Germinal - Emile Zola [169]
Jean-Bart was not as big as Le Voreux, but in the opinion of the engineers the new plant and machinery had made it a fine pit. Not only had the shaft been widened by a metre and a half and taken down to a depth of seven hundred and eight metres, it had been completely re-equipped with a new winding-engine, new cages and new fittings, and all to the very latest specifications. Moreover, there was even a hint of conscious elegance in the way things had been designed: the screening-shed had a carved frieze, the headgear had been adorned with a clock, the pit-head and the engine-house had the rounded contours of a Renaissance chapel, and the chimney above them was spiral-shaped and constructed from a mosaic of black and red brick. The pump had been located in the other mine-shaft belonging to the concession, the disused Gaston-Marie pit, which was now used solely for drainage. Jean-Bart had only two subsidiary shafts, to the right and left of the winding-shaft, one for the steam-driven ventilator and the other for the emergency ladders.
That morning Chaval had arrived first, as early as three o’clock, and had gone round sowing the seed of dissent among his comrades and trying to persuade them that they ought to imitate the Montsou miners and demand an increase of five centimes per tub. Soon the four hundred underground workers had left the changing-room and streamed into the pit-head hall amid much shouting and gesticulating. Those who wanted to work were standing there in their bare feet holding their lamps and clutching a pick or a shovel under their other arm; while the remainder, still in their clogs and with a coat over their shoulders on account of the bitter cold, were barring the way to the pit-shaft. The deputies were shouting themselves hoarse in their attempts to restore order, begging the miners to be reasonable and not to prevent those who had the good sense and decency to want to work from duly doing so.
But Chaval lost his temper when he saw Catherine in her jacket and trousers, with her hair tucked into her blue cap. When he had got up earlier, he had ordered her roughly to stay in bed. She was dismayed at the thought of a stoppage and had followed him nevertheless, for he never passed on any money to her and she often had to support both of them; and what would become of her if she was no longer earning? One thing in particular terrified her, the prospect of ending up in the brothel at Marchiennes, which is what happened to putters who had no money and nowhere to sleep.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ Chaval screamed.
She answered haltingly that she had no other source of income and that she wanted to work.
‘So you’re going to cross me, are you, you bitch?…You can go home this minute, or I’ll bloody come and kick your backside for you all the way there!’
She backed nervously away but did not leave, determined to see how things would turn out.
Deneulin was now coming down the stairs from the screening-shed. Despite the poor light cast by the lanterns he took in the scene at a glance, the shadowy mass of people whose every face he knew, the hewers, the onsetters, the banksmen, the putters, down to the youngest pit-boy. In the great hall, which was still clean and pristine, normal activity was in a state of suspended animation: the winding-engine, fully primed, was letting off little whistles of steam; the cages hung from motionless cables; and the tubs, abandoned in mid-journey, were cluttering up the cast-iron floor. Only about eighty lamps had been claimed, the others were still burning in the lamp-room. But no doubt a single word from him would suffice, and the regular routine would resume once more.
‘So what’s this all about then, boys?’ he asked in a loud voice. ‘What’s the problem? Tell me, I’m sure we can sort it out.’
As a rule he adopted a paternal air when dealing with his men, even though he made them work hard. Authoritarian and