Family of the Empire Read online

  Family of the Empire

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Publisher’s Note

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Family of the Empire

  Sheelagh Kelly

  For my dear husband, James.

  Publisher’s Note

  Family of the Empire is set during the Boer War, and as such reflects offensive views and language common at the time. The author and publisher do not endorse or support these views or terms, but they are retained so as to preserve the integrity and power of the work.

  1

  There were others in the wooden cage besides him. Suspended in pitch blackness, he could not see them, but could smell their tense mood mixed with yesterday’s sweat and pipe tobacco, shared their apprehension in the knowledge that any moment all could be plunged to eternity. Deeper, the cage and its mute occupants descended into the chasm. Now came the scent of wet earth, the trickle of water, the reek of explosive. He wondered, as he sank deeper still, if they would get him today. So far he had managed to avoid them but one could not fight the inevitable.

  A jolt signified that the cage had reached the bottom. Here were flickering tallow candles, yet to his uninitiated eyes the figures around him remained amorphous. Trying to avoid contact with anyone, he stumbled through the murk to the deputy’s boxhole to receive instruction. Then, equipped with orders, he embarked upon a tunnel, tripping occasionally over the ropes and pulleys underfoot, grazing his head as overhead timbers suddenly dropped in height.

  After rambling seemingly for miles he finally located the ventilation doors he had been seeking, and crouched down to wait. Away from the shaft, the air was hot and uncomfortable. There came faint groans and rumblings from the earth; his vivid imagination compared it to being trapped in giant intestines. Wrapped in darkness the mind played tricks. Averse to being up at such an hour he fought the tendency to yield to his sluggardly nature. Only the fear of what might be lurking kept him awake.

  Gradually, though, the weight of the darkness forced his eyelids to sag. His head began to droop – and that was when they made their move, swooping silently like barn owls. Jerked awake, he found each limb clamped by rough talons, yelled and tried to kick out to prevent his trousers being hauled to his ankles, voiced even louder protest as his manhood was laid bare for inspection.

  ‘Eh, not bad for a young un!’ The gasp held admiration.

  There was a snigger. ‘What’s tha talking about, it’s bigger than thine!’

  A bout of scuffling and laughter ensued.

  Alarmed further, that his attackers could obviously see him whilst he could make out no human form, he opened his eyes to their utmost aperture but encountered only a solid wall of pitch. To struggle was useless; they continued to pinion his limbs and made closer examination, their comments becoming even more lewd, until one of them grabbed a handful of coal dust, applying it with deft intimacy. Deeply embarrassed at having such attention paid to him he begged to be released, his melodic Irish brogue contrasting with their gruff Yorkshire tones.

  ‘Dat’s enough, fellas! Aw, will ye please have a heart!’

  Friendlier now, warm even, the hands and voices invited freedom, but the rumble of wheels and the jingle of harness interrupted further ado. Another had joined the audience. ‘Bring him over here and gi’ us a look at him!’

  He felt the sudden change in mood, real danger threatened now.

  ‘We’ve done him,’ said one of his attackers, though in wary tone.

  ‘Is tha deaf? I said, fetch him over here!’

  After some hesitation, he was bundled to another place, calling in vain for them to let him go. Still, he could see little, but his nostrils detected the musky whiff of pony, and the persistent draught on his skin told him he was under fresh review.

  A crude oath preceded the statement. ‘I’ve seen bigger on me two-year-old nephew.’

  Beyond his discomfort, he sensed that others shared his humiliation. One of them even spoke in his defence, albeit subduedly. ‘Nay, it’s all reet.’

  Another tried to lighten the situation. ‘Bill thought it were like one of his dad’s prize carrots. Mindst, he would, the scratty thing he’s got.’ There was the dull thud of flesh being pummelled, and nervous laughter.

  ‘Carrot, eh? Let’s see if t’hoss thinks so.’ The dangerous one yanked on his pony’s bridle, attempting to bring its muzzle into contact with the victim’s flesh. ‘Away you gormless sods, hold him up! Come on, Prince, have a bite o’ this.’

  Terrified at the thought of being emasculated by equine teeth, his scream echoed down the tunnel.

  ‘Let him go!’ came the vain order from one of his erstwhile assailants.

  More swearing and jingling of harness. Unsettled by its rough treatment, the pit pony whinnied and tossed its head.

  Probyn Kilmaster did not mind a joke but this was beyond endurance. Reaching into a cubby-hole for a hidden candle – no safety lamps at this pit – he shed light on the tense proceedings. ‘Leave him alone, Judson! Lad’s taken his whack.’

  Still gripped, the fearful victim saw for the first time his attackers, one of them now apparently his saviour, a youth with the family name of Kilmaster whose members were well known in the village for their various shades of red hair. In the eerie glow he recognized one or two of the others also, though only by sight, for they were outside his circle.

  All of them, though, were familiar with Judson, a notorious, sixteen-year-old thug, who was now wrenching viciously at his pony’s harness to force its compliance.

  Probyn knew the victim Michael Melody by sight but, coming from a staunch Wesleyan enclave, had been forbidden to associate with Catholics. He had only joined the initiation team because this was what happened to every new boy. However, a light-hearted prank had now become intimidation, and Kilmaster detested any form of bullying. So, instinct overriding indoctrination, he spoke up for Melody, telling his friends: ‘Let him go, lads.’

  Judson was having trouble controlling the stocky Welsh pony and hurled a vile epithet at the other. ‘I haven’t finished with him yet!’

  ‘Well, we have,’ said Probyn, in his brave, rational manner. Though he himself might let slip the rare curse in anger, he abhorred such violent crudity as offered by Judson. However, with such a thug one was forced to apply restraint if not wishing to induce physical assault. ‘Old Wilson’ll skelp us if he finds we’ve been larkin’. Here’s your cap, young un.’ Nonchalantly, he helped the victim to his feet, speaking as man to boy, though he was only seventeen and Melody barely two years his junior.

  Judson shot a look of venom, but was distracted by the obstreperous pony. Launching into a bout of expletives he began to thrash it about the head with a switch. There was a high-pitched whinny of pain, the animal lurched backwards and with a great din the tub attached to its harness was derailed.

  ‘Serve him right, cruel swine,’ came the rash utterance from one of the former attackers, courageous amongst number. ‘Aw look, Probe, he’s cut poor divil’s face open.’

  Melody wondered how they could see so much whilst he remained blind. Would he ever achieve his pit eyesight? But he was too busy struggling to
cover his own nakedness to worry about an animal.

  Judson’s gravelly voice spat derision, and he merely scooped up a handful of coal dust to staunch the wound, daubing it roughly on the pony’s nose. ‘He’ll live! Come and help us get this corf back on t’rail.’

  ‘Toss off,’ came the impudent reply, and all bar Melody pelted off down the tunnel.

  ‘Bastards, I’ll do for thee!’ bawled Judson, and was about to pursue them, when out of the blackness loomed the deputy, Wilson, his face resembling a wild, limestone crag.

  ‘What’s all this foul language about? Judson, you dozy little—!’ He would have sworn himself had not the manager, a stalwart of the chapel, been in the pit, but instead he had to suffice with brandishing his yardstick. ‘Get this back on track before Mr Lewis sees it!’ The manager’s random visit intensified Wilson’s ire at finding such incompetence – as if it wasn’t bad enough being Christmas week, everyone in a hurry to be done, safety precautions ignored in the rush to earn extra money.

  ‘It’s this unruly bloody hoss,’ grumbled Judson.

  ‘Less of your cussing and get on with it!’ Wilson turned to inspect the trembling pony.

  Melody shrank back into position by the air doors, hoping to be unnoticed. With the others gone, Judson would doubtless vent his spleen on the only one left behind.

  But the furious Wilson spotted him. ‘Don’t just sit there! Help this naff-head.’

  Caked in black dust, scuttling like a rodent, Melody grasped one side of the heavy tub and, straining and grimacing alongside Judson, managed to heave it back onto the rails, all the while his heart praying to Wilson, please don’t leave me alone with this lunatic!

  Alas, it looked as if this was to be his fate. Having checked that the pony was satisfactorily hitched to the tub, Wilson barked one last comment and turned on his heel.

  Melody battled with his natural shyness. ‘Em, begging your pardon, sir!’ His musical brogue danced along the tunnel.

  A gruff voice came back through the darkness. ‘What’s to do now?’

  The anxious boy wrung his hands. ‘I know how busy ye are with Christmas, Mr Lewis being here an’ all, so I was wondering if I could take a bit of the strain off your shoulders by doing something more useful? Seems an awful waste, paying me to sit and open and shut dese air doors—’

  ‘If you’re after more money—’

  A pained cry. ‘That’s not my intention, sir! I just want to feel I’m earning it fairly.’ Melody tried to sound enthusiastic, though hard work was something he normally avoided. ‘Sure most of the ponies are so bright they can open the doors demselves – and ye did say once I’d got me pit eyesight ye might give me more responsibility.’

  ‘You can see all right now, then?’ asked the disembodied voice.

  ‘Indeed I can, sir!’ The lie tripped out without a quaver.

  ‘Do you know Eddie Redfearn, pony driver?’

  ‘I do.’ Another lie.

  Wilson did not prevaricate further. ‘Go swap places with him, he’s been like a slug in a trance this morning. You’ll find him on Pearson’s road.’ With this he strode off. Melody too beat a hasty departure, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Judson.

  Unable to locate Pearson’s road amongst the warren of other haulage tunnels that ran off the coalface, he eventually found himself at the stables on the pit-bottom, and was regarding it as a comfortable place to sneak a nap when the horse keeper pounced on him. Driven out with fresh instructions, he finally came upon Redfearn and wasted no further time in relaying Wilson’s order. Though, after this burst of alacrity, he adopted a snail’s pace in delivering his tubs, much of this being due to the pony who refused to obey his commands. It turned out to be harder work than he’d anticipated, the tubs having to be shoved part of the way by brute strength before being hitched to the pony. After this he spent most of his time imploring the animal to move.

  It was in such a vein that Probyn Kilmaster happened upon him again. About to trundle past with his own train of corves, he saw who it was and, with a call to his pony to, ‘Whey!’, he applied a wooden chock to the wheels, remarking on Melody’s change of fortune. ‘By heck, you land on your feet don’t you!’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ wailed the lad, indicating his stubborn companion.

  ‘Eh, come out, I’ll show thee.’ The more experienced youth took charge, holding his flattened palm under a velvety muzzle. Not seeming to mind that the offered lump of turnip was tainted by coal dust, the pony became instantly accommodating. There was an awful crunching noise at which Melody grimaced. ‘They all have their own personalities same as us,’ explained Probyn. ‘You just have to get to know ’em. General here only responds to bribery. Here, I’ve found a bit in t’other pocket. Give it him later.’

  Extending his hand through the gloom, Melody felt the lump of vegetable upon his palm and transferred it to his own pocket. The animal observed this, its ears pricked in compliance. ‘Seems to have worked – tanks.’

  Even as he gave assistance, Probyn could not empathize, having a low opinion of one who had to be nannied. He straightened his cap. ‘Don’t know how long he’ll stay sweet with only one bit o’ tunnip, but that’s thy concern.’ Without further ado he turned to go.

  ‘I might be calling on your help again!’ blurted Mick.

  ‘Not after today you won’t. I’m off to be a filler after Christmas.’ Probyn had only remained driving for so long because he liked the ponies, but lately his father had insisted he apply for a man’s job. Removing the brake, he and his train of corves melted into the darkness.

  Eager to maintain the link with this approachable ally, Melody called out – ‘I’m Mick by the way!’ – and received a ghostly response.

  After this, the Irish youth found his passage a little easier. Eventually, he reached his first delivery point, lured to the collier by the tap-tapping sound of pick against coal. Here the roof dropped to a height of four feet, prohibiting the entry of the pony. Crouching, he moved as far as he could into the stall, then studied the full tub that awaited him, wondering how he was going to shift it. To his great surprise he found that he had begun to see things more clearly now and for a moment he paused to watch the two men at work. Stripped to their shorts, their torsos gleamed with black rivulets of sweat. One broke off to take a long swig from his water bottle, his jutting Adam’s apple bobbing up and down beneath the glistening skin. The other turned from his awkward kneeling position to observe the onlooker, and issued instruction to the boy he had not seen before.

  ‘Don’t take that corf yet, love, we’ve another nigh on ready for thee. What’s tha name?’

  A shy utterance. ‘Mick.’

  The collier used the back of his arm to wipe black sweat from his forehead. ‘Well, Mick, you might as well start polishing top layer of t’other one while you’re waiting, it’ll save time later.’ At the boy’s confusion, he added lightly, ‘You’ve heard Mr Lewis’s here? Then you must’ve been told he likes to see every tub immaculate, won’t let it out of t’pit unless there’s a nice, neat, polished surface he can see his face in. Will he, Fred?’

  His thirst slaked, Fred’s lips broke suction with the glass bottle in a satisfied gasp and he rammed the cork home. ‘Just do the top layer, mindst. It doesn’t matter what it looks like underneath.’ He resumed work, his dour face an image of the rugged black wall before him.

  Though this was only his third day underground Michael Melody had worked two years on the surface and was wise to such tricks. He grinned. ‘Would dat be after I clean the windows or before?’

  ‘Eh, I can see there’s no fooling this un,’ sighed the first hewer, and continued sounding the coal with his pick, testing how difficult it would be to remove.

  His partner hacked at the big lumps of coal that the first had hewn, splitting off the muck with hammer and wedge. Happy for this restful interlude, Mick watched in admiration of these men. Once the lumps were the required size, the man seized a shovel
and set to topping up the half-filled tub, grunting and wheezing for, with less than a foot between the top of the tub and the roof, his body was hunched and deformed. Once finished he told Mick to drag both tubs away. Pausing for breath, his ribcage undergoing a rapid rise and fall beneath the wiry body, he leaned on his callused knees and asked, ‘How many corves are you leaving us?’

  ‘Em, three,’ came Mick’s quiet reply.

  ‘Any chance of you bringing us a few extra? We’ve nearly got enough to fill another now and by the time you get round to us again we’ll be sat twiddling our diddlers. We’ll make it worth your while with a few bob when we get paid.’

  Delighted at the prospect of a bonus, Mick agreed and with great effort began to manoeuvre each of the full tubs back to the pony, then hooked them up to the chain at its rear. Finding it once again necessary to apply bribery, he gave the solitary piece of turnip to General, hoping its effects would be lasting, then it was off to the next haulage road.

  His return with five empty tubs provoked much gratitude from the colliers, who promised a florin each from their Christmas wages, though they failed to mention that his action might make him unpopular with others.

  Pleased with himself, and imagining what this bonus would buy, Mick was travelling back to off-load his full corves, when he came across Probyn Kilmaster again. The road was badly laid here and one of Probyn’s tubs had come off the rail. The auburn-haired youth had enlisted the help of two colliers to get it back on the track and was being castigated for taking them away from their livelihoods.

  ‘If you laid your road a bit better this wouldn’t have happened,’ Mick heard Probyn’s breathless grumble.

  This provoked anger from the colliers. ‘You clever little snot, you can do it thissen!’ And they abandoned him struggling to keep the full tub upright.

  ‘Oh, get back in your bloomin’ ’oile,’ muttered Probyn under his breath.

  Seizing the opportunity to repay a favour, Mick left his pony and rushed forth to help the older youth.

  After lengthy exertion, the two managed to get the tub back on the rail, then stood back to catch their breath, appraising each other.