Burnham Breaker Part 5

"Send Dr. Gunther up to the breaker at once," he said, as he made ready to start.

The fleet horses drew him rapidly out through the suburbs and up the hill, and in less than twenty minutes he had reached the breaker, and stopped at the mouth of the shaft.

Many people had already a.s.sembled, and others were coming from all directions. Women whose husbands and sons worked in the mine were there, with pale faces and beseeching words. There was much confusion.

It was difficult to keep the crowd from pressing in against the mouth of the shaft. Men were busy clearing a s.p.a.ce about the opening when Robert Burnham arrived.

"How did it happen?" he said to the mine boss as he stepped from his wagon. "Where was it?"

"Up in the north tier, sir. We don't know how it happened. Some one must 'a' gone in below, where the fire-damp was, with a naked lamp, an' touched it off; an' then, most like, it run along the roof to the chambers where the men was a-workin'. I can't account for it in no other way."

"Has any one come out from there?"

"Yes, Billy Williams. He was a-comin' out when it went off. We found him up in the headin', senseless. He ain't come to yet."

"And the others?"

"We've tried to git to 'em, sir, but the after-damp is awful, an' we couldn't stan' it; we had to come out."

"How many men are up there?"

"Five, as we count 'em; the rest are all out."

The carriage came up the shaft, and a half-dozen miners, with dull eyes and drawn faces, staggered from it, out into the sunlight. It was a rescuing party, just come from a vain attempt to save their unfortunate comrades. They were almost choked to death themselves, with the foul air of the mine. One of them recovered sufficiently to speak.

"We got a'most there," he gasped; "we could hear 'em a-groanin'; but the after-damp got--so bad--we--" He reeled and fell, speechless and exhausted.

The crowd had surged up, trying to hear what the man was saying.

People were getting dangerously near to the mouth of the shaft. Women whose husbands were below were wringing their hands and crying out desperately that some one should go down to the rescue.

"Stand back, my friends," said Burnham, facing the people, "stand back and give these men air, and leave us room to work. We shall do all in our power to help those who are below. If they can be saved, we shall save them. Trust us and give us opportunity to do it. Now, men, who will go down? I feel that we shall get to them this time and bring them out. Who volunteers?"

A dozen miners stepped forward from the crowd; st.u.r.dy, strong-limbed men, with courage stamped on their dust-soiled faces, and heroic resolution gleaming from their eyes.

"Good! we want but eight. Take the ap.r.o.ns of the women; give us the safety-lamps, the oil, the brandy; there, ready; slack off!"

Burnham had stepped on to the carriage with the men who were going down. One of them cried out to him:--

"Don't ye go, sir! don't ye go! it'll be worth the life o' ye!"

"I'll not ask men to go where I dare not go myself," he said; "slack off!"

For an instant the carriage trembled in the slight rise that preceded its descent, and in that instant a boy, a young slender boy, pushed his way through the encircling crowd, leaped in among the men of the rescuing party, and with them went speeding down into the blackness.

It was Ralph. After the first moment of surprise his employer recognized him.

"Ralph!" he exclaimed, "Ralph, why have you done this?"

"I couldn't help it, sir," replied the boy; "I had to come. Please don't send me back."

"But it's a desperate trip. These men are taking their lives in their hands."

"I know it, sir; but they ain't one o' them whose life is worth so little as mine. They've all got folks to live an' work for, an' I ain't. I'll go where they don't dare. Please let me help!"

The men who were cl.u.s.tered on the carriage looked down on the boy in mute astonishment. His slight figure was drawn up to its full height; his little hands were tightly clenched; out from his brown eyes shone the fire of resolution. Some latent spirit of true knighthood had risen in his breast, had quenched all the coward in his nature, and impelled him, in that one moment that called for sacrifice and courage, to a deed as daring and heroic as any that the knights of old were ever prompted to perform. To those who looked upon him thus, the dust and rags that covered him were blotted out, the marks of pain and poverty and all his childish weaknesses had disappeared, and it seemed to them almost as though a messenger from G.o.d were standing in their midst.

But Robert Burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he saw a likeness to himself that startled him. Men see things in moments of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. He thought of Craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like a flash of light.

This boy was his son. For the moment, all other thoughts, motives, desires were blotted from his mind. His desperate errand was lost to sight. The imperilled miners were forgotten.

"Ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "Ralph, I have found you!"

But the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not know what it meant.

The carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off.

The shock at stopping brought Burnham to himself. This was no time, no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. He would do that--afterward. Duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now.

"Men," he said, "are you ready? Here, soak the ap.r.o.ns; Ralph, take this; now then, come on!"

Up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

They knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate and in pain. They knew that the s.p.a.ces through which they must pa.s.s to reach them were filled with poisonous gases, and that in those regions death lurked in every "entrance" and behind every "pillar." But they hurried on, saying little, fearing little, hoping much, as they plunged ahead into the blackness, on their humane but desperate errand.

A half-hour later the bell in the engine-room tinkled softly once, and then rang savagely again and again to "hoist away." The great wheel turned fast and faster; the piston-rods flew in and out; the iron ropes hummed as they cut the air; and the people at the shaft's mouth waited, breathless with suspense, to see what the blackness would yield up to them. The carriage rose swiftly to the surface. On it four men, tottering and exhausted, were supporting an insensible body in their midst. The body was taken into strong arms, and borne hurriedly to the office of the breaker, a little distance away. Then a boy staggered off the carriage and fell fainting into the outstretched arms of Bachelor Billy.

"Ralph!" cried the man, "Ralph, lad! here! brandy for the child!

brandy, quick!"

After a little the boy opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly at the people who were looking down on him. Then he remembered what had happened.

"Mr. Burnham," he whispered, "is--is he alive?"

"Yes, lad; they've took 'im to the office; the doctor's in wi' 'im.

Did ye fin' the air bad?"

The child lay back with a sigh of relief.

"Yes," he said, "very bad. We got to 'em though; we found 'em an'

brought 'em out. I carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along 'ithout me."

The carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who had suffered from the fire. They were blackened, burned, disfigured, but living. One of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:--

"Whaur is he? whaur's Robert Burnham? I'll gi' ma life for his, an' ye'll save his to 'im. Ye mus' na let 'im dee. Mon! he done the brawest thing ye ever kenned. He plungit through the belt o'

after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. Did ye ever hear the like? He's worth a thousan' o' us. I say ye mus' na let 'im dee!"

Over at the breaker office there was silence. The doctor and his helpers were there with Robert Burnham, and the door was closed. Every one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life and death. The story of Burnham's bravery had gone out through the a.s.sembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were turned toward the little room wherein he lay. Men spoke in whispers; women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy.

There were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth to prolong this n.o.ble life for just one day. Still, there was silence at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the mult.i.tude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist, and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth.

Then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came outside and stood upon the steps. His head was bared and his eyes were filled with tears. He turned to those who stood near by, and whispered, sadly:--

"He is dead."