CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.
HOLD THE FORT!
The safety-lamps had burned themselves out hours ago, and theimprisoned party sat on in the dark. There was nothing else to do.Food they had none: their water was exhausted. They slept fitfully,but in the black darkness sleep seemed little removed from death, andtime from eternity.
Jim Carthew lay with his head upon a friendly lump of coal, ponderingwith his accustomed detachment upon the sundry and manifold changes ofthis world. He thought of Death. Plainly he and his companions wereabout to solve the mystery of what lay hidden round that corner whichour omniscience is pleased to consider the end of all things. Whatwould they find there? Another life--a vista more glorious and sublimethan man in his present state could conceive? Or just another longlane--just another highway of labour and love, of service and reward?Or--a _cul-de-sac_--an abyss--a jumping-off place? He wondered. Notthe last alternative, he thought: more likely one of the other two.Anyhow, he would know soon, and it would be interesting. His oneregret was that he would not be able to come back, even for fiveminutes, to tell his friends about it.
Friends!...
This brought a new train of reflection. He thought of Jack Carr andJack Carr's wife. Would the latter keep her promise, and come back toher husband? He wondered. She should be in Belton this week, all beingwell--that is, if this was the week he thought it was. But time seemedrather a jumbled affair at present. Besides, he was so infernallyhungry that he could not reason things out. Never mind!...
He thought of Nina Tallentyre. _That_ difficulty had solved itself,anyhow. No need for further hopings or strivings: that was a relief!When their rupture occurred he had prayed to be excused from livingfurther. He had even petitioned that the earth might open and swallowhim up for ever. Well, the earth had done so, so he ought to besatisfied. He was gone down into silence, and Nina was rid ofhim--well rid of him! He was well rid of her, too. She had led him adog's life the last few months. A _dog's_ life. He repeated the factto himself pertinaciously, but without any great feeling either ofconviction or resentment.
He felt strangely contented and cheerful. His mind dwelt withpersistence on the bright side of things. He thought of the day whenshe and he had first met, and Nina, in her superb, imperious manner,had desired him to take her out of "this rabble," and come and amuseher in a corner. He remembered subsequent meetings; various graciousacts of condescension on Nina's part; and finally one special eveningon board a yacht in regatta-time, when they had sat together in acorner of the upper deck in the lee of the chart-house, with aperfectly preposterous moon egging them on, and the faint strains of_Caressante_ pulsing across the silent water from the Commodore'syacht hard by; and Nina had nearly--almost--all-but--and thenactually--capitulated.
She had gone back on her word three weeks later, it was true; but hedrew consolation even now from the memory of something which hadslipped through her long lashes and rolled down her cheek even as shedismissed him, a memory which had carried through many a black hour.
It was over episodes like this that his mind lingered. Other and lesssatisfactory items declined to come up for review. Perhaps, hereflected, dying men, provided they had lived clean and run straight,were always accorded this privilege. Only the credit side of theledger accompanied them on their journey into the unknown. It was acomforting thought.
... He wondered what she would think when she heard about it. In ablue envelope at the bottom of his private strong-box they would findhis will, a primitive document composed in secrecy, and endorsed: "Tobe opened when I have gone out for good." In this he had bequeathedall he possessed to "my friend Miss Nina Tallentyre," be she maid,wife, or widow at the moment. Carthew was not a man who loved byhalves. All that he had was hers, whether she needed it or not. Ofcourse she must not be made conspicuous in the matter; he had seen tothat. The bequest was to be quite quiet and unostentatious. Noprobate, or notices in the papers, or rot of that kind. In the blueenvelope was enclosed a private letter to his lawyers, dwelling on theimportance of this point. They were decent old buffers, that firm, andwould understand. They would square up any death-duties and otherlegal fakements that were necessary, and then pass on the balance tolittle Nina, to buy herself pretty things with. But no publicity! Noembarrassment!
... He fell asleep, and dreamed, from the natural perversity ofthings, of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
When he awoke, low voices were conversing near him. Farther away hecould hear the regular breathing of Master Hopper, who, with youth'sready amenability to Nature's own anodynes, was slumbering peacefully.
"I can weel understand, Mr Entwistle," observed Mr Wilkie in measuredtones, "that no decent body would like to be seen entering yin o' theyEpiscopalian Kirks."
Amos Entwistle's heavy voice agreed. He commented with heat uponindulgence in vain repetitions and other heathen practices favoured bythe Anglican community; and related with grim relish an anecdote ofhow his own daughter, lured from the Wesleyan fold by the externalfascinations of the new curate, had once privily attended morningservice at the parish church--to return, shocked to the foundations ofher being, with horrific tales of candles burning on the altar inbroad daylight and the Lord's Prayer repeated four times in the courseof a single service.
"But what I couldna thole," continued Mr Wilkie, who had beencharacteristically pursuing his own line of thought in the meantime,"would be no tae belong tae the kirk of the _land_. A Chapel body! Icould never endure the disgrace of it."
Entwistle demurred vigorously. It was no disgrace to be Chapel folks.Sturdy Independents were proud to be able to dispense withState-aided, spoon-fed religion. Disgrace, indeed! Were not MrWilkie's qualms on the subject of Dissent due rather to a hankeringafter the flesh-pots--the loaves and fishes--the----
"Well, perhaps no exactly a disgrace," continued Mr Wilkie,disregarding the latter innuendo, "but a kin' o' stigma, like. Man,it's an awful thing tae walk doon the street and meet the minister o'the pairish, and him pass by and tak' no more notice of ye than if yewere a Plymouth Brother or an Original Secessionist. I mind yince whenI was in a Tynside pit, I sat under Mr Maconochie--him that gave up agrand kirk in Paisley tae tak a call tae oor wee bit Presbyteriancontraption, Jarrow way. Now, although Mr Maconochie's kirk was mykirk and him oor minister, I used tae feel far more uplifted if I gota good-day frae the minister o' the English Kirk--Golightly, or somesic' name--an _Episcopalian_! I canna imagine why, but there it was. Idoot it was just orthodoxy. He was the minister o' the kirk o' theland, and Mr Maconochie, being, for him, on the wrong side of theBorder, was not. Gin I had met yon felly Golightly trapesing doon theHigh Street o' Jedburgh, things would hae been gey different; forthen----"
The point at issue, Entwistle's deep patient voice asseverated, wasthis. Should a man who was an Independent allow himself or his bairnsto have aught to do with Church folk on any pretence whatever?
He was answered in the darkness by a third voice. Denton, thehewer--Atkinson, the retired Salvationist, shovelled and wheeled awayin a tub what Denton hewed--had awoken from an uneasy sleep, and waslistening to the conversation. Of all that little band, probably hewas the least prepared to die. He was a drunkard, a blasphemer, and anevil liver. But like the rest of us, he had his redeeming features. Hehad inspired and kept alive for a period of ten years the love of hiswife--a feat which many an ex-sidesman, buried beneath a mountain ofexpensive masonry adorned by an epitaph beginning, "Well done, goodand faithful servant!" has signally failed to accomplish. He sat upnow.
"Ah niver 'ad nowt to do wi' churches or chapels," he began defiantly."But ah knaws this. When my Maggie were lyin' badly four years agone,and us thought she was goin' to die, she asked me to go and fetch herpastor--that's what she called him. Ah ran along to his house andbegged him to come. He said"--the man's voice grew thick, and onecould almost see his sombre eyes glow in the gross darkness--"he saidhe were busy! There was a swarry that neet that 'twas his duty toattend, and next day he was goin' off to a political meeting topro
test against t' Education Bill, or summat. He said, too, that hehad enough to do ministerin' to the wants o' them that deservedministerin' to, wi'out comin' to the house o' the likes o' me. Whenhad he last seen me in t' chapel, he would like to knaw? Yes, _that_was what he wanted to knaw! He wanted to stand and ask me questionslike that when my Maggie----!... Ah cursed him, and his chapel, andhis fat-bellied deacons till Ah were out o' puff with it: then Ah wentoff down the street half-crazed. There Ah runs straight into a youngfeller wi' a soft black hat and long legs. He was standing outside t'door of his lodgings, smoking a pipe in the dark. He was t' curate att' parish church, and when he saw I wasn't in liquor, he asked me whatwas my trouble. I telled him. 'Is that all?' says he. 'Will I do? I'vejust come off my day's work, and I ain't got nothing to do but amusemyself now.' It were nigh ten o'clock. Well, he comes with me, and hesat by my Maggie all the neet through, and sent me with a note to adoctor that were a friend of his, and only went away himsel' at seveno'clock next morning, because he had to get shaved and take earlyservice or summat. _That's_ all your chapel folk ever done for me,Amos Entwistle."
"That was a special case, and proves no rules. Besides," saidEntwistle soberly, "this is no time for religious differences. We arein God's hands now, and I doubt we shall all be in a place soon wherethere is neither Church nor Chapel."
"Would it no be best for us all tae keep silence for a matter o' tenminutes," suggested Wilkie, "and pit up a bit prayer each of his ain,we bein' no all of the same way of thinkin' in these matters? Thatgate, wi' so many prayers o' different denominations goin' up, yin atleast should get gettin' through the roof of the pit. Are ye agreed,chaps?"
"Ay, ay!" said Entwistle.
The others all murmured assent, save Master Hopper, who shrieked outin sudden fear. The proximity of death had become instantly anddreadfully apparent to him on Mr Wilkie's suggestion. Carthew reachedout and pulled him to his side.
"Come over here, by me," he said.
Master Hopper, greatly soothed, crept close, and settled downcontentedly enough with an arm round Carthew's shoulders. PresentlyCarthew heard him repeating The Lord's Prayer to himself in a low andrespectful whisper.
The silence lasted longer than ten minutes. For one thing, thesupplicants were exhausted in body, soul, and spirit, and theirorisons came slowly. For another, there was no need to hurry. Fornearly an hour no one spoke.
At length some one sat up in the darkness, and the voice of Atkinsoninquired--
"Mr Carthew, sir, I think a song of praise would hearten us all."
"I believe it would," said Carthew. He was not enamoured of thecorybantic hymnology of the Salvation Army, but the horror of blackdarkness was beginning to eat into his soul, and he knew that theothers were probably in a worse plight. "What shall we sing?"
"At the meeting where I were saved," said Atkinson deferentially, "weconcluded worship by singing a hymn I have never forgotten since:_Hold the Fort!_"
"That sounds a good one," said Carthew, struggling with anunreasonable sensation of being in the chair at a smoking-concert."Does any one else here know _Hold the Fort!_?"
Yes, Entwistle knew it. Master Hopper had heard it. Mr Wilkie had not.He did not hold with hymns: even paraphrases were not, in his opinion,altogether free from the taint of Popery. If it had been one of thePsalms of David, now! Still, he would join. Denton knew no hymns, butwas willing to be instructed in this one.
Atkinson, trembling with gratification, slowly rehearsed the words,the others repeating them after him.
"We will sing it now," he said.
He raised the tune in a clear tenor. Most north-countrymen aremusicians by instinct. In a few moments this grim prison was floodedby a wave of sonorous melody. The simple, vulgar, taking tune swelledup; the brave homely words rang out, putting new heart into every one.Each and all joyfully realised that there are worse ways of going toone's death than singing a battle-song composed by Moody and Sankey.With drawn white faces upturned to the heaven they could not see theysang on, flinging glorious defiance into the very teeth ofDeath--gentleman and pitman, Church and Chapel, zealot and infidel.
"Last verse again!" commanded Atkinson.
"Wait a moment!" cried Entwistle, starting up.
But no one heard him. The chorus was rolling out once more--
"_Hold the Fort, for I am coming_----"
Tap, tap, tap! Scrape, scrape, scrape! Hammer, hammer, hammer!
The hymn paused, wavered, and stopped dead on the final shout.
"By God!" screamed a voice--it was Denton's--"here they are!"
Carthew, with Hopper's arms tightening convulsively round him, startedup.
"Is it true?" he asked hoarsely.
"Ay! Listen! They have found us. They are within a few yards of us,"said Entwistle.
"_Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!_" sang Atkinson suddenlyand exultantly, and the others joined him.
* * * * *
Entwistle was right. They were found. Reasoned calculation, doggedpersistence, and blind indifference to their own safety had broughtthe search party triumphantly along the mouldering rickety passages ofShawcliffe Pit to the nearest point of contact with Number Three inBelton; and _Hold the Fort!_ proceeding from a subterranean cave ofharmony not many yards away, had done the rest.