Fortune's Son

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Molly was a close friend of grief. She’d lost her babies too, all five of them. Tiny mites born months before term and buried in the children’s garden at the mine’s own cemetery. Miscarriage was as common as birth among miners’ wives. Bereaved mothers worked miracles at their children’s gravesides, coaxing swathes of foxgloves and roses to bloom in the noxious earth.

  The one thing that Molly and Luke agreed upon was that the miners’ camp was no place to live. There was no escaping the dust and smoke and noise. Roaring machinery and blasting never ceased. Stamper mills below the mine on Slaughteryard Creek pounded ore and eardrums twenty-four hours a day.

  The miners used copper, cyanide and mercury to extract gold from ore. Tailings washed into the creek, poisoning the fish and wildlife. The mill workers suffered too. Using mercury, known as quicksilver, led to mad hatter disease. Tremors and fatigue led to accidents. Afflicted men grew stiff and headachy and never felt properly rested. Stomach pains and dysentery plagued them. Their gums bled and their teeth fell out.

  Cyanide poisoning was worse, amounting to slow suffocation, causing the skin to flush a characteristic cherry-red. Molly had seen many such men. They grew weak, confused, short of breath and dizzy. Sometimes they displayed episodes of bizarre behaviour. One man was convinced the giant steam hammers were whispering to him. He jumped in to hear what they were saying. His end at least was swift. Most victims suffered a slow slide into the grave.

  The cause of these illnesses was common knowledge, but the workers couldn’t prove it. The mine denied all responsibility and routinely sacked men too sick to work. Thankfully Hills End drew its water supply from Black River, above its convergence with Slaughteryard Creek. Yet the river flowed south to other towns, polluted and barely drinkable.

  Sunday preachers did good trade in Hills End. Molly despised these sermons that promised people relief from their burdens in the hereafter. What use was that in the here and now? Despite all these hardships, most mine workers accepted their lot and, for better or worse, life was the mine and the mine meant life. Not everyone wanted out as badly as Molly and Luke did.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Come on, lad. We don’t have all day.’ Angus kissed Molly goodbye.

  Luke tossed Sheba an armful of hay, poured a measure of oats into her wooden bucket and gave her a last rub behind the ears. It began to rain. When he turned to go, the mare arched her neck, flared her nostrils, and uttered a long, piercing whinny. She took off at breakneck speed in a futile race around her small paddock until sweat darkened her pale coat. Cinders from the mine’s chimneys clung to her, turning her silver mane to sooty grey. Sheba hated their new life as much as he did. He longed to ride her high into the mountains, far from this filthy town, and never come back. Instead, he answered Angus’s second hail and joined him for the walk to the mine.

  The road snaked its way downhill over pockmarked, barren land to the mine’s western gate. The ear-pounding hiss and thump of steam engines grew louder as they walked. These monstrous machines squatted in fortresses of grey granite masonry crowned with red-brick chimneystacks reaching high into the smoky skies.

  A desolate view, not a tree in sight. The mine consumed vast amounts of timber to shore up tunnels and burn for fuel. Teams of woodcutters operated in shifts, sweeping in relentless, ever-widening arcs to feed the ravenous machinery. Colossal log stacks, sixty feet across, piled taller than the buildings. Towering triangular frames of timber and steel, each with a sheave wheel at its apex, crouched like hangman’s scaffolds over the three main shafts.

  In contrast to the ugliness of their surroundings, the mine buildings were quite elegant. The facades of the pump houses, stamper batteries and smelter boasted graceful arched windows in the finest Italian neo-classical tradition. Fanlights and decorative cornices adorned their red-brick walls. Above the office entrance, ornamental masonry spelled out the words In God We Trust. Luke saw an obscene disparity between the beauty of the architecture and the hideous business of the mine.

  The arriving miners were directed to the cobbled courtyard in front of the office. They shuffled about, turning their collars against the drizzle. Two well-dressed gentlemen stood under the verandah, chatting to the foreman, Mr Dickens. Luke froze. One of the men was Henry Abbott.

  It was five years since Luke had seen the man who’d raped his sister, as good as killed his father, and stolen his life. Abbott looked smaller and older than he remembered. Beside him stood a tall, slim youth, with fair hair and a hint of the mine owner’s imperious expression. He wore fine clothes – too fine for a morning down a muddy, stinking hole. That had to be Abbott’s son, Edward. Belle’s friend. The idea sickened him.

  Dickens fawned over his guests and gave a long speech about the mine’s grand vision. At the end, the crowd gave a half-hearted cheer and turned to leave. ‘Hold on. I want a few of you blokes to show off your skills. Step forward if I call your name.’

  To Luke’s astonishment, Adam McLeod was on the list. Angus surreptitiously pushed another man forward, but Dickens wouldn’t have it. He gestured for Luke to step up. Soon half-a-dozen miners stood out the front. The rest were dismissed. Angus headed for the shaft cage, all the while casting worried glances over his shoulder.

  Dickens went down the row, extolling each man’s virtues in turn. He came to Luke and clapped him on the back. ‘Adam here’s our top mucker. That means he loads the raw ore into cars.’ He spoke slowly and somewhat patronisingly to Edward, who looked irritated. ‘He’ll not be long in that job, of course,’ said Dickens. ‘Adam’s quick-witted and strong as a bull. A little hot-tempered at times, but we like that here. I wager he won’t be shy to take some risks.’

  Luke moved to face Henry Abbott, but saw no sign of recognition from him.

  ‘I like a man who looks me in the eye,’ said Henry. ‘It’s more than Edward does.’ He cast Edward a withering look. ‘I’m afraid my son lacks a backbone.’

  Edward stared down at his shiny, dust-free boots.

  ‘Why don’t you show him how other young men do a real day’s work, eh?’ Henry chuckled as Edward’s ears reddened.

  Luke longed to lead Henry Abbott through the dark, treacherous tunnels below, where death might lurk around any corner. Would the mine owner venture down beside him? Would he be so foolish? Luke was ill with anticipation. But Henry accompanied an engineer into the office. Disappointment kicked Luke in the guts so hard he thought he’d vomit.

  ‘Shall we get started?’ said Dickens.

  The men walked across the yard and stepped into the cage. Shift bells sounded, loud and discordant through the smoggy air. Dickens fitted Edward with a helmet and oil lamp. The windlass ground into action, and slowly the men disappeared underground, ears popping as they sank hundreds of feet into the gloom.

  Edward had never imagined such profound darkness. It consumed the dirty yellow beam of the headlamp within an inch of his face. The scream of the hoist told him they descended still, sinking deeper and deeper into the inky void. His heart thudded and his palms grew slick, even before the mine’s oppressive humidity hit him. In the lamplight, Adam’s grim face and hostile stare were an unnerving contrast to Dickens’ reassuring patter. Edward gagged, fighting for breath.

  The cage hit dirt and came to a shuddering halt. The infernal screech of the windlass stopped as well. Edward had expected silence, but the mine wasn’t quiet. The tunnels played a song of their own. Streams trickled and bubbled through the rock walls. Water pattered like rain from the roof. Stones popped and pelted onto the path ahead, and earth trickled from fissures and flaws, giving the impression of an imminent cave-in. The walls themselves seemed eerily alive. Edward feared small spaces, but he feared his father more. So he set off with halting, echoing steps into the bowels of the mine.

  A deafening blast came just as Edward was finding his nerve. He lost his footing and crashed to the ground.

  ‘I told them to hold off while you’re down here.’ Dickens helped him to his feet. ‘Must be
an unexploded charge from yesterday. Never mind. Watch your step, sir.’

  Edward couldn’t believe that people worked in such cramped conditions. They passed men crouched low in narrow tunnels. One miner writhed on the floor, clutching at his legs. What was wrong with him?

  ‘It’s the cramping,’ Dickens explained at Edward’s expression. ‘He’ll be right in a moment.’

  A little further on he could hear singing.

  ‘In the sweet, sweet arms of heaven,

  Around the sacred shore,

  Where we shall someday gather,

  And suffer here no more.’

  They rounded a corner and, one by one, the voices fell silent.

  ‘This here’s a loading area,’ said Dickens. ‘Let’s have us some fun. An ore-car filling contest between our two top muckers.’

  Adam won easily, attacking the crushed rock like a madman.

  As Edward moved close to congratulate him, Adam whispered in his ear. ‘There’s black, bottomless lakes down here, Mr Abbott, where they’d never find a man. Pockets of poison air as well. It’s too easy to lose your way.’

  Edward shrank back.

  Luke turned to leave, but Dickens wouldn’t let him go, insisting he accompany them to a blasting point. ‘We have to show Master Edward the most exciting part of our operation. Come on, Adam. It won’t be long until you graduate to the drills, if you play your cards right.’

  Was Dickens crazy, thinking he’d welcome such a promotion? Gun drillers operated eighty-pound pneumatic hammer drills known as widow makers, all while perched on rickety ladders in near darkness. Those that survived went deaf.

  They passed Angus working in the maintenance team, shoring up stopes and tunnels with stout, square-set timber. He tipped his helmet with a weary nod and trudged off.

  The group moved deeper into the mine. This was the blasting zone. Walls here seemed quiet and almost dry, but the air hung stale and hot and harder to breathe. Luke stopped dead. Something wasn’t right. Their lamps smoked and sputtered alarmingly. Then the sound of ten-thousand thunders ripped through the dark.

  Molly stopped peeling potatoes for dinner as Scruffy barked a warning. The kitchen rattled. What was happening? The floor rippled as if a giant snake glided beneath. She screamed as the walls and furniture swayed and shuddered.

  Molly ran outside, turning to see the door splinter and fall, bowing to some immense, invisible force. In the paddock behind the house, Sheba raced away from the moving ground. With one powerful bound, she cleared the tea-tree fence and careered like a thing possessed into the mountains.

  Molly caught her breath. All around her, women and children fled their collapsing cottages. Then, as one, they headed for the mine. Molly ran with the crowd and reached the gates as alarm bells sounded.

  Deep underground, the reverberations died away. Then Luke heard a strange roar, like the bursting of a tide. Angus had told him stories about the disaster at Golden Reef a decade before. Earth tremors and careless blasting caused an underground river to burst through the mine walls, inundating the lower levels and drowning dozens.

  ‘Run!’ Luke shoved the men back along the tunnel towards the main shaft. A blast of air rushing ahead of the torrent threatened to knock them off their feet. Howling wind extinguished their lights, except for Luke’s headlamp. It flickered on, against all odds, lighting their way.

  Where was Angus? As they rounded a corner, rubble cascaded from the darkness, hurling Luke to the ground. He picked himself up, surprised to be standing, blood seeping from great gashes in his chest. Luke knelt down. Groping round he found an arm and took its pulse. Nothing. ‘Is anyone there?’

  ‘Here,’ came a hoarse reply.

  He crawled towards the voice, hoping for a miracle, hoping to find Angus. Instead he found Edward Abbott, his arm pinned to the ground by rocks. Luke freed him from the debris, and all the while the strange thunder grew louder.

  He pulled Edward to his feet and they ran, stumbling, ahead of the flood. Soon they tripped over bodies. Shifting layers of earth had forced a heavy sandstone shelf from the rock wall. A group of men lay broken beneath.

  Were they alive? Luke knelt down to check them. These two were dead, but this one lived, and this one. Energy surged through him, allowing him to lift the slab enough for Edward to pull the living miners free. Their mangled legs wouldn’t carry them. With a calmness belying his terror, Luke hauled the miners, one by one, into an empty ore car. Each bend, each cough, each breath an agony – a knife twisting in his ribs.

  Closer to the main shaft something caught his eye in the shadows, draped in dust and dirt. The form of a man. A familiar pair of patched boots showed in the feeble lamplight and a primal scream ripped from Luke’s throat. Angus.

  Luke swept up his battered body and heaved it into the trolley. Then he and Edward raced on. Some men ahead heard the clamour of the approaching wagon and fled before it, fearful it would crush them as it tore madly through the darkness. Somehow they dodged jutting rocks and falling stones to reach the central hoist.

  Up through the shaft came the wails and cries of drowning men. Luke loaded the injured into the crowded cage. Edward stood by, paralysed with fear. Luke grabbed his shoulder and shook it. ‘Get in, you bastard.’ Edward climbed aboard. Luke heaved Angus after him, and then climbed in himself, his strength almost gone.

  The hoist roared to life with a terrible grinding sound. The cage shuddered and shook, but failed to rise.

  ‘We’re overloaded,’ someone shouted. ‘It won’t lift us.’

  ‘This one’s past help anyway,’ said another man, and hurled Angus from the cage.

  Luke screamed and leapt out, wading knee-deep, trying to hoist his friend’s body back to safety. A rush of bad air filled his lungs and he fell, choking, into the foul water.

  The cage began to move. It was over. He’d lost Angus, and was going to die there in the dark flood.

  Then Edward was beside him, hauling him back into the cage as it began its halting journey to the surface.

  Three men burst from the tunnel, too late. They climbed hand over fist up the hoist chains, dangling precariously as a wall of water swamped the space where they’d stood just moments before.

  Minutes later, the mountain spat the cage out into sunshine, to the cheers and tears of the expectant crowd. People rushed forward to help the injured. Luke felt strong hands lift him. He grew more and more dizzy as someone covered him with a blanket. The sun seemed to be going out. How strange.

  Before his world turned fully dark, he saw Henry Abbott hurry forward to his son.

  ‘This man saved my life,’ he heard Edward say.

  ‘Then,’ Sir Henry replied, ‘we are forever in his debt.’

  Molly and Scruffy searched in vain for Angus among the survivors, as an assortment of horse-drawn vehicles ferried the injured from the scene. With hopes fading, they joined the crowd gathered beneath the headframe, maintaining a futile vigil for loved ones lost underground.

  CHAPTER 23

  Luke woke in the softest bed, beneath the warmest quilt of the lightest eiderdown. Every bit of his body ached. Each breath hurt. Waves of dizziness forced him to squint his eyes shut. Instantly his thoughts spiralled backwards. Scenes flashed through his mind, terrifying glimpses of darkness and fear and running for his life. Where was Angus? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was able to take in his surrounds. He lay in a luxuriously appointed bedroom: fine mahogany wardrobes, elegant chiffoniers and an ornately inlaid toilet stand. His four-poster bed was swathed in heavy crimson curtains edged in gold. A tasselled counterpane of fine, white silk covered him. The view through the casement windows was of wide lawns, dotted with elms and oaks. He hadn’t a clue where he was.

  A young woman dressed in maid’s clothes entered the room, a warm smile on her pretty face. For one heart-stopping moment, Luke thought she was his sister. The mistake filled him with shame. What sort of man w
ould mistake a stranger for his own flesh and blood?

  She asked how he felt and then fussed about, tidying up, not waiting for a response. Luke’s parched mouth and sore throat made speech difficult. He could still taste the metal from the mine. The girl leaned close, supporting his head with a cool hand, pressing a cup of water to his lips. He took great swallows.

  ‘I’m Rose, Master Adam. You’re ever so thirsty, aren’t you? Why don’t I fetch you some breakfast and a lovely big pot of sweet tea?’

  He put his hand on her arm and tried to say thank you. Rose giggled, looking pleased. As she turned to go, Luke forced a whisper from his swollen lips. ‘Miss. Where am I?’

  ‘Canterbury Downs, of course. Sir Henry Abbott’s estate. You saved his son’s life and the lives of four others, so I hear. You’re quite the hero, Master Adam. Truthfully, the other girls are all looking to bring you in something just for an excuse. Don’t be surprised if you get plenty of visitors, especially once I tell them how handsome you are.’ With a smile she was gone.

  Luke sat up, his head swimming, and tried to swing his legs off the mattress.

  ‘Steady on, Adam. Where do you think you’re going?’

  A surge of nausea made him sink backwards. That voice. Luke opened his eyes. Two men stood at the foot of the bed. Edward Abbott, his right arm braced and bandaged, a concerned look on his face. And a portly, bespectacled man.

  ‘Dr Lark’s here to see you.’

  The doctor proceeded to poke and prod him, all the while addressing his remarks to Edward as if Luke wasn’t in the room. ‘He’s badly knocked about. Broken ribs. Sprained knee and a twisted ankle. Some nasty lacerations, and faintness brought on by concussion and exposure to poisonous gas.’ He cleaned a deep gash in Luke’s thigh. ‘Infection is the main fear.’

  A stout matronly woman joined them. Edward introduced her as Nurse Marsh. The doctor placed several apothecary jars on the bedside table and barked out a long list of orders. ‘Follow my directions exactly, woman. Never once make the most trifling alteration. If my patient dies, it will be due to your failure to carry out my medical instructions fully and precisely.’