Let us, after this excursion into the offices, return to the shops and only ask Experience such questions as he can without disloyalty answer.
"We used once," says he, leading to the foundry, "to sell our old rails and import new ones. Even when we used "em for roof beams and so on, we had more than we knew what to do with. Now we have got rolling-mills, and we use the rails to make tie-bars for the D. and O. sleepers and all sorts of things. We turn out five hundred D. and O. sleepers a day.
Altogether, we use about seventy-five tons of our own iron a month here.
Iron in Calcutta costs about five-eight a hundredweight; ours costs between three-four and three-eight, and on that item alone we save three thousand a month. Don"t ask me how many miles of rails we own. There are fifteen hundred miles of line, and you can make your own calculation.
All those things like babies" graves, down in that shed, are the moulds for the D. and O. sleepers. We test them by dropping three hundredweight and three hundred quarters of iron on top of them from a height of seven feet, or eleven sometimes. They don"t often smash. We have a notion here that our iron is as good as the Home stuff."
A sleek, white, and brindled pariah thrusts himself into the conversation. His house appears to be on the warm ashes of the bolt-maker. This is a horrible machine, which chews red-hot iron bars and spits them out perfect bolts. Its manners are disgusting, and it gobbles over its food.
"Hi, Jack!" says Experience, stroking the interloper, "you"ve been trying to break your leg again. That"s the dog of the works. At least he makes believe that the works belong to him. He"ll follow any one of us about the shops as far as the gate, but never a step further. You can see he"s in first-cla.s.s condition. The boys give him his ticket, and, one of these days, he"ll try to get on to the Company"s books as a regular worker. He"s too clever to live." Jack heads the procession as far as the walls of the rolling-shed and then returns to his machinery room. He waddles with fatness and despises strangers.
"How would you like to be hot-potted there?" says Experience, who has read and who is enthusiastic over _She_, as he points to the great furnaces whence the slag is being dragged out by hooks. "Here is the old material going into the furnace in that big iron bucket. Look at the sc.r.a.ps of iron. There"s an old D. and O. sleeper, there"s a lot of clips from a cylinder, there"s a lot of snipped-up rails, there"s a driving-wheel block, there"s an old hook, and a sprinkling of boiler-plates and rivets."
The bucket is tipped into the furnace with a thunderous roar and the slag below pours forth more quickly. "An engine," says Experience, reflectively, "can run over herself so to say. After she"s broken up she is made into sleepers for the line. You"ll see how she"s broken up later." A few paces further on, semi-nude demons are capering over strips of glowing hot iron which are put into a mill as rails and emerge as thin, shapely tie-bars. The natives wear rough sandals and some pretence of ap.r.o.ns, but the greater part of them is "all face." "As I said before," says Experience, "a native"s cuteness when he"s working on ticket is something startling. Beyond occasionally hanging on to a red-hot bar too long and so letting their pincers be drawn through the mills, these men take precious good care not to go wrong. Our machinery is fenced and guard-railed as much as possible, and these men don"t get caught up by the belting. In the first place, they"re careful--the father warns the son and so on--and in the second, there"s nothing about "em for the belting to catch on unless the man shoves his hand in. Oh, a native"s no fool! He knows that it doesn"t do to be foolish when he"s dealing with a crane or a driving-wheel. You"re looking at all those chopped rails? We make our iron as they blend baccy. We mix up all sorts to get the required quality. Those rails have just been chopped by this tobacco-cutter thing." Experience bends down and sets a vicious-looking, parrot-headed beam to work. There is a quiver--a snap--and a dull smash and a heavy rail is nipped in two like a stick of barley-sugar.
Elsewhere, a bull-nosed hydraulic cutter is rail-cutting as if it enjoyed the fun. In another shed stand the steam-hammers; the unemployed ones murmuring and muttering to themselves, as is the uncanny custom of all steam-souled machinery. Experience, with his hand on a long lever, makes one of the monsters perform: and though Ignorance knows that a man designed and men do continually build steam-hammers, the effect is as though Experience were maddening a chained beast. The ma.s.sive block slides down the guides, only to pause hungrily an inch above the anvil, or restlessly throb through a foot and a half of s.p.a.ce, each motion being controlled by an almost imperceptible handling of the levers.
"When these things are newly overhauled, you can regulate your blow to within an eighth of an inch," says Experience. "We had a foreman here once who could work "em beautifully. He had the touch. One day a visitor, no end of a swell in a tall, white hat, came round the works, and our foreman borrowed the hat and brought the hammer down just enough to press the nap and no more. "How wonderful!" said the visitor, putting his hand carelessly upon this lever rod here." Experience suits the action to the word and the hammer thunders on the anvil. "Well, you can guess for yourself. Next minute there wasn"t enough left of that tall, white hat to make a postage-stamp of. Steam-hammers aren"t things to play with. Now we"ll go over to the stores ..."
Whatever apparent disorder there might have been in the works, the store department is as clean as a new pin, and stupefying in its naval order.
Copper plates, bar, angle, and rod iron, duplicate cranks and slide bars, the piston rods of the _Bradford Leslie_ steamer, engine grease, files, and hammer-heads--every conceivable article, from leather laces of beltings to head-lamps, necessary for the due and proper working of a long line, is stocked, stacked, piled, and put away in appropriate compartments. In the midst of it all, neck deep in ledgers and indent forms, stands the many-handed Babu, the steam of the engine whose power extends from Howrah to Ghaziabad.
The Company does everything, and knows everything. The gallant apprentice may be a wild youth with an earnest desire to go occasionally "upon the bend." But three times a week, between 7 and 8 P.M., he must attend the night-school and sit at the feet of M. Bonnaud, who teaches him mechanics and statics so thoroughly that even the awful Government Inspector is pleased. And when there is no night-school the Company will by no means wash its hands of its men out of working-hours. No man can be violently restrained from going to the bad if he insists upon it, but in the service of the Company a man has every warning; his escapades are known, and a judiciously arranged transfer sometimes keeps a good fellow clear of the down-grade. No one can flatter himself that in the mult.i.tude he is overlooked, or believe that between 4 P.M. and 9 A.M. he is at liberty to misdemean himself. Sooner or later, but generally sooner, his goings-on are known, and he is reminded that "Britons never shall be slaves"--to things that destroy good work as well as souls.
Maybe the Company acts only in its own interest, but the result is good.
Best and prettiest of the many good and pretty things in Jamalpur is the inst.i.tute of a Sat.u.r.day when the Volunteer Band is playing and the tennis courts are full and the babydom of Jamalpur--fat, st.u.r.dy children--frolic round the band-stand. The people dance--but big as the inst.i.tute is, it is getting too small for their dances--they act, they play billiards, they study their newspapers, they play cards and everything else, and they flirt in a sumptuous building, and in the hot weather the gallant apprentice ducks his friend in the big swimming-bath. Decidedly the railway folk make their lives pleasant.
Let us go down southward to the big Giridih collieries and see the coal that feeds the furnace that smelts the iron that makes the sleeper that bears the loco. that pulls the carriage that holds the freight that comes from the country that is made richer by the Great Company Badahur, the East Indian Railway.
THE GIRIDIH COAL-FIELDS
CHAPTER I
ON THE SURFACE.
Southward, always southward and easterly, runs the Calcutta Mail from Luckeeserai, till she reaches Madapur in the Sonthal Parganas. From Madapur a train, largely made up of coal-trucks, heads westward into the Hazaribagh district and toward Giridih. A week would not have exhausted "Jamalpur and its environs," as the guide-books say. But since time drives and man must e"en be driven, the weird, echoing bund in the hills above Jamalpur, where the owls hoot at night and hyenas come down to laugh over the grave of "Quilem Roberts, who died from the effects of an encounter with a tiger near this place, A.D. 1864," goes undescribed.
Nor is it possible to deal with Monghyr, the headquarters of the district, where one sees for the first time the age of Old Bengal in the sleepy, creepy station, built in a time-eaten fort, which runs out into the Ganges, and is full of quaint houses, with fat-legged bal.u.s.trades on the roofs. Pensioners certainly, and probably a score of ghosts, live in Monghyr. All the country seems haunted. Is there not at Pir Bahar a lonely house on a bluff, the grave of a young lady, who, thirty years ago, rode her horse down the cliff and perished? Has not Monghyr a haunted house in which tradition says sceptics have seen much more than they could account for? And is it not notorious throughout the countryside that the seven miles of road between Jamalpur and Monghyr are nightly paraded by tramping battalions of spectres, phantoms of an old-time army ma.s.sacred, who knows how long ago? The common voice attests all these things, and an eerie cemetery packed with blackened, lichened, candle-extinguisher tomb-stones persuades the listener to believe all that he hears. Bengal is second--or third is it?--in order of seniority among the Provinces, and like an old nurse, she tells many witch-tales.
But ghosts have nothing to do with collieries, and that ever-present "Company," the E. I. R., has more or less made Giridih--princ.i.p.ally more. "Before the E. I. R. came," say the people, "we had one meal a day. Now we have two." Stomachs do not tell fibs, whatever mouths may say. That "Company," in the course of business, throws about five lakhs a year into the Hazaribagh district in the form of wages alone, and Giridih Bazaar has to supply the wants of twelve thousand men, women, and children. But we have now the authority of a number of high-souled and intelligent native prints that the Sahib of all grades spends his time in "sucking the blood out of the country," and "flying to England to spend his ill-gotten gains."
Giridih is perfectly mad--quite insane! Geologically, "the country is in the metamorphic higher grounds that rise out of the alluvial flats of Lower Bengal between the Osri and the Barakar rivers." Translated, this sentence means that you can twist your ankle on pieces of pure white, pinky, and yellowish granite, slip over weather-worn sandstone, grievously cut your boots over flakes of trap, and throw hornblende pebbles at the dogs. Never was such a place for stone-throwing as Giridih. The general aspect of the country is falsely park-like, because it swells and sinks in a score of gra.s.s-covered undulations, and is adorned with plantation-like jungle. There are low hills on every side, and twelve miles away bearing south the blue bulk of the holy hill of Parasnath, greatest of the Jain Tirthankars, overlooks the world. In Bengal they consider four thousand five hundred feet good enough for a Dagshai or Kasauli, and once upon a time they tried to put troops on Parasnath. There was a scarcity of water, and Thomas of those days found the silence and seclusion prey upon his spirits. Since twenty years, therefore, Parasnath has been abandoned by Her Majesty"s Army.
As to Giridih itself, the last few miles of train bring up the reek of the "Black Country." Memory depends on smell. A noseless man is devoid of sentiment, just as a noseless woman, in this country, must be devoid of honour. That first breath of the coal should be the breath of the murky, clouded tract between Yeadon and Dale--or Barnsley, rough and hospitable Barnsley--or Dewsbury and Batley and the Derby Ca.n.a.l on a Sunday afternoon when the wheels are still and the young men and maidens walk stolidly in pairs. Unfortunately, it is nothing more than Giridih--seven thousand miles away from Home and blessed with a warm and genial sunshine, soon to turn into something very much worse. The insanity of the place is visible at the station door. A G. B. T. cart once married a bathing-machine, and they called the child _tum-tum_. You who in flannel and Cawnpore harness drive bamboo-carts about up-country roads, remember that a Giridih _tum-tum_ is painfully pushed by four men, and must be entered crawling on all-fours, head first. So strange are the ways of Bengal!
They drive mad horses in Giridih--animals that become hysterical as soon as the dusk falls and the countryside blazes with the fires of the great c.o.ke ovens. If you expostulate tearfully, they produce another horse, a raw, red fiend whose ear has to be screwed round and round, and round and round, before she will by any manner of means consent to start. The roads carry neat little eighteen-inch trenches at their sides, admirably adapted to hold the flying wheel. Skirling about this savage land in the dark, the white population beguile the time by rapturously recounting past accidents, insisting throughout on the super-equine "steadiness" of their cattle. Deep and broad and wide is their jovial hospitality; but somebody--the Tirhoot planters for choice--ought to start a mission to teach the men of Giridih what to drive. They know _how_, or they would be severally and separately and many times dead, but they do not, they do not indeed, know that animals who stand on one hind leg and beckon with all the rest, or try to pigstick in harness, are not trap-horses worthy of endearing names, but things to be pole-axed. Their feelings are hurt when you say this. "Sit tight," say the men of Giridih; "we"re insured! We can"t be hurt."
And now with grey hairs, dry mouth, and chattering teeth to the collieries. The E. I. R. estate, bought or leased in perpetuity from the Serampore Raja, may be about four miles long and between one and two miles across. It is in two pieces, the Serampore field being separated from the Karharbari (or Kurhurballi or Kabarbari) field by the property of the Bengal Coal Company. The Raneegunge Coal a.s.sociation lies to the east of all other workings. So we have three companies at work on about eleven square miles of land.
There is no such thing as getting a full view of the whole place. A short walk over a gra.s.sy down gives on to an outcrop of very dirty sandstone, which in the excessive innocence of his heart the visitor naturally takes to be the coal lying neatly on the surface. Up to this sandstone the path seems to be made of crushed sugar, so white and shiny is the quartz. Over the brow of the down comes in sight the old familiar pit-head wheel, spinning for the dear life, and the eye loses itself in a maze of pumping sheds, red-tiled, mud-walled miners" huts, dotted all over the landscape, and railway lines that run on every kind of gradient. There are lines that dip into valleys and disappear round the shoulders of slopes, and lines that career on the tops of rises and disappear over the brow of the slopes. Along these lines whistle and pant metre-gauge engines, some with trucks at their tail, and others rattling back to the pit-bank with the absurd air of a boy late for school that an unemployed engine always a.s.sumes. There are six engines in all, and as it is easiest to walk along the lines one sees a good deal of them. They bear not altogether unfamiliar names. Here, for instance, pa.s.ses the "c.o.c.kburn" whistling down a grade with thirty tons of coal at her heels; while the "Whitly" and the "Olpherts" are waiting for their complement of trucks. Now a Mr. T. F. c.o.c.kburn was superintendent of these mines nearly thirty years ago, in the days before the chord-lines from Kanu to Luckeeserai were built, and all the coal was carted to the latter place; and surely Mr. Olpherts was an engineer who helped to think out a new sleeper. What may these things mean?
"Apotheosis of the Manager," is the reply. "Christen the engines after the managers. You"ll find c.o.c.kburn, Dunn, Whitly, Abbott, Olpherts, and Saise, knocking about the place. Sounds funny, doesn"t it? Doesn"t sound so funny, when one of these idiots does his best to derail Saise, though, by putting a line down anyhow. Look at that line! Laid out in knots--by Jove!" To the unprofessional eye the rails seem all correct; but there must be something wrong, because "one of those idiots" is asked why in the name of all he considers sacred he does not ram the ballast properly.
"What would happen if you threw an engine off the line?" "Can"t say that I know exactly. You see, our business is to keep them _on_, and we do that. Here"s rather a curiosity. You see that pointsman! They say he"s an old mutineer, and when he relaxes he boasts of the Sahibs he has killed. He"s glad enough to eat the Company"s salt now." Such a withered old face was the face of the pointsman at No. 11 point! The information suggested a host of questions, and the answers were these: "You won"t be able to understand till you"ve been down into a mine. We work our men in two ways: some by direct payment--under our own hand, and some by contractors. The contractor undertakes to deliver us the coal, supplying his own men, tools, and props. He"s responsible for the safety of his men, and of course the Company knows and sees his work. Just fancy, among these five thousand people, what sort of effect the news of an accident would produce! It would go all through the Sonthal Parganas. We have any amount of Sonthals besides Mahometans and Hindus of every possible caste, down to those Musahers who eat pig. They don"t require much administering in the civilian sense of the word. On Sundays, as a rule, if any man has had his daughter eloped with, or anything of that kind, he generally comes up to the manager"s bungalow to get the matter put straight. If a man is disabled through accident he knows that as long as he"s in the hospital he gets full wages, and the Company pays for the food of any of his women-folk who come to look after him. _One_, of course; not the whole clan. That makes our service popular with the people. Don"t you believe that a native is a fool. You can train him to everything except responsibility. There"s a rule in the workings that if there is any dangerous work--we haven"t choke-damp; I will show you when we get down--no gang must work without an Englishman to look after them.
A native wouldn"t be wise enough to understand what the danger was, or where it came in. Even if he did, he"d shirk the responsibility. We can"t afford to risk a single life. All our output is just as much as the Company want--about a thousand tons per working day. Three hundred thousand in the year. We could turn out more? Yes--a little. Well, yes, twice as much. I won"t go on, because you wouldn"t believe me. There"s the coal under us, and we work it at any depth from following up an outcrop down to six hundred feet. That is our deepest shaft. We have no necessity to go deeper. At home the mines are sometimes fifteen hundred feet down. Well, the thickness of this coal here varies from anything you please to anything you please. There"s enough of it to last your time and one or two hundred years longer. Perhaps even longer than that.
Look at that stuff. That"s big coal from the pit."
It was aristocratic-looking coal, just like the picked lumps that are stacked in baskets of coal agencies at home with the printed legend atop "only 23_s_ a ton." But there was no picking in this case. The great piled banks were all "equal to sample," and beyond them lay piles of small, broken, "smithy" coal. "The Company doesn"t sell to the public.
This small, broken coal is an exception. That is sold, but the big stuff is for the engines and the shops. It doesn"t cost much to get out, as you say; but our men can earn as much as twelve rupees a month. Very often when they"ve earned enough to go on with they retire from the concern till they"ve spent their money and then come on again. It"s piece-work and they are improvident. If some of them only lived like other natives they would have enough to buy land and cows with. When there"s a press of work they make a good deal by overtime, but they don"t seem to keep it. You should see Giridih Bazaar on a Sunday if you want to know where the money goes. About ten thousand rupees change hands once a week there. If you want to get at the number of people who are indirectly dependent or profit by the E. I. R. you"ll have to conduct a census of your own. After Sunday is over the men generally lie off on Monday and take it easy on Tuesday. Then they work hard for the next four days and make it up. Of course there"s nothing in the wide world to prevent a man from resigning and going away to wherever he came from--behind those hills if he"s a Sonthal. He loses his employment, that"s all. But they have their own point of honour. A man hates to be told by his friends that he has been guilty of shirking. And now we"ll go to breakfast. You shall be "pitted" to-morrow to any depth you like."
CHAPTER II
IN THE DEPTHS.
"Pitted to any extent you please." The only difficulty was for Joseph to choose his pit. Giridih was full of them. There was an arch in the side of a little hill, a blackened brick arch leading into thick night. A stationary engine was hauling a procession of coal-laden trucks--"tubs"
is the technical word--out of its depths. The tubs were neither pretty nor clean. "We are going down in those when they are emptied. Put on your helmet and _keep_ it on, and keep your head down."
There is nothing mirth-provoking in going down a coal-mine--even though it be only a shallow incline running to one hundred and forty feet vertical below the earth. "Get into the tub and lie down. Hang it, no!
This is not a railway carriage: you can"t see the country out of the windows. Lie _down_ in the dust and don"t lift your head. Let her go!"
The tubs strain on the wire rope and slide down fourteen hundred feet of incline, at first through a chastened gloom, and then through darkness.
An absurd sentence from a trial report rings in the head: "About this time prisoner expressed a desire for the consolations of religion." A hand with a reeking flare-lamp hangs over the edge of the tub, and there is a glimpse of a blackened hat near it, for those accustomed to the pits have a merry trick of going down sitting or crouching on the coupling of the rear tub. The noise is deafening, and the roof is very close indeed. The tubs b.u.mp, and the occupant crouches lovingly in the coal dust. What would happen if the train went off the line? The desire for the "consolations of religion" grows keener and keener as the air grows closer and closer. The tubs stop in darkness spangled by the light of the flare-lamps which many black devils carry. Underneath and on both sides is the greasy blackness of the coal, and, above, a roof of grey sandstone, smooth as the flow of a river at evening. "Now, remember that if you don"t keep your hat on, you"ll get your head broken, because you will forget to stoop. If you hear any tubs coming up behind you step off to one side. There"s a tramway under your feet: be careful not to trip over it."
The miner has a gait as peculiarly his own as Tommy"s measured pace or the bluejacket"s roll. Big men who slouch in the light of day become almost things of beauty underground. Their foot is on their native heather; and the slouch is a very necessary act of homage to the great earth, which if a man observe not, he shall without doubt have his hat--bless the man who invented pith hats!--grievously cut.
The road turns and winds and the roof becomes lower, but those accursed tubs still rattle by on the tramways. The roof throws back their noises, and when all the place is full of a grumbling and a growling, how under earth is one to know whence danger will turn up next? The air brings to the unacclimatised a singing in the ears, a hotness of the eyeb.a.l.l.s, and a jumping of the heart. "That"s because the pressure here is different from the pressure up above. It"ll wear off in a minute. _We_ don"t notice it. Wait till you get down a four-hundred-foot pit. _Then_ your ears will begin to sing, if you like."
Most people know the One Night of each hot weather--that still, clouded night just before the Rains break, when there seems to be no more breathable air under the bowl of the pitiless skies, and all the weight of the silent, dark house lies on the chest of the sleep-hunter. This is the feeling in a coal-mine--only more so--much more so, for the darkness is the "gross darkness of the inner sepulchre." It is hard to see which is the black coal and which the pa.s.sage driven through it. From far away, down the side galleries, comes the regular beat of the pick--thick and m.u.f.fled as the beat of the labouring heart. "Six men to a gang, and they aren"t allowed to work alone. They make six-foot drives through the coal--two and sometimes three men working together. The rest clear away the stuff and load it into the tubs. We have no props in this gallery because we have a roof as good as a ceiling. The coal lies under the sandstone here. It"s beautiful sandstone." It _was_ beautiful sandstone--as hard as a billiard table and devoid of any nasty little b.u.mps and jags.
There was a roaring down one road--the roaring of infernal fires. This is not a pleasant thing to hear in the dark. It is too suggestive.
"That"s our ventilating shaft. Can"t you feel the air getting brisker?
Come and look."
Imagine a great iron-bound crate of burning coal, hanging over a gulf of darkness faintly showing the brickwork of the base of a chimney.
"We"re at the bottom of the shaft. That fire makes a draught that sucks up the foul air from the bottom of the pit. There"s another down-draw shaft in another part of the mine where the clean air comes in. We aren"t going to set the mines on fire. There"s an earth and brick floor at the bottom of the pit; the crate hangs over. It isn"t so deep as you think." Then a devil--a naked devil--came in with a pitchfork and fed the spouting flames. This was perfectly in keeping with the landscape.
More trucks, more m.u.f.fled noises, more darkness made visible, and more devils--male and female--coming out of darkness and vanishing. Then a picture to be remembered. A great Hall of Eblis, twenty feet from inky-black floor to grey roof, upheld by huge pillars of shining coal, and filled with flitting and pa.s.sing devils. On a shattered pillar near the roof stood a naked man, his flesh olive-coloured in the light of the lamps, hewing down a ma.s.s of coal that still clove to the roof. Behind him was the wall of darkness, and when the lamps shifted he disappeared like a ghost. The devils were shouting directions, and the man howled in reply, resting on his pick and wiping the sweat from his brow. When he smote the coal crushed and slid and rumbled from the darkness into the darkness, and the devils cried _Shabash!_ The man stood erect like a bronze statue, he twisted and bent himself like a j.a.panese grotesque, and anon threw himself on his side after the manner of the dying gladiator. Then spoke the still small voice of fact: "A first-cla.s.s workman if he would only stick to it. But as soon as he makes a little money he lies off and spends it. That"s the last of a pillar that we"ve knocked out. See here. These pillars of coal are square, about thirty feet each way. As you can see, we make the pillar first by cutting out all the coal between. Then we drive two square tunnels, about seven feet wide, through and across the pillar, propping it with balks. There"s one fresh cut."
Two tunnels crossing at right angles had been driven through a pillar which in its under-cut condition seemed like the rough draft of a statue for an elephant. "When the pillar stands only on four legs we chip away one leg at a time from a square to an hour-gla.s.s shape, and then either the whole of the pillar crashes down from the roof or else a quarter or a half. If the coal lies against the sandstones it carries away clear, but in some places it brings down stone and rubbish with it. The chipped-away legs of the pillars are called stooks."