CHAPTER X.
HARD TIMES.
It was when the pinch came, the subscriptions fell off, and the weeklypayments by the union dwindled to a few shillings for the support of awhole family, that the rough virtues of the people of the miningdistricts came strongly into prominence. Starvation was doing its work,and told first upon the women and children. Little faces, awhile sinceso rosy and bright, grew thin and pinched, chubby arms shrank until thebone could almost be seen through the skin, and low fever, a sureaccompaniment of want, made its appearance.
No more tender and devoted nurses could be found than the rough women,who hushed their voices, and stole with quiet feet around the littlebeds, letting fall many a silent tear when the sufferer asked for littlethings, for tea or lemonade, which there were no means to purchase, orwhen the doctor shook his head and said that good food and not medicinewas needed.
The pitmen themselves would saunter aimlessly in and out of the houses,so changed from the cottages well stocked with furniture, withgay-coloured pictures on the wall, an eight-day clock, and many anotherlittle valuable, and all gone one after another. Very many of them livedupon the scantiest allowance of dry bread which would keep lifetogether, in order that the allowance might all go for the children,retaining as their sole luxury a penny or two a week for the purchase ofa pipe or two of tobacco daily. Had it not been for the soup-kitchenscores of children would have died, but the pint of soup and the sliceof bread enabled them to live.
There was no talk of surrender yet, although compromises, which would atfirst have been indignantly rejected, were now discussed, and adeputation had waited upon Mr. Brook, but the owner refused to enterinto any compromise.
"No, never," he said; "you have chosen to join the hands of the otherpits in an endeavour to force your employers into giving you a higherrate of wages than they can afford to pay. I, therefore, have joined theother employers. We know, what you cannot know, what are our expenses,and what we can afford to pay, and we will accept no dictation whateverfrom the men as to their rate of wages. If I prefer, as I do prefer,that the colliery should stand idle, to raising your rate of wages, itis a clear proof that I should lose money if I agreed to your demand. Ifneeds be I would rather that the pit was closed for a year, or for tenyears. We have bound ourselves together to make no advance, just as youhave bound yourselves not to go to work at the old rate. When you chooseto go in at that rate there are your places ready for you, but I willgive way in no single point, I will not pay a halfpenny a ton more thanbefore. You best know how long you can hold out. Don't let it be toolong, lads, for the sake of your wives and children; remember that thetime may come, when, thinking over some empty chair, recalling somelittle face you will never see again, you will curse your folly andobstinacy in ruining your homes, and destroying those dependent upon youin a struggle in which it was from the first certain that you could notwin, and in which, even if you won, the amount at stake is not worth oneday of the suffering which you are inflicting upon those you love."
Left to themselves the men would have much sooner given in, would indeednever have embarked on the strike, but the influence of the union beingover them, they feared to be called "black sheep," and to be tauntedwith deserting the general cause, and so the strike went on.
The tale of the suffering over the wide district affected by the strikewas told through the land, and the subscriptions of the benevolentflowed in. Public opinion was, however, strongly opposed to the strike,and for the most part the money was subscribed wholly for soup-kitchen,for children, and for relief of the sick. But the area was wide, therewere scores of villages as badly off as Stokebridge, and the share ofeach of the general fund was very small. A local committee was formed,of which the vicar was at the head, for the management of the funds, andfor organizing a body of nurses. All the women who had no children oftheir own were enrolled upon its lists, and many of the girls of thesewing-class volunteered their services.
No one during this sad time devoted herself more untiringly anddevotedly than Nelly Hardy. The quiet manner, the steady and resoluteface, rendered her an excellent nurse, and as her father and motherwere, perforce, sober, she could devote her whole time to the work. Aportion of the funds was devoted to the preparation of the articles offood and drink necessary for the sick, and the kitchen of the schoolroomwas freely employed in making milk-puddings, barley-water, and otherthings which brought pleasure and alleviation to the parched little lipsfor which they were intended.
The distress grew daily more intense. The small traders could no longergive credit; the pawnbrokers were so overburdened with household goodsthat they were obliged absolutely to decline to receive more; thedoctors were worn out with work; the guardians of the poor were nearlybeside themselves in their efforts to face the frightful distressprevailing; and the charitable committee, aided as they were bysubscriptions from without, could still do but little in comparison tothe great need. Jane Haden and the other women without families, didtheir best to help nurse in the houses where sickness was rife. Thechildren were mere shadows, and the men and women, although far lessreduced, were yet worn and wasted by want of food. And still the strikewent on, still the men held out against the reduction. Some of themasters had brought men from other parts, and these had to be guarded toand from their work by strong bodies of police, and several seriousencounters had taken place. Some of the hands were wavering now, but theparty of resistance grew more and more violent, and the waverers darednot raise their voices. The delegates of the union went about holdingmeetings, and assuring their hearers that the masters were on the pointof being beaten, and must give way; but they were listened to in sullenand gloomy silence by the men. Then came muttered threats and secretgatherings; and then Jane Haden, obedient to her promise, but verydoubtful as to its wisdom, posted the letter Jack had left with her.
It was three o'clock next day before he arrived, for he had not receivedthe letter until he went out for his breakfast, and he had to go back tohis work and ask to be allowed to go away for the afternoon onparticular business, for which he was wanted at home.
"Well, mother, what is it?" was his first question on entering.
"I oughtn't to tell 'ee, Jack; and I do believe Bill would kill me if heknew."
"He won't know, mother, and you must tell me," Jack said quietly.
"Well, my boy, yesterday afternoon Bill came in here with eight or tenothers. I were upstairs, but I suppose they thought I were out, and as Idid not want to disturb 'em, and was pretty nigh worn out--I had been upthree nights with Betsy Mullin's girl--I sat down and nigh dozed off.The door was open, and I could hear what they said downstairs when theyspoke loud. At first they talked low, and I didn't heed what they weresaying; then I heard a word or two which frighted me, and then I got upand went quiet to my door and listened. Jack, they are going to wreckthe engines, so as to stop the pumping and drown the mines. They aregoing to do for the 'Vaughan,' and the 'Hill Side,' and 'Thorns,' andthe 'Little Shaft,' and 'Vale.' It's to be done to-night, and they beginwith the 'Vaughan' at ten o'clock, 'cause it's closest, I suppose."
"They are mad," Jack said sternly. "How are they to earn bread if theyflood the mines? and it will end by a lot of them being sent to jail foryears. But I'll stop it if it costs me my life."
"Oh, Jack! don't 'ee do anything rash," Mrs. Haden said piteously. "Whatcan one lad do against two or three hundred men?"
"Now, mother," Jack said promptly, not heeding her appeal, "what policeare there within reach?"
"The police were all sent away yesterday to Bampton. There were riotsthere, I heard say. That's why they chose to-night."
"Now the first thing, mother, is to prevent dad from going out to-night.He must be kept out of it, whatever others do. I've brought a bottle ofgin from Birmingham. Tell him I've come over for an hour or two to seeschoolmaster, and I'm going back again afterwards, but I've brought himthis as a present. Get the cork out; he's sure to drink a glass or twoanyhow, perhaps more, but it will send him off to slee
p, sure enough.It's the strongest I could get, and he's out of the way of drink now. Idon't suppose they'll miss him when they start; but if any one comesround for him, you tell 'em I brought him some Old Tom over, and thathe's so dead sleepy he can't move. Later on, if you can, get some womanor child to come in, and let them see him, so that there'll be a witnesshe was at home when the thing came off, that'll make him safe. I'vethought it all over."
"But what be'est thou going to do, Jack?"
"Don't mind me, mother. I'm going to save the Vaughan colliery. Don'tyou fret about me; all you've got to do is to make dad drink, whichain't a difficult job, and to stick to the story that I have been overfor an hour to see schoolmaster. Good-bye, mother. Don't fret; it willall come out right."
As Jack went down the street he tapped at the door of his friend'shouse.
"Is Harry in?"
Harry was in, and came out at once.
"How's Annie?" was Jack's first question.
"Better, much better, Jack; the doctor thinks she'll do now. The brothput fresh life into her; we're all better, Jack, thanks to you."
"That's all right, Harry. Put on your cap and walk with me to theschoolroom. Now," he went on, as his friend rejoined him, and theyturned up the street, "will you do a job for me?"
"Anything in the world, Jack--leastways, anything I can."
"You may risk your life, Harry."
"All right, Jack, I'll risk it willing for you. You risked yours for meat the old shaft."
"Dost know what's going to be done to-night Harry?"
"I've heard summat about it."
"It must be stopped, Harry, if it costs you and me our lives. What'sthat when the whole district depends upon it? If they wreck the enginesand flood the mines there will be no work for months; and what's tobecome of the women and children then? I'm going to Mr. Merton to tellhim, and to get him to write a letter to Sir John Butler--Brook's placewould be watched--he's the nearest magistrate, and the most active abouthere, and won't let the grass grow under his feet by all accounts. Theletter must tell him of the attack that is to be made to-night, and askhim to send for the soldiers, if no police can be had. I want you totake the letter, Harry. Go out the other side of the village and make along sweep round. Don't get into the road till you get a full mile outof the place. Then go as hard as you can till you get to Butler's.Insist on seeing him yourself; say it's a question of life and death. Ifhe's out, you must go on to Hooper--he's the next magistrate. When youhave delivered the letter, slip off home and go to bed, and never letout all your life that you took that letter."
"All right, Jack; but what be'est thou going to do?"
"I'm going another way, lad; I've got my work too. You'd best stop here,Harry; I will bring the letter to you. It may get out some day thatMerton wrote it, and it's as well you shouldn't be seen near his place."