David's Little Lad

“Sleep, Miss,” said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, he stooped to wash his blood-covered hands. “No, I doesn’t want to sleep, while the Squire, and the lad, and the others is starving. I tell you, Miss, I never cried so bitter in all my life, as when I heard them knockings!”

Thus by one mode of egress, all that mortal man could do, was being tried. But scientific men who were present, were too wise to neglect any plan for rescue. It was thought possible, that by means of divers, the imprisoned men might be reached through the water; accordingly two very experienced divers were telegraphed for from a well-known London firm, and as quickly as they could, they answered the summons. I did not know at the time, though I have learned something since, of the dangers these men underwent in this attempt to rescue human life. Having learned, I should like to say a little about them here, for I think no men stood higher in that band of heroes. So great was their danger, that not a gentleman in the neighbourhood would undertake the responsibility of sending them down into the mine, and some even counselled them not to undertake so hopeless a task. But both men instantly replied, that they would never return to their firm without making the attempt, and that they would take all responsibility on themselves. They had never been in a mine before, and very different would be the diving through this black and stagnant water, full of turnings of which they knew nothing, and of obstacles too great to be overcome, from any work they had hitherto undertaken. Indeed, so great was their danger, that those who saw them enter that inky sea, never expected to see them return again; but nothing daunted, the brave men closed their helmets, and commenced the impossible task. Mother and I, with many other women, and children, stood on the pit bank, and as the man who held the line, called out at intervals “fifty feet,” “eighty feet,” “a hundred feet,” what echoes of hope and longing were awakened in beating hearts! I had one arm round mother’s waist, Nan held my other hand, and when at last “five hundred feet” was called, and this was known to be within about two hundred and fifty feet of the stall where the prisoners were confined, simultaneously we went on our knees. The hope, the brilliant hope was too dazzling. Dazzling! it seemed to have come. Mother and I had David once more; little Nan, her brother; the under-viewer’s wife, her husband. But; alas! it was only the lightning flash in the dark cloud, for at length, after a long period of silence, came the hopeless words, “They are coming back!” Yes, the brave divers had done their best, but were unsuccessful. To reach the prisoners by this means was a failure. As they said themselves, “We are very sorry, we found it was impossible to get on further, owing to pieces of wood in the water, the broken road, mud, and the strength of the swell.”

When they appeared again, and had stumbled exhausted to the ground, their helmets, new when they entered, were battered as though they had seen twenty years’ service – a convincing proof of the dangers they had undergone.

Yes, this attempt was a failure; but still hope did not die, still brave men toiled, and day after day the coal was cut away so perseveringly, so unceasingly, that at last on the seventh day after the inundation, shouts were made to the entombed men, and – oh! with what thankfulness was the faint answering response hailed. That weak cry, low and death-like, would have given the necessary spur had such been needed. All this time pumps were used, without ceasing, to reduce the water in the workings.

Meanwhile, as day after day went by, each day filled with more of despair, and less of hope, what had become of Owen? He had said on that evening, some days back now, that he would rescue David or die, but still the manager of the mine was not present. At this critical time he had deserted his post, and the control and direction of all that was done, rested with strangers. Suspicion was grave against my brother, he had, to say the least of it, worked the mine recklessly. Though, with the utmost care, water inundations were sometimes impossible to avert, yet in this particular instance, it seemed that with ordinary foresight, by seeing that Pride’s Pit was properly drained, or at least by avoiding the working of this particular coal vein, the present accident might never have taken place. Thus, things looked grave for Owen, and he was not at his post. Yes, I knew all this, I heard ugly words about an inquest, by and by; but strange as it may seem, never since his return, had my heart felt so at rest about Owen. I had a feeling, almost an instinct, that Owen had not really deserted his post, that among the volunteers in the mine he might be found, that amongst the bravest of the rescuers he might be numbered. When, with my sisters in this deep deep trouble, I stood for long hours of every day by the pit bank, I saw once amongst the smoke-begrimed and blackened men, who rose after their herculean toil to the surface, a face and form which in their outline resembled his – any other recognition was impossible; but so sure was I that this man was Owen, that I began gradually to watch for him alone. But watch as I would, I only saw him once. I was told afterwards, on questioning eagerly, that this miner slept below, that he refused to come to the surface at all, until the work for death or life was done, and that he appeared to work with the strength and energy of ten other men.

“His name!” I breathlessly demanded.

“Nobody knew his name, he was a volunteer, a stranger it seemed, but there were many such present; he was a plucky fellow, worth a great deal,” this was all in this awful and grim conflict his fellow-workers cared for. I told mother of Owen’s visit to me that night. I think my narrative comforted her, she asked very few questions; but I think her eye too, though she said nothing, had rested on the face and form of the strange miner, and that she too had an idea, and a hope, that Owen was working in the mine. I believe, I feel sure, nothing kept up mother’s heart and mine, so much as this hope. Was it possible that we were then learning the truth of that great saying from the lips of the Master – “He that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it?” Ay, for My sake, though I reveal myself through a brother’s love.

About Wednesday night, the eighth of the men’s imprisonment, thirty-two yards out of the thirty-eight of coal had been cut away. There were now only six yards of coal between the prisoners and freedom, and on the men being shouted to, the joyful news was brought to mother and me from the pit bank, that David’s voice was heard above the rest; but, alas! sorrow came to many, while relief and thankfulness to is: there were only five men in the stall, four were now given up for lost. Between these five men and life and liberty, there seemed to me to be but a step, it could not take long, surely, to cut through the remaining six yards of coal, and to release the entombed from a lining grave. I showed my ignorance, my hope was wrong, the trial of my faith was not yet over. Nay, I think the faith that was to be tried by fire was put to the proof during the next two days, in every heart at Ffynon. The experienced colliers said that the real danger had now but begun. The water in the mine was only kept back from the imprisoned men by a very strong pressure of air, beyond this air-tight atmosphere it could not come; five or six feet away from the imprisoned men, it stood like an inky wall, but once break through with the slightest blow of the mandril, the wall of coal at one side, and the confined air would find vent, and the water, no longer impeded, would rush forward, sweeping into certain destruction both captives and rescuers. Unless the water could be pumped away, or the air in some way exhausted, there seemed to be no hope. All the pumps in the neighbourhood were lent, and were plied without intermission, and scientific men put their heads together and agreed to raise air-tight doors, so as to keep back the full rush of the imprisoned atmosphere, when the coal was broken through. But, alas! how faint and sick grew all our hearts, for nothing could now be done rashly, and was it possible that the men could live many hours longer without food?

On the eighth night, food was attempted to be passed through a tube, but this proved a failure, the rush of air through the opening was so terrible, that it was found necessary to plug the hole. The roar of air was as loud as that of a blast furnace, and twice the force of the imprisoned air dashed out the plug, which could only be replaced by efforts almost superhuman.

On the ninth day, I was passing through Gwen’s room; she had been in a low fever, brought on by pain, and the violent shock her whole system had undergone. I used to avoid Gwen, dreading her questions, fearing to tell her what had happened. She was taken care of by a clever and experienced nurse, and I thought it kinder to leave her to her care; but on this day she heard my step, opened her eyes, and called me to her side.

“Gwladys.”

“Yes, dear Gwen.”

“Have they buried the baby yet?”

“Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he was buried last Saturday.”

“Eh! dear, dear, I’d like to have seen his blessed little face first, but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain’t the Lord good to the little ’uns?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Dear, my maid, and h’all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know. Dear, dear, haven’t I bin lying here for days and learnin’ h’all about it. Seems to me I never knew what the Lord Jesus Christ was like before. Haven’t He that baby in His arms now; haven’t He put sight into his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven’t He bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I’ll tell you, Gwladys,” raising herself in bed, “I’ll tell you what the Lord is – tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to the sinners, and the Saviour of them that’s appointed to die; and if that’s not a God for a time of trouble, I don’t know where you’ll find a God.”

Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my hand with energy.

“And, my maid,” she continued, in an exhausted whisper, “I’ve dreamed that dream again.”

“Oh! Gwen – what?”

“All that dream about the mine, my maid; and I know ’tis coming true. Owen will save David.”

I left Gwen, and went into my own room. On my knees, for a brief instant, I spoke to God. “Oh! God,” I said, “if you are the only help for a dark day, deliver us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, out of the depths, here, we cry to Thee. Lord, deliver those who are appointed to die;” and then, before I rose from my knees, four low words rose from my heart – “Thy will be done;” very low, in the faintest whisper – with the cold dew of agony breaking all over me, these words were wrung from my soul; still I said them. Then I went back to the bank. There was a change there, and some commotion – something had happened. Alas! what? My heart beat audibly. I made my way through the crowd, and found myself close to a group of colliers, who had just come up from the mine. Terrible and ominous words smote on my ear. A new danger had arisen. There were signs of the colliers’ worst enemy – gas. The Davy lamps could not be lit. Again the plug was blown out of the hole, and the roar of air which came through the opening, prevented the loudest voice being heard.

“There is a power in there which would blow us up the heading like dust,” said one.

The peril was too tremendous. Even the bravest of the brave had given way. Dear life was too precious. The men who had toiled, as only heroes could toil, for so many long days and nights, faltered at length. To go forward now, seemed certain and absolute death to both rescuers and rescued.

“The boy is gone,” said Moses Thomas, looking Nan in the face. “He has been nine days now without food.”

“God help them all; they’ll soon be in eternity,” said another miner, wiping the tears from his weatherbeaten face.

“This last has daunted us,” said a third.

“We have done all that men could do,” sighed a fourth, who, worn out from toil, fell half-fainting on the ground.

“To go on now, would be certain death,” said a fifth.

Then there was silence – intense silence; not even the sound of a woman’s sob.

The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril – in vain for their comrades’ brave voices – in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes.

Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost harsh by some pent-up emotion – “I’m going on, though ’tis death. Shut the doors upon me,” he added, “and I’ll cut the passage through!”

Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart.

“I’ll go, for another – and I – and I,” said many. And back went the brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at a passage, in many places not three feet high.

I don’t know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave collier’s voice, I had hope – from that moment the worst of my heart agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers – of that frightful gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest pitch – their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last – at last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the wall of coal. What a moment of excitement – longing – fear! What a joy, which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love were successful – that back again from the arms of a terrible death, would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly see – could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past; men with coal-black faces – rigid, immovable, as though carved in granite.

Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom was recognised by the under-viewer’s wife.

Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky.

When mother saw David, she fainted.

I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms.

“Gwladys, we have saved them. Thank God!” he said.

Chapter Twenty Three

After the Fire – A Still, Small Voice

This is the story. The rest England knows; she knows how all the rescued men recovered, she also knows how she has honoured rescued and rescuers.

The last to get well, the slowest to get back again his health and strength, was David. For a time, indeed, for David there were grave doubts and anxieties, which on the doctors’ parts amounted to fears.

The previous shock and sorrow may have made the ten days without food, in that gloomy prison, tell more severely on him, for originally he was the strongest man of the five. However, after a fortnight of intense watching, the dreaded fever began to abate, and the burden of life which he had so nearly laid aside, he took up again, with his old cheerfulness and courage.

“I’m glad he’s not going to die,” said Nan, “he’s wanting down on earth still. Oh! ain’t he strong,” she added; “oh! if you only heard Miles talk of him!”

One day I did hear a little of what David had done, from the boy himself.

“Yes, Miss, he was standin’ by me, when the water came in, we felt it running past our feet, he took my hand and said we’d run for the shaft; we run a few steps when we met Jones and two men, Powell and Williams; they said the waters were up to the roof, then we got into Powell’s stall.”

“Had you any light?”

“Yes, for a while we had candles, then we was in the dark, the water was a few feet away; when we was thirsty we drank the water, but it was very bad. No, we was not very hungry, but we was most bitter cold.”

“You did not think you were so long in the stall?”

“No, not more’n a week.”

“And you were not frightened?”

Here the dark eyes, preternaturally large and eager-looking, gazed hard into mine.

“No, I worn’t feared to die. I thought I might die, we h’all thought it. I did want to kiss Nan, and father once, but Mr Morgan – ”

“Well, what about Mr Morgan?”

“He spoke so, he said that the Better Land were worth going through anything to reach; he said that may be there were no other road for any of us to heaven, but right through the mine, and he axed us if we was willin’ to go through that road to reach it. After a bit we all said we was.”

“Well?”

“Then he’d pray to the Lord so earnest, it seemed as if the Lord was nigh to us, and Mr Morgan said He was with us in the stall; then we’d sing.”

“What did you sing, Miles?”

“Only one hymn, over and over. We sings it at h’our meetings.”

“I know it,” said Nan, “I’ll sing it now.

“In the deep and mighty waters.No one there can hold my head;But my only Saviour Jesus,Who was slaughtered in my stead.“Friend, he is in Jordan’s river.Holds above the wave my head;With His smile I’ll go rejoicing,Through the regions of the dead.”

“Ah!” said Miles, “you never’d know wot that hymn’s worth unless you was in the mine. Then we heard the men knocking, and that kep up our hearts, and Mr Morgan said we might be rescued; but any way ’twas all right. Towards the end two of the men got queer and off their heads, and Mr Morgan, and Jones, the under-viewer, had a deal of trouble with ’em; then Mr Morgan thought the water might have gone down, and on Friday he went in and tried for a bit to wade through, but it was too deep, and he did not know the mine. Jones would have tried after him, but then we was let h’out. No, I doesn’t remember that part. I knows nothing until I felt Nan kiss me, and I thought ’twas Stephie, and that I was in heaven.”

All the time during David’s slow recovery, one person nursed him day and night – one person, with hardly any intermission, remained by his bedside; this was Owen. And no hand so soothed the sick and weary man, no face brought so peaceful a smile into his eyes, as the hand and face of Owen. As David grew better they had long talks together, but I never heard what they said.

I have one thing more to write here.

Three weeks after the accident, on an afternoon soft with west wind, and glowing with May beauty, I went to visit little David’s grave. They had laid him in a very old churchyard, and the tiny grave faced the Rhoda Vale, and could be seen with its companion graves, from the bank of the Ffynon mine below. I had brought some flowers to plant there. Having completed my task, I sat, for a few moments, by the side of the little mound to rest. As I sat there, I saw a man walking quickly along the high road. He mounted the stile and ascended the steep path which led to the graveyard. As I watched him, my heart beat loud and audibly – for this man was Owen. He was coming to visit little David’s grave. He had probably never seen it yet. Still I would not go away. I had something to say to Owen, I could say it best here. He came up, saw me, started for a moment, then seated himself by my side.

“Gwladys, this is a fit place for us to meet. I have something to say to you.”

His words, look, manner, put any speech of my own out of my head. I turned to watch him.

“There is such a thing, Gwladys, as being guilty even of this – blood-guiltiness – and yet being washed white.”

Silence on my part. He laid his hand on the little grave, and continued —

“David, who never told a lie in his life, says he is glad; that if only the death of his child could bring me to his God, he is glad – glad even at that price.” A long pause. “I have found his God. Even by so dark a path as my own sin, I have been led to his God and Saviour.”

Owen pressed his head on his hands. I saw two heavy tears drop between his fingers.

“You will never know, Gwladys, what the finding of God out of so awful a storm of sin and suffering is like. I looked for Him down in the mine. With every stroke of my mandril, my heart cried, ‘Punish me as you will. I do not care what punishment you lay upon me. My life itself is valueless. Only let me find Thee.’ But I could not find Him. As I went further and further into the mine, I seemed getting further and further away from Him; my sins were between Him and me. I could not get a glimpse of Him. I was in despair. I worked with the strength of despair. It was no true courage prompted me to go back, when the other men faltered. My life was valueless to me. Then, as you know, we brought the men out. I went to David. I was glad that he was saved; but my heart was as heavy as ever. I used to sit up at night and fancy myself drifting further and further from God. My whole past life was before me, and it seemed hateful. Not only the wild, reckless days at Oxford, but the months that had seemed so righteous and proper here. One evening I said to David —

”‘David, can you forgive me?’

”‘Ay, lad,’ he answered, instantly, ‘and so can thy God.’

”‘No, that He can’t,’ I said. ‘He never can forgive the death of the baby.’

”‘You wrong Him, lad,’ continued my brother. ‘He took the baby away in love. He knew your eyes were shut, and a great shock must open them. Surely, Owen, if the only way He could bring you to His arms was to take the baby first, that won’t turn Him away now. We must go through death to Him sometimes – the death of another, if not our own.’

”‘And you are willing to give up your child for that?’

”‘Willing and glad, if by so doing you may find Christ.’

”‘David, how you have worked and suffered for me.’”

“But not in vain,” said David, with a radiant smile.

“No, Gwladys, it was not in vain; the brother’s love was not in vain; the death of the Son of Man was not in vain. I have found God. There is to be a coroner’s inquest; things may go hard with me, for I have been much to blame; but I shall tell the whole story. If I am allowed, I shall remain at Ffynon; but wherever I am, I mean to devote my life – my whole life – all my time and all my energy, to the great cause of the miners; to the lessening of their many dangers; to the furthering of their well-being. This is my life-work; I promise to devote my life to the miners of Wales, here, by this little grave.”

“Owen, before we leave this spot, I have something to say to you.”

“What is that? my dear.”

“I want you to forgive me.”

“For what?”

“Do you not know – can you not guess? I shut my heart against you; I gave you no true sister’s welcome when you came home.”

“I thought you changed; I was disappointed. Had you ceased to love me?”

“No, no; never that. But I had dreamt so of you – I thought you perfect. I thought you would come back bringing honour and glory; then I was told – I – ”

“I see; your love could not stand the shock.”

“No, Owen; my old, poor, and weak love – my idolatry, could not; under the blow it died.”

“Go on, my dear.”

“Owen, can you ever forgive me? I have been cold, unloving, unsisterly. I wonder, now, looking back on it, that you did not hate me!”

“No; at first I was disappointed. You hardly know how I loved you long ago; how you had managed to twine your little childish self round my heart. When away I thought of you. I longed, almost as much for your sake as for David’s, to win back that wretched gold. You were much changed. At first I was much disappointed; at last, I believe, indifferent.”