Thunder & Roses Page 11

  Seeing the mischievous gleam in her eyes, he said promptly, "At least that is turning out well. Look at the splendid opportunity for Christian martyrdom that I'm giving you."

  Their gazes met, and they both burst out laughing. Damn, but he liked this woman and her tart sense of humor. She was more than capable of holding her own against him.

  They both sobered as they reached the grim buildings. He asked, "What's the ghastly racket coming from that big shed?"

  "The coal is being screened and graded. Most of the above-ground employees work in there."

  He brushed at the smudges appearing on his white cuff. "It also appears to be the source of the coal dust that covers everything in sight."

  "Since you like wearing black, you shouldn't mind." She gestured toward a shed. "We can leave the horses here."

  As they dismounted, a compact, muscular man came forward. Clare said, "Lord Aberdare, this is Owen Morris."

  "Owen!" Nicholas held out his hand. Raising his voice to be heard over the noise of machinery and rattling coal, he said, "Clare didn't mention the name of my guide."

  The miner smiled and shook hands. "I wasn't sure you would recognize me after all these years."

  "How could I forget you? I showed other boys how to tickle trout, but you're the only one who ever developed a real knack for it. Is Marged well?"

  "Aye. Even lovelier than when we married," Owen said fondly. "It's pleased she'll be that you remember her."

  "She was well worth remembering. Of course, I scarcely dared say hello to her, for fear that you'd break my neck." As he spoke, Nicholas studied his old friend's face. Under the coal dust Owen had the usual miner's pallor, but he seemed healthy and happy. Even as a boy, he had had an enviable inner serenity.

  Owen said, "You'd best change to pit dress. It would be a pity to ruin your fancy London clothes."

  Nicholas obediently followed Owen into a shed and stripped off his outer clothing, then put on a shirt, loose jacket, and sturdy trousers similar to what Owen wore. Though the coarse flannel garments had been carefully washed, they were still impregnated with ancient grime. He grinned as he added a heavily padded felt hat to complete the outfit. His London tailor would have vapors at the sight of him.

  "Knot these through a buttonhole," Owen ordered as he handed over two candles. "Do you have flint and steel?"

  Nicholas did, but if he hadn't been reminded, he would have left them in his own coat. As he transferred the tinderbox to the pocket of his flannel jacket, he said, "Anything else?"

  The miner scooped a handful of soft clay from a wooden box and used it to form a lump around the base of two candles. "Take one of these. When we have to crawl, you can use the clay to fix the candle to your hat."

  They went outside and found Clare waiting, also dressed in pit costume. In the baggy garments, she looked like a young boy.

  "You're coming with us?" Nicholas asked with surprise.

  "It won't be my first trip down pit," she said coolly.

  With a surge of irrational protectiveness, he wanted to forbid her to go, though he had the sense to hold his tongue. Not only had he no right to give Clare orders, but she had more experience with mines than he did. And, judging by her expression, she'd probably bite him if he tried to stop her. He smiled to himself. Not that he'd mind being bitten, but this wasn't the time or place.

  They had to circle around the whim gin to reach the pit mouth. The gin was a huge spindle that resembled a water wheel lying on its side. Turned by a team of horses, it powered the squealing pulleys that hung over the main shaft.

  As they approached, a heaping basket of coal reached the top of the shaft. Two laborers swung the load to one side and dumped the contents into a wagon. As the coal rumbled into the wagon, an older man came out of a hut. "This your visitor, Owen?"

  "Aye. Lord Aberdare, this is Mr. Jenkins, the banksman. He's in charge of all that goes in or comes out of the pit."

  Nicholas offered his hand. After a startled moment, the banksman took it, gave a hasty shake, then touched the brim of his hat. "An honor, my lord."

  "On the contrary—visiting the pit is my privilege. I'll try to stay out of people's way." He surveyed the open shaft. "How do we get down?"

  Mr. Jenkins braked one of the pulleys to a halt and gave a rusty chuckle. "Light your candle from the one in the hut, then grab hold of the rope, my lord."

  Looking closer, Nicholas saw that the rope had a cluster of loops attached at varying levels. "Good God, that's how people come and go from the pit? I thought that metal cages were the usual method."

  "In modern mines, they are," Clare answered.

  But Penreith was primitive and unsafe, which was why Nicholas was here. He watched Owen light his candle, then step into a loop and sit down, one hand casually holding the rope. Acutely aware that he was leaning over a sheer drop of hundreds of feet, Nicholas did the same. He felt that he was being tested. Being a peer of the realm counted for nothing here if he didn't have the courage to do what every miner did daily.

  Settling into the loop was nowhere as difficult as watching Clare do the same. As she stepped out over the abyss, Nicholas again had to clamp down on his protective instincts.

  With a creak, the pulley began to turn and they dropped into the darkness, hanging from the rope like a cluster of onions. The candle flames swayed wildly as smoky air rushed past them. They revolved as they descended and Nicholas wondered if miners ever got dizzy and fell. Clare was perched slightly above him, so he kept his gaze on her slim back. If she had showed any signs of imbalance, he would have grabbed hold of her instantly. But she was as calm as if she were taking tea by her own hearth.

  As the light at the top of the shaft diminished, he saw that a red dot below them was expanding. Earlier Clare had mentioned that a fire burned at the bottom of the shaft as part of the ventilation system. That explained the smoke and heat of the air rising around them; in effect, they were going down a chimney.

  He glanced down again and saw that the fire had partially disappeared, obscured by a huge black object that was hurtling upward at lethal speed. Instinctively he tensed, though God only knew what he could do to prevent a collision.

  With an explosive impact of air, the object whipped by them, missing Owen by inches. The miner didn't even blink. Nicholas expelled his breath with relief when he saw that it was only a basket of coal. Still, if the rope that held them had swayed more, one of them might have been struck. The mine definitely needed a steam winding engine and lift cages.

  After about two minutes their descent slowed and they came to a halt several feet to one side of the roaring ventilation fire. As they unlooped themselves from the rope, Nicholas saw that they were in a large gallery. Several feet away, dust-blackened figures were loading another basket for lifting. He remarked, "This place bears a distinct similarity to the infernal regions your father used to describe with such relish."

  Clare smiled a little. "I should think you'd feel at home here, Old Nick."

  He smiled back, but one thing he did not feel was at home. The Romany half of him had always craved fresh air and open spaces, both of which were in short supply in a pit. He coughed and blinked his stinging eyes, remembering why curiosity had never led him to come down here when he was a boy.

  "We'll go to the western coal face," Owen said. "It's not so busy at that end, so you'll be able to see more."

  Half a dozen tunnels led from the main gallery. While crossing to the one that would take them to their destination, they dodged small wheeled wagons full of coal. "That's a corf," Owen explained as the first rolled by, pushed by two adolescent boys. "Holds five hundredweight of coal. The lads who push are called putters. Larger pits have rails for the corves—makes the work easier."

  They entered a passage, Owen in the lead, followed by Clare, with Nicholas bringing up the rear. The roof was not quite high enough for Nicholas to stand erect. He became conscious of a damp, stony smell that was quite different from the earthy scent of a newly
plowed field.

  Over his shoulder, Owen said, "Gas is a great problem. Chokedamp collects in the bottom of abandoned workings that will suffocate you. Firedamp is worse because it explodes. When it gets too thick, there's a fellow who crawls in and sets fire to the gas, then lies down and lets the flames run over him."

  "Jesus, that sounds suicidal!"

  Owen glanced over his shoulder, "It is, but that doesn't mean you should take the Lord's name in vain. Even if you are a lord," he added with a faint twinkle.

  "You know I've always been a profane sort, but I'll try to watch my tongue," Nicholas promised. It occurred to him that Clare must also find his language offensive. Perhaps he should start swearing in Romany. "Now that you mention it, I've heard of burning gas off, but I thought the practice had been abandoned because of the danger."

  "This is a very traditional mine, my lord," Owen said dryly.

  "If you're going to scold me for bad language, you have to start calling me Nicholas again." He wiped his forehead with the flanneled back of a wrist. "Is it my imagination, or is it warmer here than on the surface?"

  "It's not your imagination," Clare answered. "The deeper the mine, the warmer the temperature." She glanced over her shoulder. "Closer to the infernal regions, you know."

  Nicholas's smile lasted until his foot came down on a soft object that shrieked, then shot away with a scrabble of claw.As he struggled to regain his balance, he bashed his head into the ceiling and doubled over swearing. In Romany.

  Clare turned back in concern. "Are you all right?"

  He tested his head gingerly. "The padded hat seems to have saved me from bashing my brains out. What did I step on?"

  She touched his forehead with a cool hand. "Probably a rat. There's plenty of them down here."

  Owen, who had also stopped, added, "A bold lot, too. Sometimes they snatch food right from the lads' hands."

  Moving forward again, Nicholas said, "Has anyone considered bringing down a cat?"

  "There are several, and they lead fat, happy lives," Clare said. "But there are always more rats and mice."

  A faint metallic rattle sounded ahead of them, and as they came around a bend Nicholas saw that a metal door ahead blocked the tunnel. Owen called, "Huw, open the door."

  The door swung open with a creak and a small boy, perhaps six years old, stuck his head out. "Mr. Morris!" he said with pleasure. "It's been that long since I've seen you."

  Owen stopped and ruffled the boy's hair. "I've been working the face on the east side. How's life as a trapper?"

  Huw said wistfully, "It's easy, but it do grow lonesome sitting in the dark all day. And I do not like the rats, sir, not at all."

  Owen took one of his spare candles and lit it, then handed it to the child. "Your da won't let you have a candle?"

  Huw shook his head. "He says they're too dear for a child who only earns fourpence a day."

  Nicholas frowned. The boy was working in this black hellhole for only four pennies a day? Appalling.

  Owen dug a boiled sweet out of his pocket and gave it to Huw. "I'll see you when we return."

  They moved through the door and continued down the passage. When they were out of earshot, Nicholas said, "What the hell is a child that young doing down here?"

  "His father wants the money," Clare said in a hard voice. "Huw's mother is dead and his father, Nye Wilkins, is a drunken, greedy brute who brought the boy down pit when he was only five."

  "Half the miners owe their allegiance to the chapel, the other half to the tavern," Owen added. "Five years ago, our Clare stood up in chapel and said that children belonged in school, not the pit. Quite a discussion there was, but before the day was done, every man in Zion chapel had promised not to put his children to work before the age of ten."

  "It would take a brave man to face her down. I wish I'd been there," Nicholas commented. "Well done, Clare."

  "I do what I can," she said bleakly, "but it's never enough. There are at least a dozen boys Huw's age in the pit. They act as trappers, sitting in the dark all day by those doors that control how air moves through the shafts."

  They passed a shaft that had a length of timber nailed across it. Nicholas asked, "Why is this tunnel blocked off?"

  Owen paused. "At the end, the rock changes suddenly and the coal vein disappears." His brows drew together. "Odd that it's blocked—there are plenty of dead shafts."

  "Maybe the chokedamp is particularly bad in this tunnel," Clare suggested.

  "Likely that's it," Owen said.

  They continued on, flattening themselves against the craggy walls whenever a corf was pushed by. Eventually they reached the end of the shaft. In a narrow, irregularly shaped space, a dozen men were laboring with picks and shovels. After brief, incurious glances at the newcomers, they proceeded with their work.

  "These are hewers," Owen said. "They're working long-wall, which means that as coal is removed, the waste stone goes behind them and the props are moved forward to support the work space."

  They watched in silence. Soft clay was used to fix candles in various spots, leaving the hewers' hands free. Each had a corf sitting behind him to hold his coal, since a hewer was paid for the amount he cut. Nicholas was fascinated at the way the men contorted their bodies to get at the coal. Some knelt, one lay on his back, still another was doubled over so that he could undercut the bottom of the seam.

  His gaze lingered on the hewer at the very end of the shaft. In an undertone, he said, "That fellow down there has no candle. How can he see to work?"

  "He doesn't," Clare replied. "Blethyn is blind."

  "Are you serious?" Nicholas said incredulously. "Surely a pit is too dangerous for a blind man. And how can he tell if he's cutting coal or waste?"

  "By touch and the sound of the pick striking," Owen said. "Blethyn knows every twist and turn in the pit—once when flooding drowned our candles, he led six of us out to safety."

  One of the hewers said, "Time to set another charge."

  Another straightened and wiped sweat from his face. "Aye. Bodvill, it's your turn to set the gunpowder."

  A broad, taciturn man set down his pick, lifted a large hand drill, and started to bore into the rock face. The other hewers put their tools into their corves and began rolling them back along the tunnel. As the observers stood aside, Owen explained, "When the hole is deep enough, it will be packed with black powder, then lit with a slow fuse."

  "The explosion won't bring down the shaft?"

  "Not if it's done right," Clare answered.

  Hearing tension vibrate through her terse words, Nicholas gave Clare a puzzled look and saw that she also appeared on the verge of explosion. For an instant he wondered why. Then the obvious answer hit him and he felt like kicking himself.

  He had half-forgotten that her father had died down here, but Clare obviously hadn't; her taut profile spoke vividly of what it was costing her to be in the mine. He wanted to put his arms around her and say something soothing, but he quelled the impulse. Judging by her expression, she did not want sympathy.

  The last hewer to leave the area was a squat fellow with massive muscles and a pugnacious jaw. When he was even with the visitors, he stopped and squinted at Nicholas. "You're the Gypsy Earl, ain't you?"

  "I've been called that."

  The man spat at his feet. "Tell your bloody friend Lord Michael to keep an eye on Madoc. Old George lives better than any mine manager ought to." The hewer turned back to his corf and pushed it down the tunnel.

  As the man disappeared, Nicholas asked, "Do you think Madoc might be skimming the mine's profits?"

  "I really can't say," Owen said uncomfortably. "That's a harsh accusation to make."

  "You're too fair," Clare said. "Put a greedy manager under a careless owner and embezzlement is guaranteed."

  Nicholas said, "If that's true and Michael finds out, I wouldn't like to be in Madoc's shoes. Michael has always had a fierce temper."

  Bodvill withdrew the drill and began packi
ng black powder into the hole. "Time for us to go," Owen said. "There's something else I want to show you on the way back."

  After retracing their steps for a short distance, they turned into a shaft that led to a vast gallery whose ceiling was supported by massive square pillars. Lifting his candle to illuminate the area, Owen said, "I wanted you to see pillar and stall mining. Larger veins are usually worked this way. It has advantages, but maybe half the coal is left in the pillars."

  Intrigued, Nicholas studied one of the supports and found that the roughly cut surface had the dark shine of coal.

  Suddenly Owen yelled, "Mind your head, boyo!" As he spoke, he grabbed Nicholas's arm and yanked him backward.

  A chunk of rock crashed right where Nicholas had been standing, shattering into fragments when it hit the floor. Shaken, he looked up at the craggy roof. "Thanks, Owen. How did you see that in time?"

  With a touch of humor, Owen said, "Caves are made by God and are very stable. Being made by man, mines are always falling to pieces. Working in one, you learn to keep one eye on what's above you. It takes wits and strength to be a collier."

  "Better you than me," Nicholas said dryly. "A Rom would die if forced to work down here."

  "Dying is easy—too easy in this particular mine." Owen gestured at the shadowy cavern. "Madoc wants to start robbing the pillars—taking more coal out of them. Says it's wasteful to leave them like this."

  Nicholas frowned. "Won't that bring the roof down?"

  "It could." Owen pointed at one of the wooden beams. "Enough props would make it possible, but Madoc doesn't like paying for any more timber than he has to."

  Nicholas grimaced. "I'm beginning to thoroughly dislike Mr. Madoc, and I haven't even met him."

  "Wait until you do meet him," Clare said acerbically. "Your dislike will turn to sheer loathing."

  "That's an unchristian statement, Clare," Owen said with gentle reproach. "Come you, it's time we left."

  As she followed him out of the gallery, Clare said repentantly, "You're right. I'm sorry."

  Nicholas wasn't sorry to be heading back. As he fell in behind Clare, he kept one eye on the ceiling and the other on the graceful sway of her hips. It was time to start thinking about what he would do with today's kiss.