It will be understood that when the descending cage stuck upon the runners, as the rope continued to unwind from the pulley it hung down in a loop, descending lower and lower, until the engine was stopped by the meeting of the cages. This loop or 'bight' was naturally mistaken by Johnson for the two ropes, and he did not discover until he found himself in the fearful situation described, that he had entered through the brattice into shaft A below instead of above where the cages were fixed. There he hung then, over a yawning abyss many fathoms deep—closed from above by the locked cages—all below looming dark and horrible.
None of course knew his danger; his hands were chilled by the freezing rope; his arms, already fully exercised, began to ache and stiffen with the strain and intense cold, added to the bewildering sense of hopeless peril. Good need there was then that pluck and endurance be found in the Shaftman! His square sturdy frame and unflinching spirit were now on their trial. Had his presence of mind gone or his nerve failed, he must have been paralysed with fear, lost his hold, and been dashed into an unrecognisable mass.
But self-preservation is a potent law, and working in such a spirit he framed a desperate plan for a struggle for life. The guiders running down the inside of the shaft are fastened on to cross-beams about six feet apart. Johnson hoped that if he could reach one of these, he might obtain a footing whereon to rest, and by their means clamber up to the opening in the brattice-work. How to reach them was the next question that flashed lightning-like through his brain. This he essayed to do by causing the rope to oscillate from side to side, hoping thus to bring himself within reach of one of the cross-beams. And now commenced a fearful swing. Gaining a lodgment with one knee in the loop, he set the rope swinging by the motion of his body, grasping out wildly with one hand each time he approached the side of the shaft. Once, twice, thrice! he felt the cold icy face of the 'tubbing,' but as yet nothing except slimy boards met his grasp, affording no more hold than the glassy side of an iceberg. At last he touched a cross-beam, to which his iron muscles, now fully roused to their work, held on like a vice. He soon found footing on the beam below, and then letting go the treacherous rope, rested in comparative security before beginning the perilous ascent. With incredible endurance of nerve and muscle he clambered upward alongside the guider, by the aid of the cross-beams, and by thrusting his hands through the crevices of the timber. In this manner he reached the opening into shaft B, where the cage in which he had descended was waiting. Chilled, cramped, and frozen, and barely able to give the signal, he was drawn to the pit-mouth prostrate and exhausted. The boy was rescued unhurt by a man being lowered to the top of the cages in shaft A. Johnson suffered no ill consequences, and though a hero above many known to fame, he still pursues his hardy task as a Shaftman; while beneath the homely exterior still lives the pluck and sinew of iron that did not fail him even in his Fearful Swing.
[TO MY ROBIN REDBREAST.]
The following lines are taken from The Captive Chief, a Tale of Flodden Field, by James Thomson (H. H. Blair, Alnwick, 1871).
Now keenly blows the northern blast;
Like winter hail the leaves fall fast,
And my pet Robin's come at last
To our old thorn;
With warbling throat and eye upcast
He greets the morn;
Like some true friend you come to cheer,
When all around is dark and drear.
And oh! what friend to me more dear
Than your sweet sel'?
Your mellow voice falls on my ear
Like some sweet spell.
Oft at the gloaming's pensive hour,
When clouds above me darkly lower,
I've sought a seat in some lone bower,
With heart opprest;
You soothed me with your magic power,
And calmed my breast.
When Morning dons her sober gray
To usher in the coming day,
And Phœbus shines with sickly ray
On all around,
No warblers greet him from the spray
With joyous sound.