White Water (18 page)

Martin was barely conscious but he opened his eyes almost at once and allowed Maria to force hot mulled wine between his chattering teeth. Oliver was also chilled through and they were both taken back to Heron as quickly as possible. Maria, Maggie and Hugo rode with them, but they insisted that the rest of the party should finish their meal. The excitement died down and the crowd at the lakeside dispersed. It was no longer possible to skate on the broken ice and a promising night’s sport had been ruined. The disappointed people made their way home and within the hour there was no one left. The moon shone on the dying fires as a solitary dog made his way among them, snapping up any scraps of food that remained. The ice cracked as it settled and the sound alerted him but, sensing no danger, he finished his rounds and trotted slowly away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Devon
May
1576

Hugo rubbed his eyes tiredly and began to straighten the papers and books that littered his desk. It was nearly eleven o’clock and at any moment the bell would go to end the morning shift. Then the tinners would start coming up to the surface, swaying in their leather ‘bucket’ as the windlass men winched them into the daylight after their seven hours’ labour underground. It was hard work and they were hard men. Theirs was a labour of unrelieved effort in uncongenial conditions, but they took a perverse pride in their profession — they were proud people. A hundred fathoms or more under the ground, they sweated and swore together, hewing the tin ore with their picks, loading it into the trucks, hauling it back along the tunnel to the shaft bottom where it would be raised by others. They worked in semi-darkness, the blackness broken only by the light of their oil lamps, and frequently stood in pools of muddy water which never drained away fast enough, in spite of all their efforts. As they cut into the veins of tin, the water trickled down the rock face and their long leather boots were soon sodden and uncomfortable. Add to these discomforts the hazard of roof falls, flooding and the noxious sulphur fumes which sometimes seeped from fissures in the rock — in all it was a wretched existence. The money they earned was never enough to pay the physician when years of gritty dirt finally ruined their lungs and choked them into early graves. It was a grim existence. But, thought Hugo ruefully, tell them that existence was about to end and there would be a violent outcry.

He stood up and eased his back. He had been sitting there for the last two hours, studying the facts and figures which he knew by heart, trying, even at the last moment, to find another solution. With no success. Some of the men would have to go and he could no longer delay telling them. He sighed deeply then shouted for Barlowe, the mine manager. Barlowe would stay. He was a truculent, violent man, but he was by far the most experienced man on the payroll and Hugo valued him. He was respected, too, by the other tinners, and there were few who would dare go against him. Hugo had given him a hint of the impending changes so he, at least, would not be entirely surprised.

‘Aye, sir?’ He appeared at the door already dressed for the next shift.

‘Keep the next shift on the surface, Barlowe,’ said Hugo. ‘And don’t let the last lot disperse. I must speak to all the men in the yard twenty minutes from now. The women, also, from the washing shed.’

He saw Barlowe’s eyes narrow and waited for the question, but the man thought better of it and merely nodded and withdrew. The Heron mine employed twenty women and young girls. In the washing shed they sorted the rough ore which came straight from the trucks, washing off the mud and separating unwanted soil and rock fragments before it went into the crazing mill to be crushed. They were mostly wives and daughters of the miners, almost as tough as the men themselves. They came miles across the moors each day, mostly on foot and, apart from one or two troublemakers, they were a cheerful crowd. Hugo looked distractedly round the hut which served as both store and office. The womenfolk would not be cheerful much longer, he thought. Hell and damnation, he muttered, I wish to God it could be otherwise!

Through the window he could see the line of miners waiting for the next shift. Barlowe was talking to them and he could read the apprehension on their faces. As the manager left them and crossed to the windlass man to repeat the message, the line of men broke into small groups and their talk was agitated. Men coming off-shift handed in any oil which remained in their lamps and joined the others. Hugo waited nervously. Only half a dozen men had come up so far. There were another nineteen waiting below in blissful ignorance. Barlowe now made his way to the washing shed and within minutes the women came swarming out like angry bees, some talking among themselves, others making for their menfolk. Ten minutes later Hugo was standing on an upturned barrel and nearly a hundred faces, lit by the warm sunlight, were upturned towards him.

‘’Tis never easy to impart bad news,’ said Hugo bluntly and a ripple of dismay swept through his audience, ‘but I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. I’ve delayed it as long as I was able but to keep the facts from you any longer would be sheer folly. The Heron mine is no longer making enough profit to support us all — you’ve probably guessed that for yourselves. The men know how little ore we’ve taken over the last nine months. Maybe they’ve told the womenfolk, maybe they’ve kept it to themselves. No one cares to bear ill news and I’m no exception to that.’

He paused and swallowed. Their silence, after the first murmur, unnerved him. He cleared his throat and tried to remember the carefully chosen phrases he had prepared with which he meant to soften the blow, but they had all deserted him. ‘I’ve paid the wages as long as I dared but there’s no longer enough money to meet the bill. The mine is not producing enough tin. The tin we do produce fails to earn enough money. The little money we have no longer pays for oil, for your lamps, wood to shore the tunnels, tools to dig.’

He paused again. Still that awful silence and those impassive stares. What were they thinking? he wondered uneasily. He let his gaze travel over them and one woman in the front now lowered her eyes and scuffed the ground with the toe of her worn shoe. She looked undernourished and her dark hair was scraped back in an unbecoming knot. He could not put a name to the face.

‘The situation is bad,’ he went on. ‘I won’t pretend ’tis otherwise. The men know that of the three veins we’re working one is run out, one is giving poor quality ore, and the third and most recent one is not yet fully proven. We have lost three of our best customers in one year — the two London pewterers and the Flemish company.’ At last there was a response — a low, shocked murmur. ‘They have gone elsewhere for their tin and we are helpless to stop them. We will never win them back. The Cornish mines are thriving while we in Devon — Oh aye, Heron is not alone in her plight — while we in Devon dwindle and fail. ’Twas not always so, but tin is fickle stuff and now it eludes us.’ They were suddenly fidgety and Hugo decided the time had come to tell them the worst, before their mood changed from grey to black.

‘Some of you will have to go,’ he said. The murmur grew and a few voices were raised above the rest. ‘Those that do will each have a week’s wages and the promise that when … ’

‘We can’t live on promises!’ shouted someone at the back of the crowd.

‘ … that as soon as ’tis possible — if ’tis possible — they can come back to us.’ The muttering grew louder and Barlowe shouted to them to listen to what was being said. They fell silent again and Hugo went on. ‘I’m going to get rid of a third of the men and half the women … ’ There was a fresh outcry and the shouts were definitely hostile now. ‘Be thankful ’tis not
all
of you!’ he shouted. ‘Next month or the month after it may well come to that.’

The voices trailed into silence as the extent of the disaster was understood. ‘I’ve thought this out most carefully and I’ve tried not to lose more than one wage earner in each family. More than that I could not do. I shall read out the list presently, but before I do I’ve a word of hope and I trust you’ll hear me out. The Heron mine needs modernizing if ’tis ever to pay its way again. We need new methods and new machinery — Oh aye,’ he raised a hand to silence their protests, ‘I know you care little for change. Tis always so. But let me tell you this — without modernization this mine will be closed forever within a year. That’s no idle threat but stark reality. And if the Heron mine goes we
all
go!’

Somewhere in the middle of the crowd a woman began to sob and the sound provoked a fresh protest, but one in which their previous hostility was touched with fear. A man stepped forward from the front row and shouted, ‘Read the list!’ but Hugo shook his head firmly.

‘The list is last,’ he told them. ‘I’ve more to say yet and I want all of you to hear me and understand the reasons for my plans. Many of you may recall my absence earlier in the year.’ There was a chorus of ‘ayes’. ‘I went abroad to take advice from a company that mines at a profit and most likely always will. The name of the company is of no significance, but I saw there the new methods of working that I spoke of and new machinery which
we
should be using.’

‘Where’s the money coming from?’ shouted one of the men. ‘If you’ve no money for our wages then you’ve none for fancy machinery!’ A great roar of approval greeted him and it was some time before Hugo could regain their attention.

‘I don’t know where the money will come from,’ he told them. ‘I’ll try and borrow it. If not we’ll have to make the machinery with wood from our own trees. To do that I need someone with more knowledge than I possess — and with more knowledge than any of
you
possess. Don’t misunderstand me. You are all skilled men and proud of it, and rightly so. But we need someone with new knowledge and new skills and I have found such a man. Hans Bucher is his name and he comes from Austria.’

A fresh outburst greeted this remark and he let the buzz die down before continuing.

‘Hans Bucher is a mining expert — a consultant engineer with eleven years’ experience. I’ve offered him a job at Heron and he’ll start as soon as he arrives at the end of the month. In a month or so, I may be able to offer more work to some of you. I say maybe. ’Tis by no means certain. If all goes as planned another three months and more of you should be re-employed. But — I can make no promises. And now I am nearly done. Remember, all of you, that without Hans Bucher we are probably finished. He is our best chance of survival. His coming could make a difference to the lives of each one of you. We need him. Heron needs him and we need his experience. He has spent the last six years in the most modern mine in Austria. With his help we could be the most modern mine in the West Country. Bucher deserves your respect and your support. For all our sakes I welcome his coming.’

Then he unrolled the list and immediately the shouting died away as the faces turned back to him and fear silenced all but the beating of their hearts.

‘The women first — Marion Shorne, Sylvia Haddon, Bess Lovell, Rita Carp — ’ As he read on, he was aware of the shocked faces and whispered prayers and it was all he could do to keep his voice steady. His wildest imaginings had not prepared him for the feeling that he had betrayed these loyal workers — men and women who not many years since had danced at his wedding, or named their children after him and Maria. He wanted to throw down the list, run away from those accusing faces and hide. Instead he read on steadily. ‘And now the men — Thomas Betts, John Green, Sam Tiddons, Alec Boord — ’ He glanced up. One by one the unfortunates bent their heads or covered their faces, hiding their shame and grief from their fellows. Somehow Hugo finished the list. ‘If these people will attend at the office they’ll receive their money,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry ’tis come to this. Much sorrier than you can guess at — ’

‘Not as sorry as us, though!’ cried a voice and Hugo could only bow his own head in mute reply. He stepped down and strode into the office. He supervised Barlowe’s distribution of the money and waited until the crowd dispersed, some to go home, others to go down for the afternoon shift.

Then he too went home, the taste of defeat strong in his mouth. He stopped his horse as he reached the brow of the hill and looked out on the moor where people straggled homeward, some of them thanking God for their deliverance, others cursing the devil for their loss. ‘They are my people,’ he whispered, ‘and I must help them. Hans Bucher is our only hope.’

And he turned his face homeward and rode on with a heavy heart.

*

Alec Boord went home with murder in
his
heart. He was a small swarthy man in his fifties and already his lungs were diseased and this breathing was stertorous. He could no longer sleep in a horizontal position but sat up all night, propped against the wall and dozed fitfully. His wife Annie was a tall gaunt woman with large bones and a sour disposition. They had had five children. The first had died at birth, the second lived three years and was run down by a turf wagon. The third and fourth, twin boys, lived a few months before succumbing to an attack of dysentery and the fifth, a girl, was now eighteen and had run away from her loveless home and married a tinker. The Boords had never seen her again and had no wish to. Their life was a succession of days and nights. They quarrelled often and both drank to excess whenever they could afford to. Now they could not afford to. Alec Boord had lost his job. Annie, crippled with rheumatism, had not worked for the past seven years. They were bitter, lonely people and Alec’s dismissal was the last of a series of disasters from which, it seemed, they would never escape.

‘A week’s money?’ echoed Annie as her husband slammed down the handful of coins. ‘Just that?’

‘I’ll kill him!’ said her husband. He sat down heavily on a stool and stared at the small fire over which a black kettle hung.

‘Who?’

‘Kendal, the bastard! I’ll kill him. I swear I will. A week’s money and a lot of sweet talking and barely a thank you.’

He kicked the log further into the blaze and it sent up a flurry of sparks which disappeared into the roof. ‘Forty-one years I’ve sweated for him and this is what I get!’ He spat derisively and his wife watched him, letting him rant on, her thoughts busy with the immediate problems of food and warmth. Thank God summer was on its way!