asked.
“We’re in it now. You’re in the middle of the Hannay Seam, one of the richest coal seams in England,” Battie said. “That’s what’s holding up the roof.”
Black walls. Black roof, too, Blair thought, because coal cushioned timbers better than stone. The irises of his eyes had dilated so that dark became shadow, and shadow took on form. Ahead of Battie a shaggy outline and lamp came from the opposite direction.
“Pony,” Battie said and stepped into a refuge hole that not even Blair had seen. Blair followed and they pulled in a startled Leveret the moment before a pony passed, a Shetland with sooty locks tended by a boy with a lamp and trailed by four full tubs. Leveret looked a little shorter.
“Lost your hat?” Blair asked.
“Actually, yes.” Mournfully Leveret watched the tubs roll by.
Blair asked Battie, “You can tell when someone’s been in mines before no matter how they’re dressed?”
“With their first step. And whether they’re drunk or not. If they are, I send them up. You’re only as safe as the stupidest man in the mine.”
To join the conversation, Leveret asked, “Why do the men wear clogs? I understand that most people in Wigando, but I’d think that down in a mine they would be clumsy.”
Battie said, “Rockfalls, sir. When the roof comes down on you it doesn’t crush a clog’s wooden sole the way it does a shoe. Then they’re easier to squirm and get your foot out of, too.”
Leveret fell silent.
Walking underground was called traveling. They traveled twenty minutes, encountering only ponies and tub trains. The road became lower and narrower and began to slant down, and the sound of the trains was muffled by the constricted breath of the wind and the press of weight on wooden timbers. Battie halted regularly to hold his lamp where stones packed into dry walls or timbers propped up the roof.
He explained to Leveret, “When we cut the coal, we let out firedamp. A funny word, isn’t it, gentlemen?”
“It is a funny word,” Leveret agreed.
“As if it would put out fire.” Battie poked into a niche.
“And it does?”
“From the German
Dampf
. Meaning vapor. Explosive gas.”
“Oh,” said Leveret.
“Methane. It likes to hide in cracks and along the roof. The point of a safety lamp is that the gauze dissipates enough of the heat so that you won’t set the gas off. Still, the best way to find it is with a flame.” Battie lifted the lamp by a rough column of rock and studied the light wavering behind the screen of the gauze. “See how it’s a little longer, a little bluer? That’s methane that’s burning.”
“Should we evacuate?” Leveret asked.
The flame lit Battie’s grin as he pulled off his vest and fanned the rock. He went back in the tunnel and returned a minute later with a folded frame of canvas and wood that he opened into a standing panel that redirected the flow of air at the rock.
“Mr. Leveret, if we closed a pit every time we found a whiff of firedamp, England would freeze.” He took the ledger from his pack and noted the time, location and amount of gas. “We watch the firedamp, we chase the firedamp, and we don’t let it blow us to kingdom come.”
From here the road got worse, which didn’t slow Battie in the least. “This is a ‘sit,’ ” he said at a place where the ceiling buckled, and made a note in his book. “This is a ‘creep,’ ” he said where the floor rose, lifting the track. “There’s pressure up and down. We have limestone above and gritstone below. We haven’t lost the coal yet, though.”
The farther they walked the more Blair understood that Battie didn’t need the map. The man knew the Hannay Seam the way a riverman knew a river. Probably his father and grandfather had worked the same coal. A man like Battie knew where the black banks twisted left, right, up and down, or plunged from sight at a geologic fault. He knew the Hannay Seam’s density, cohesion, water content, luster,
“We’re in it now. You’re in the middle of the Hannay Seam, one of the richest coal seams in England,” Battie said. “That’s what’s holding up the roof.”
Black walls. Black roof, too, Blair thought, because coal cushioned timbers better than stone. The irises of his eyes had dilated so that dark became shadow, and shadow took on form. Ahead of Battie a shaggy outline and lamp came from the opposite direction.
“Pony,” Battie said and stepped into a refuge hole that not even Blair had seen. Blair followed and they pulled in a startled Leveret the moment before a pony passed, a Shetland with sooty locks tended by a boy with a lamp and trailed by four full tubs. Leveret looked a little shorter.
“Lost your hat?” Blair asked.
“Actually, yes.” Mournfully Leveret watched the tubs roll by.
Blair asked Battie, “You can tell when someone’s been in mines before no matter how they’re dressed?”
“With their first step. And whether they’re drunk or not. If they are, I send them up. You’re only as safe as the stupidest man in the mine.”
To join the conversation, Leveret asked, “Why do the men wear clogs? I understand that most people in Wigando, but I’d think that down in a mine they would be clumsy.”
Battie said, “Rockfalls, sir. When the roof comes down on you it doesn’t crush a clog’s wooden sole the way it does a shoe. Then they’re easier to squirm and get your foot out of, too.”
Leveret fell silent.
Walking underground was called traveling. They traveled twenty minutes, encountering only ponies and tub trains. The road became lower and narrower and began to slant down, and the sound of the trains was muffled by the constricted breath of the wind and the press of weight on wooden timbers. Battie halted regularly to hold his lamp where stones packed into dry walls or timbers propped up the roof.
He explained to Leveret, “When we cut the coal, we let out firedamp. A funny word, isn’t it, gentlemen?”
“It is a funny word,” Leveret agreed.
“As if it would put out fire.” Battie poked into a niche.
“And it does?”
“From the German
Dampf
. Meaning vapor. Explosive gas.”
“Oh,” said Leveret.
“Methane. It likes to hide in cracks and along the roof. The point of a safety lamp is that the gauze dissipates enough of the heat so that you won’t set the gas off. Still, the best way to find it is with a flame.” Battie lifted the lamp by a rough column of rock and studied the light wavering behind the screen of the gauze. “See how it’s a little longer, a little bluer? That’s methane that’s burning.”
“Should we evacuate?” Leveret asked.
The flame lit Battie’s grin as he pulled off his vest and fanned the rock. He went back in the tunnel and returned a minute later with a folded frame of canvas and wood that he opened into a standing panel that redirected the flow of air at the rock.
“Mr. Leveret, if we closed a pit every time we found a whiff of firedamp, England would freeze.” He took the ledger from his pack and noted the time, location and amount of gas. “We watch the firedamp, we chase the firedamp, and we don’t let it blow us to kingdom come.”
From here the road got worse, which didn’t slow Battie in the least. “This is a ‘sit,’ ” he said at a place where the ceiling buckled, and made a note in his book. “This is a ‘creep,’ ” he said where the floor rose, lifting the track. “There’s pressure up and down. We have limestone above and gritstone below. We haven’t lost the coal yet, though.”
The farther they walked the more Blair understood that Battie didn’t need the map. The man knew the Hannay Seam the way a riverman knew a river. Probably his father and grandfather had worked the same coal. A man like Battie knew where the black banks twisted left, right, up and down, or plunged from sight at a geologic fault. He knew the Hannay Seam’s density, cohesion, water content, luster,
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