Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

Saul Pickings said:

“Young Dr. Lewis wants to know if you still want him. If he’s to wait I’ll take him in this cup of cocoa.” Young Dr. Lewis had already had four cups of cocoa, his heroism was slightly diluted now. And he had been obliged to ask, politely, for the lavatory.

Barras looked at Armstrong.

“It would be a good thing if the doctors of the town could manage for one of their number always to be on duty here for the next few days. Let them take turns.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Mr. Barras,” Armstrong exclaimed. He hurried out to use the telephone again.

“Father,” Arthur said in a kind of desperation, “how did this happen? I’ve got to know.”

“Not now,” Barras answered. “Not now.”

Arthur turned away and pressed his brow against the cold, feathered window-pane. For the moment his father’s tone had silenced him.

Then Firemaster Ebenezer Camhow puffed in. He had changed into his uniform, which carried a pleasant amount of bright red braid and eight important brass buttons kept beautifully shined by Mrs. Camhow. The firemaster was short, round and bald-headed, he was like an orb. He was fond of uniforms, had started early with a pill-box cap in the boys’ brigade, was now both firemaster and bandmaster of Sleescale. He played four musical instruments, including the triangle, and won prizes regularly for his sweet peas at the county show. In the last five years he had extinguished one small fire at a disused brewery.

“I’m at your service, Mr. Barras,” he declared. “I’ve got my men outside. Outside in the yard. They’re there in a row. Every one has a first-aid certificate. You’ve only got to command me, sir.”

Barras thanked the firemaster, Saul Pickings gave the firemaster the cup of cocoa that was left over, then the firemaster went out. As he went into the yard the firemaster looked so official and important that two reporters who had just arrived from Tynecastle took his portrait, which appeared next morning in the Tynecastle Argus . The firemaster cut it out.

Offers of assistance kept pouring in, telegrams, telephone calls, Mr. Probert of the Horton Iron Co. came over in person, three further relays of rescue men came in from Amalgamated Collieries.

Before twelve o’clock Barras and Arthur went out to inspect the erection work at Old Scupperhole shaft. The shaft lay in the wretched piece of waste land known as the Snook, all hummocks and subsidences, covered with snow and swept by a bitter wind. Troubled land was what they called it. In spite of the fire in the pit yard nearly everybody had left the yard and stood gathered on the Snook. They stood well back from the riggers who were raising headgear, working fast and hard. As Barras and Arthur approached the crowd parted silently, but one group of men did not give way. It was then that Arthur saw David.

David stood at the head of the group of men which did not give way. Jack Reedy, Cha Leeming and old Tom Ogle were also in the group. David waited until Barras came up to him. His skin seemed drawn upon his cheek-bones with cold and the hidden tension of his mind. His eyes met the eyes of Barras. Under that accusation Barras dropped his gaze. Then David spoke.

“These men want to know something?”

“Well?”

“They want to know that everything will be done to rescue the men underground.”

“It is being done.” A pause. Barras raised his eyes. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” David said slowly. “For the meantime.”

It was here that old Tom Ogle thrust himself violently forward.

“What’s all this talking?” he shouted at Barras. He was a little out his mind. He had already tried spectacularly to jump down the Scupperhole shaft. “Why don’t ye save them? All this rigging does nothing. My son’s down there, my son Bob Ogle. Why don’t you send inbye and fetch him out?”

“We’re doing what we can, my man,” Barras said, very dignified and calm.

“I’m not yer man,” Tom Ogle snarled and raising his fist he hit Barras full in the face.

Arthur shivered. Charley Gowlan and some others pulled Tom Ogle away, struggling, shouting. Barras stood upright. He had not defended himself, he had received the blow in a kind of spiritual exaltation as though, deep down in the centre of his being, the blow satisfied him. He proceeded calmly to the shaft, ordered another fire to be lit, remained supervising the work of erection.

He remained at the pit all that day. He remained until Old Scupperhole shaft had been fitted with headgear, steam winding engine and fan, until the shaft was cleared of black damp. He remained until relays of men were started in to remove the stowing which marked the road into the waste. He remained until both main shafts of No. 17 had been fitted with new pumps, the one sending out two hundred and fifty gallons per minute from the main winding, the other, a turbine, four hundred and fifty gallons per minute in the upcast. Then, alone, he walked back to the Law.

He did not feel tired nor particularly hungry, he swung between the torpor of his body and that curious exaltation of his mind. He was impersonal; what he was doing was illusory. He was like a man sentenced to death who receives the verdict calmly. He did not quite understand. His belief in his own innocence remained unassailable.

Aunt Carrie had seen to it that oxtail soup was ready for him — Aunt Carrie knew that when Richard had a “hard day,” he liked oxtail soup better than anything. He ate the soup, a wing of chicken, and a slice of his favourite blue cheddar cheese. But he ate very sparingly and he drank only water. Of Aunt Carrie, who hung in a fluttering servitude in the background, he took no notice whatever; he did not see Aunt Carrie.

At the table Hilda sat opposite, she kept her eyes fixed upon him with a sort of desperate intensity. At last, as though she could bear it no longer, she said:

“Let me help, father. Let me do something. I beg of you to let me do something.” In the face of this emergency Hilda’s lack of opportunity maddened her.

He raised his heavy eyes to hers, observing her for the first time. He answered:

“What is there to do? Everything is being done. There is nothing for a woman to do.”

He left her then. He climbed the stairs, went in to his wife. To her, as to Arthur, he said:

“It is the will of God.” Then, inscrutable and stem, he lay down fully dressed upon his bed.

But in four hours he was back at the pit and immediately proceeded to Old Scupperhole shaft. He knew that the real chance of penetrating to the Paradise lay through the Scupperhole. He went down the shaft.

They were working in relays down the Scupperhole, working so fast they were clearing the stowing from the main road at the rate of six feet an hour. There was more stowing than they had thought. But the relays launched themselves in waves, they battered into the stowing, there was something frantic and abandoned in their assault. It was more than human this progress through the stowing, one relay slipped in as another staggered out.

“This road runs due west,” Jennings said to Barras. “It ought to take us pretty near the mark.”

“Yes,” said Barras.

“We ought to be near the end of the stowing,” Jennings said.

“Yes,” said Barras.

In twenty-four hours the relays had cleared one hundred and forty-four feet of stowing from the old main road. They broke though into clear road, into an open section of the old waste. A loud cheer rang out, a cheer which ascended the shaft and thrilled into the ears of those who waited on the surface.

But there was no second cheer. Immediately beyond the stowing the main road ran into a dip or trough which was full of water and impassable.

Dirty, covered with coal dust, wearing no collar and tie, an old silk muffler round his swollen neck, Jennings stared at Barras.