CHAPTER XLI.
DESCENDING IN THE SAFETY-CAGE.
All being clad in the uniform of the gnomes of the silver-caverns, we go out to the shaft. A cage is stopped at the top of one of the compartments of the shaft, and its platform stands just on a level with the floor of the building. The cage is a heavy iron frame with grooves on two sides, which fit upon wooden guides run from the top to the bottom of the shaft. Upon these guides the cage runs smoothly through the whole course up and down the shaft, much the same as an elevator in a large hotel is seen to work.
The cage may have but a single floor or platform, or it may have two or three, upon each of which may be hoisted a car loaded with ore, or on which men may be raised or lowered. Those with two platforms are called “double-deckers,” and those with three platforms are called “three-deckers.”
One of the foremen of the mine, the superintendent, or whoever is to be our conductor, groups us upon the cage, showing us where we may safely grasp its iron frame for support, and finally all are in position.
The engineer is standing with one hand on the lever of his engine, watching our proceedings. Our conductor turns toward him with a wave of the hand. Instantly we feel ourselves dropping into the depth and darkness of the shaft.
Our first thought is, that between us and the bottom of the shaft—1500 feet below—we have nothing but the frail platform of the cage, and, instinctively, we tighten our grip upon the iron bars of the cage, determined that, should the bottom drop out, we will be found hanging to the upper works of our strange vehicle.
At the first plunge all is dark, but suspended from the cross-bar of the cage, or in the hands of our conductor, we have a lantern or two, and by the light afforded by these, we soon begin to distinguish the sides of the shaft. Our view is very unsatisfactory, however, as all the timbers on the sides of the compartment appear to be darting swiftly upward toward the top of the shaft; just as trees, fences, and telegraph poles seem to be running backwards when we are flying through the country on a lightning-express train.
Our speed is probably not half that at which the cage is lowered when its only load is an empty ore-car, a few beams of timber, or some such freight; but we are not anxious to go any faster. In the early days, on receiving a wink from a foreman, an engineer would drop men down a shaft at such a rate of speed that their breath was almost taken away, but at present, no superintendent on the Comstock allows any such dangerous fooling.
As soon as we have descended a few feet into the shaft, we see nothing of the steam, which, rushing out at its top, had presented so formidable an appearance above. It really amounts to nothing. It is merely the moist, warm breath of the mine coming in contact with the cold air at the surface. It is the same as the steam rising from a spring in winter, or as one’s breath blown into the air on a frosty morning. This steam is seen at the mouth of the Consolidated Virginia shaft because it is what is called an “upcast,” that is, the draft in it is upward. At the Ophir shaft no steam is seen, as it is a “downcast,” the surface air is drawn or sucked in at its mouth. The air that enters the mouth of the Ophir shaft comes out at the mouth of the Consolidated Virginia shaft.
As we dart along down the shaft, we soon begin to pass the stations of the first or upper levels. Our speed is such that we see but little. We get a glimpse of what appears to be a room of considerable size, see a few men standing about with candles or lanterns in their hands, hear voices, and probably the clank of machinery. An instant after, all is again smooth sailing, and we see only the upward-fleeing sides of the shaft. Then there is another flash of many lights, a glimpse of half-naked men, a murmur of voices, and a clash of machinery, and we have passed another station. It is much like running past a railroad station in the night.