and the roof rose so that we could walk upright. We had reached the more recent workings. My back ached abominably. However, from then onwards the going was much less difficult.

  Now this is what I want to impress upon you. The unpleasant part was over. We had left the old workings. The workings we were in now were quite safe—that is as mines go down this part of the world. Yet we hadn’t progressed more than a hundred yards into these new workings before I began to feel uneasy. That sounds daft, I know. But the fact remains that throughout our scramble through the old workings it had seemed rather fun—an adventure. Now I didn’t like it.

  The reason, I am convinced, was Alf. He was the guide and he had been so assured coming through the old workings that I had complete confidence in him. It was his mine and I felt he ought to know his way about it like his own house. But my reliance on him made me very susceptible to his mood, and I was not slow in sensing what I think was a certain bewilderment—the sort of feeling one has if one is not sure of the way out. Its effect on me was to produce an immediate sense of uneasiness. I became jittery and all the unfamiliar little sounds about me—the drip of water, the rattle of stones and the echo of our movements—became magnified in the stillness.

  I didn’t get as frightened as all that at once. It was cumulative. It started when we came to a point in the more recent workings where the water that ran down from the old workings, and it was deep enough now to be over our ankles in places, was diverted from what I believe is known as a winze. This is a sharp slope going down from one level to the next, and a little wall of stones had been erected across it and cemented together so that the water continued along the level on which we stood. Alf examined this artificial barrier for a moment in the light of his torch. He even bent down and felt the cement with his hand. Then we splashed on along the level and heard the sound of falling water. It was a faint splashy sound, and suddenly we came to the end of the level.

  At this point the gallery was wide enough for us to walk abreast and I got rather an unpleasant shock when in the light of the torch I saw that the floor level simply vanished. We could hear the splash of water on rock many feet below. There was no ceiling either. In fact the level ran out into an old shaft that was blocked at the top.

  I don’t know why the discovery that the level just ended in a sheer drop should have upset me so much. I think there must always be something very unpleasant about finding a sheer drop underground. Probably it is the immediate and involuntary feeling that if one had no torch and stumbled on it in the dark one would now be lying at the bottom where the water was splashing. I felt rather foolish really, because quite automatically I had clutched at Alf’s arm—and as a one-time Fleet Street woman I pride myself on being tougher than most females. I mean, damn it, one knows quite well that mine shafts are put down and levels cut at various depths.

  We retraced our steps and went down the winze into the next level. At the bottom we turned left until we came to what Alf described as a cross-cut. We took this and at the end turned right. By this time I was feeling an uncomfortable desire to cling on to his arm. With all these bewildering turns and the memory of that drop into the old shaft, I was terrified of being separated from him. I remembered all sorts of ghoulish stories about the catacombs of Rome, and pictured myself wandering alone in the place till I either died of starvation or killed myself by falling down a shaft in the dark. It was from this point, I think, that I began to get really frightened of the dark. It seemed to press in on us from every side as though endeavouring to muffle our torches. The air was warm and stale and damp, and the echo of our footsteps had an unpleasant habit of coming back at us down the disused galleries long after we had moved.

  Quite often now Alf would pause and listen, with his head cocked on one side. I asked him once whether he was listening for ghosts, thinking of the miners who had been trapped. But he didn’t smile. His round craggy face was set and taciturn. Every time we paused we could hear that faint roar, as of an underground waterfall, and the echo of footsteps came whispering back at us. It was th
en I began to feel that we were being followed. I no longer felt sure it was the echo of our own footsteps. Again I remembered the men who had lost their lives in that disaster ten years ago. We were nearing that section of the mine and I began to see in every shadow the ghost of a dead miner. Once I cried out at my own shadow cast against a wall of rock ahead of me. I tell you, I was really frightened.

  By this time we had descended another winze and Alf announced in a whisper that we had reached the lowest level in this section of the mine. And a second later down the gallery behind came the whisper—‘the lowest level in this section of the mine’—with the sibilants all magnified. It was uncanny. There was a good deal of timber in this section, not all of it sound. Much of it was green and beginning to rot. Once I stumbled on a piece of rock and clutched at a prop to save myself from falling. The outer surface of the wood crumbled in my hand, all wet and sloppy.

  Then we came to the bricked up foot of the new shaft. We bore away to the left along a gallery in which the timber was still grey and sound. The gallery sloped downwards and curved away to the right. Sections of rail still lay along the floor and the roar of distant water was much louder. The sound was peculiar and distorted, more like a hum, as though a rushing cataract were pouring through a narrow gorge. Remembering the disaster, I felt that at any moment we might be overwhelmed by a wall of water, though Alf assured me we were still well above sea level. My nerves were completely gone.

  At length the gallery flattened out and branched into three. Alf hesitated, and then took the right-hand branch. The sound of water became even louder. The gallery here was very well built. It was about seven feet wide and the same high, and in places it was cemented to keep out the water. Then suddenly we rounded a bend and came face to face with the most ghastly-looking fall. The whole of the roof had simply caved in and the gallery was blocked by great chunks of rock that looked as though they might have been part of Stonehenge. It suddenly made me realize that it is possible to get trapped in even the soundest-seeming galleries.