Page 91 of The Shadow Key

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere (1798)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The explosion came just as they reached Rowena’s cottage, and Henry watched the smoke billow from the hillside of the mine with a rising sense of horror. By the time he and Rowena arrived at Plas Helyg it was all commotion; the servants’ trap was being prepared, loaded with supplies – blankets, food and water, soap, spare clothes, anything that might help – and when Rowena agreed to stay behind and follow later in the cart, Henry and Linette rode ahead as fast as the horses would carry them.

Henry has never had to deal with a disaster such as this, but he already imagines what he will find – at best, superficial cuts and grazes, deeper lesions into flesh and muscle, broken bones; at worst, collapsed lungs, crushed skulls, miners trapped under mounds of earth and rubble, unable to catch their breath. He tries not to think of the miners he saw during his last visit; their legs wrapped in chains, dangling from the creviced ceiling, what such an almighty force of gravity might do to such a limb …

The site is a swarm of activity, and Henry and Linette tie Gwydion and Pryderi as far away from the cavern entrance as possible to shield them from the cloying dust. As they walk to the top, the damage does not look so very bad – the cavern entrance is clear of rubble, and the miners, though dirty and bloodied, appear blessedly unharmed.

But that does not mean those below should be as lucky.

At least twenty miners have managed to emerge above ground, but Henry knows from his visit with Linette that he saw far more than that. For those he does see, he begins to catalogue injuries. Many possess cuts and grazes as Henry originally surmised, a man holds a dirty rag to his nose. One lad of no more than sixteen nurses an arm to his chest, holding it at a crooked angle. Nearby a donkey stands, swaying, bloody scratches on its bony knees. Henry shares a worried look with Linette, and she shakes her head in dismay.

‘Where is Mr Lambeth?’

A miner limps by, and Linette stretches out her arm to touch his. ‘Hari, ble mae Mr Lambeth?’ she asks, and with a grimace the man points over his shoulder before lumbering away.

The bewigged man is standing near a cart piled with felled tree trunks – Pennant’s offering, Henry surmises – with his leather folder poised, pencil in his gloved hand. Lambeth does not notice their approach, so absorbed is he in his papers, but when Linette calls his name he looks up, and his already sour face shifts into an expression of deep annoyance.

‘This is not a place for a woman.’

‘What happened?’ Linette asks, ignoring the comment, and the agent looks between her and Henry, lips settling into a thin unpleasant line.

‘There wasn’t enough room to get the wood down to build the pulleys, so we set off some gunpowder in the smallest cavern to speed things along. It appears the site was not properly prepared, and the cavern collapsed.’

Henry shifts his knapsack from one hand to the other. ‘How many still below?’

Lambeth levels him with a look. ‘You’re here to offer your expertise, I see. Well, I’ll not refuse your help though I would appreciate it if she does not interfere. As I said, this is no place for a woman.’

‘And this is no time for such nonsense,’ Linette snaps, and Lambeth’s beetle-eyes grow wide. ‘I know the men, I can offer comfort. I have people from Plas Helyg coming with provisions. Believe me, I’m not here to be idle.’

‘Fine,’ he says, shutting the calfskin folder with irritable force. ‘Do as you will. But Lord Tresilian will not be pleased when he arrives.’

‘Damn my cousin! I’ll do what I like.’

‘Don’t you always?’

‘How many are still below?’ Henry cuts in, for he can see Linette’s temper rising by the second and does not fancy seeing how far her viper’s tongue might carry her this time.

‘Thankfully the damage seems only to have centred in the smaller caverns,’ Lambeth replies. ‘They’re the newest, where we were trying to expand. You’ll be of no use down there, I promise you. Leave it to those more experienced in such matters. You can help with aiding those above ground while the others dig the rest out.’

It is, then, as he feared. Through gritted teeth Henry repeats, ‘How many men, Mr Lambeth?’ and with a belligerent sigh the agent flips open the folder to a list of names, counts under his breath.

‘I’ve accounted for forty-three. We’re still missing seventeen.’

The rest of the villagers appeared over the next few hours. For those who were injured, their presence was a comfort. For the rest they were a hindrance, disturbing the work of the other miners who were trying to focus on their rescue attempts, and an irritation to Lambeth who could not yet account for the missing. It was Linette who offered succour, Linette who deflected their hampering machinations, and her strength and patience were everything Henry needed – while she distracted worried wives and mothers, he could concentrate on treating the miners without suffering the fuss of their kin.

And they let him. They let him! He had been afraid at first that their stubborn pride and wilful dislike would rule over their need for treatment, but the miners – perhaps seeing little choice in the matter – acquiesced to Henry’s care without argument. He stitched cuts, set broken arms. One man (Henry had to bite down his anger) had lost a foot, the remains of a chain still wrapped around his leg. But he treated them, one after the other, and Henry felt a sense of deep elation, the closest he has felt to contentment since arriving in Penhelyg – this is what he is good at, this is where his talents can be tried, and it is a relief to find himself useful again in the only way he knows how. No, his operating table is not made of smooth polished wood, and no, he does not work in a semicircular room filled with benches of learned men. Henry works now in an open field where tall grasses rustle in the breeze and distant cows bellow, observed by people who cannot rightly fathom what they are seeing, but despite it all Henry is in his element. And the miners seem to recognise this, the speed and skill with which Henry works; often he receives a word of thanks, a clasp of the hand. They look him in the eye, not with distrust and hatred but with respect and gratitude.

Of course, the external injuries have been easier to deal with, and the more minor ones can be left in Rowena’s capable hands. But, at length, those who have been recovered from deeper within the caverns are brought to him, and here Henry’s skill has been tested. One boy came to him with what Henry suspected were broken ribs, a man of middling age with a burst eardrum. Once more Henry was obliged to refer to his Welsh dictionary and his translated notes so he might understand the internal pain of his patients. But, somehow, he has managed.

He has managed it all.

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