David's Little Lad

by L. T. Meade

The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril—in vain for their comrades’ brave voices—in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes.

Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost harsh by some pent-up emotion—“I’m going on, though ’tis death. Shut the doors upon me,” he added, “and I’ll cut the passage through!”

Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart.

“I’ll go, for another—and I—and I,” said many. And back went the brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at a passage, in many places not three feet high.

I don’t know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave collier’s voice, I had hope—from that moment the worst of my heart agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers—of that frightful gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest pitch—their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last—at last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the wall of coal. What a moment of excitement—longing—fear! What a joy, which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love were successful—that back again from the arms of a terrible death, would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly see—could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past; men with coal-black faces—rigid, immovable, as though carved in granite.

Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom was recognised by the under-viewer’s wife.

Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky.

When mother saw David, she fainted.

I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms.