The World From Rough Stones

by Malcom Macdonald

  And every ounce of this great letting of the living rock is hacked and blasted and loaded by human hand, hauled by steam to the top—at one place over 300 feet above—and tipped down wooden chutes to tumble as deep as gravity will take it. But that is still far above the heads of the thousand-strong army of navvies and bricklayers and masons and sinkers working below.

  Their method is first to sink these vertical shafts along the proposed route of the track, the foot of each shaft reaching exactly to the floor, or invert, of the tunnel. The engineer then lowers two plumblines down each shaft, their points of anchorage at the top lying precisely along the midline of the tunnel. When all pendulum motion has ceased, the assistants below can be sure that the bobs now delineate the direction of the tunnel at its proper level. From this they can set two marks in the invert, from which, like the fore- and backsight of a gun, the true course of the tunnel can be aimed in either direction. In this way, two tunnels may be driven toward each other through several hundred feet of intervening rock and meet with an error of less than an inch at their centre lines.

  When Walter Thornton and his bride returned from their shortened honeymoon, that lining-up of plumb-bobs was many months in the past. And from the inverts of each of the fourteen shafts, an eight-foot driftway had been drilled and blasted out toward its neighbour on either side. In places where the rock was dry and solid, the going was ahead of the timetable, and they had already begun the enlargement of the driftway to the full 26 feet of the tunnel itself. The spoil from these shafts was fine and dry and often blew up the valley in a cloud of dust. In other places, where the rock was fractured and intermittent underground streams ran through, the spoil came up as a gray slurry that oozed down the hillside and drained away in muddy rivulets. From these shafts the going was poorer than predicted, and it was they that gave rise to the fear that the driftway would not be complete by the end of 1839.

  All of this Walter explained to Arabella as they stood high on Moorhey Flat and looked down at the line of shafts below Reddish Scout. They had not even gone to their new home yet, so impatient was he to see his tunnel and to show it off to her. She stared at the wastage of the moorside and felt a surge of pride that Walter had done all that. His hand had ruled a line across a map in 1837 and here, two years later, an army of little ants, several of which she could see scurrying around the shaftheads, had spilled out all this muck and reformed the valley side. Above each shaft, a standing engine was at work, pouring black smoke and venting waste steam into the air; a steady breeze carried it northward up the valley, obscuring the canal and turnpike immediately below them.

  She turned around, putting the wind behind her, and looked back over the steep path by which they had climbed.

  "Which is our house?" she asked.

  He peered north through the thick pall of smoke, product of almost two dozen chimneys scattered up the intervening mile and a half and shook his head.

  "That hill—it's somewhere halfway up that hill at the head of the valley. Pigs Hill. Or Pex Hill, some call it."

  "We shall call it Pex Hill. The pigs, it seems to me, are all down in the valley, belching out this foul smoke."

  "I said—you can't get far from a factory in the progressive parts of the North."

  She continued to look glum.

  "Don't fret so," Walter told her. "We are well up the hill and it deflects the worst of the smoke when the wind is southerly. And when it blows any other way, it passes us by altogether. You'll find I chose carefully when you see it."

  Still she did not smile.

  "Do you not like it?" he asked, disappointed.

  "It is certainly very different from the Maran Valley." She looked at him and smiled at last. "Yes," she added and took his hand. "I like it. It is our life. And I like these wild and windswept moors and their vast open skies."

  For several minutes, she had been aware of a tall gentleman with a lowcrowned, wide-brimmed hat climbing toward them. The path threaded its way up to where the scout was crumbled and eroded away, just north of where they stood. So, when they turned to retrace their steps to the turnpike at Deanroyd, they came almost face to face with the tall man as he gained the brow.

  "Stevenson!" Walter cried out with delight. "My dear fellow! All is well?"

  "All is well."

  They shook hands warmly. He was huge, she thought, like a man magnified. Even at arm's length—two arms' length—he seemed too close. It made her nervous.

  "My dear this is John Stevenson—Lord John as they call him."

  She nodded shyly but did not offer her hand. How deep his eyes were—and how they pierced!

  "Your servant, ma'am. Word of your grace and beauty preceded you here. But it pales beside its true example," he said. And, indeed, up here on this wild moor she looked as pale and lovely as a piece of fine porcelain.

  Arabella drew herself primly together. "I should prefer," she said, "to be known for modesty and piety."

  Stevenson laughed. "That's easy work in these godless parts! Still—a becoming sentiment." He wondered how unassailable she really was.

  "A resolve, Mr. Stevenson," she said. "No mere sentiment, I assure you."

  Why did he stare at her with such amused superiority?

  "My dear!" Walter chided. "Mr. Stevenson spoke lightly. I'm sure he had no intention to unbridle your evangelical fervour!"

  To her horror, Stevenson winked at her! Fortunately, Walter, turning from her to him, saw neither his gesture nor the consternation it aroused in her. As soon as Walter turned, Stevenson said, "Lord John was a well enough name for a ganger but a touch presumptuous for a contractor."

  "Point taken. How are we steaming?"

  Stevenson looked back over the line of engines and the tumbled heaps of muck—a sight that brought him evident satisfaction. "We're well on course," he said, turning back to Walter. "The usual harvest of crisis and mishap. But we're well on course."

  "Anything particular? Shall we walk down—we are making for Deanroyd. I sent our baggage on by Chaffer's coach. He's coming back to collect us at Deanroyd."

  "You know Chaffer has tendered for the contract to meet the Todmorden trains? Tell him you have influence and he might take a bit off," Stevenson suggested.

  "I'd never dream of using my position in that way!"

  Arabella felt proud of the indignation in Walter's voice.

  Stevenson shrugged and set off down the hill. Walter came behind to help Arabella over the rougher parts. Stevenson was careful not to turn round, in case Arabella had to lift her skirts above her ankles to negotiate some of the obstacles.

  "We shall be settling in at Pigs Hill—I mean, Pex Hill—between now and Friday, so I don't think you'll see me until next Monday, unless the business is urgent."

  "There's only one thing worries me," Stevenson called over his shoulder. "On the Leeds face of number twelve—where we had the invert failure."

  "Oh?"

  "It's too wet for my liking. I want to suggest driving an adit in from…it would be about where you see those three oaks. To relieve it."

  "But there's no point in the valley we can get below the tunnel invert. I tell you what: As I'm here, I'll have a quick look at it now, and then again on Monday. Often the water we strike proves to drain from some primeval cistern that, once emptied, never refills. We give them all time to prove themselves."

  "Ooh! May I come below with you?" Arabella asked, delighted at the thought of seeing the working at its very heart.

  Stevenson halted and almost looked around.

  "I'm afraid not, my dear," Walter said. "The men will tolerate no woman in a drift. They'd rather tramp fifty miles to another site than go back to a tunnel where a woman has been."

  "What superstitious nonsense!" she retorted. "Who gives them their religion?"

  "You raise a very pertinent point, Mrs. Thornton," Stevenson said, but elaborated no further. "Be careful here," he added. "This is where the steps begin."

  The trail fell so steeply that t
he limestone slabs were butted one to another in the form of steps. It took all their concentration to negotiate, and no one spoke until they came to more level ground, where Moorhey Clough, swollen by the unseasonable rains, gurgled beneath the pathway. Here Stevenson pointed to a house about a furlong distant, halfway up the hillside and overlooking the northern end of the tunnel.

  "What d'you say to it?" he asked.

  "Hello, house?" Walter suggested.

  "Forgive my provincialism," Stevenson said, not pleased at this gentle ribbing. "I mean what do you think of it?"

  "For what purpose—for you?"

  Stevenson nodded. "It may fall vacant January next. Old Hartley up the top, who farms Higher Allescholes, thinks his son could take on this farm. But he'd not want the house for a year or two. Till he marries."

  They started on the final leg of the descent, a cart track that led all the way down to the turnpike. Here the three of them could walk side by side.

  "Suit you ideally," Walter said.

  "I think I'll take it. Twenty eight shillings a month." They passed the farm gate. Rough Stones said the legend. "Pity you can't improve the name."

  "Ah!" Stevenson said. "There's something appeals to us in the idea of starting from such a home. You've a far grander place up at Pigs Hill—despite the name."

  Walter cleared his throat. "We call it Pex Hill," he said.

  Stevenson laughed.

  "So you have seen our house, Mr. Stevenson?" Arabella asked with interest.

  "Mrs. Stevenson and I went up there yesterday to keep the servants on their toes—not knowing you were coming back so soon. I hope they have the rooms aired for you."

  "I'm sure we're very much obliged. Do tell me what it's like." She spoke more warmly than she felt, for she was still shocked at the effrontery of his wink; but, for Walter's sake, she thought she ought to be friendly.

  "Mrs. Thornton, my dear!" Walter gently rebuked her. "We shall see it soon enough." She managed to both smile and pout at him as he continued: "You should move over here now, Stevenson. Stop at the Golden Lion or Queens in Todmorden. I'm sure we should all enjoy some capital evenings together."

  "January will be time enough. The drift will be through by then and it won't signify which side we live. Until then, though…I fear we do too much purchasing in Manchester to move very far from Littleborough."

  This bluff rejection of Walter's kindly suggestion seemed rude to Arabella. She decided not to get on social terms with these uncouth Stevensons unless Walter insisted on it. The decision brought with it an unexpectedly powerful sense of relief.

  They were almost down on the road by now.

  "Ah well," Walter said. "You know your own affairs best, I daresay." He looked up the highway, which was empty except for some flocks of chickens and some distant riders. "The coach hasn't come back yet, I see. Stevenson, would you very kindly shepherd Mrs. Thornton around the exterior workings while I go quickly…"

  "Oh no, Walter!" Arabella cried out involuntarily as soon as his intention struck her. "That would be…"

  "My dear!" Walter spoke with the faintest trace of anger, discernible at once to her. "I must look at the workings. You may not, as you have heard. Mr. Stevenson is as good as the yeomen of the guard."

  "Walter!" she pleaded at his departing back, knowing how rude her tone must seem to Stevenson. But Walter marched on without a pause.

  Stevenson was smiling broadly at her evident consternation. "I know I'm a poor deputy, ma'am."

  "Oh, I don't mean to be churlish Mr. Stevenson. But it does not seem proper to me."

  "Nay, there's nowt amiss. Our northern way is more direct, ye'll find. What may pass for proper reticence in Hertfordshire—if I may presume to advise— will likely give offence in these more friendly latitudes."

  Again she found his insolence insupportable. "It is latitude we must beware of, Mr. Stevenson," she said with a frosty precision in her diction.

  Nothing, it seemed, would wipe that superior smile from his face. "Why, ma'am, if the railway people don't know their station—what'll the country come to?"

  He knew she would laugh. He knew that if he fixed her—just so—with his eyes and worked his mouth in that invitingly humorous way, he would make her laugh. That was what frightened her about him. He knew what to do and how to make her response inevitable. Yet, intellectually, she was delighted with him and to that extent her laughter was unforced. He had so quick and ready a wit.

  "Well," he said, "Mr. Thornton would not be pleased to return and find you knowing as little about the outside workings as you did when he left. So…to school we go."

  They crossed the turnpike and continued on down a shallow bank with a two-foot drop at the bottom. He offered his forearm and she leaned hard against it as she jumped. It amazed her to see how little he moved; she felt she could have swung on that outstretched arm and it would have given no more than if it were a steel spring. He must have the strength of an ox in that great frame of his; she could imagine him digging the tunnel singlehandedly. There was something both repellent and attractive in the thought of so much power compressed into one body.

  But he was turned from her as she swung down and as soon as she landed, he walked on—greatly to her relief, for, if he was going to attempt an impropriety, it would be in such a situation, where it could easily be passed off as an accident.

  "Here's one of the prettiest things your husband has done," he said over his shoulder as he led her to a great hole in the ground immediately ahead. It was not until they stood at its edge and peered down that the beauty of its shape became apparent, for the bricklayers were just beginning to line it, from the base up. The wall they were building was an elegant oval, about forty by twenty foot, with the long axis spanning the track and laying bare the tunnel a mere two chains from its northern end. The invert was less than six fathoms below them at this point.

  "It is beautiful," she agreed. "But if he meant it for ventilation he ordered it several sizes too big."

  Stevenson laughed. There was a rumbling from below. Two great carthorses lurched into view, led by a man and a boy, and passed quickly across the gap; behind them they dragged a line of tubs filled with muck from the driftway working.

  "I wasn't in charge when this was designed but I understand they had a right old game of high jinks between here and Deanroyd." He pointed to another tunnel about two furlongs farther north and then swept his hand in a circle to include all the land around. "This was a vast natural basin of silt. Before they started the cutting it was a marsh. They said you could make the land quake for two chains around you, merely by jumping on it."

  Arabella looked nervously at the floor of the cutting. "How will they be able to run great trains over it?" she asked.

  "Come and see," he said, and led her around the oval shaft to a clearer view of the cutting beyond. "They have driven dozens of piles hundreds of feet into the earth. And I don't know how many tar barrels they have buried. But there's the result."

  And, indeed, the cutting looked as firm and dry as if it had been made through solid rock. It was also a scene of the most amazing industry.

  The horses had come to a halt about half a furlong out into the cutting. The man and boy, helped by two navvies, were tipping the tubs, spilling their contents alternately on both sides of the track. From near the piles, a precarious looking runway of planks and boards led up the walls of the cutting.

  "What is that?" she asked.

  "Runnings," he told her and then, seeing her still puzzled, added, "Have ye never seen navvies at work?" She shook her head. "Then let's go closer."

  They started to pick their way carefully along the top of the western bank, toward the chattering little Walsden Water, still fresh and cold from the moor above.

  "Where do you get them from? Your navvies?" she asked.

  "We make 'em, ma'am. For they're not to be had elsewhere. They say a coal miner'll make a navvy in two month, a farm labourer from clay country'll take six, a domesti
c a year, a runagate clerk two year, a gentleman never." He looked up and held out a hand to stop her. "Watch this. Here's a navvy at work, now."

  They were close to the plank "running," as he had called it, and she could now see that a rope ran down its full length. At the top, it passed over a roller and was hitched to a horse. At the bottom, a tall, fair navvy, with a red bandana, a crushed and ancient silk hat, and trousers tied with twine below his knees, was testing the knot that tied it to a large wheelbarrow, which he had just filled with the muck the carthorses had brought out. They and their driver were already going, pulling the empty tubs back into the maw of the tunnel.