Germinal - Emile Zola [257]
‘The pit’s done for,’ replied the overman.
He blurted out the story of the disaster, while the engineer listened in disbelief and gave a shrug. Who’d ever heard of tubbing coming apart of its own accord like that? They must be exaggerating, he would have to take a look.
‘Presumably there’s nobody still down there?’
Dansaert looked shifty. No, nobody. At least he hoped not. Still, some miners might have got delayed.
‘But in God’s name why did you come up, then? You don’t just leave your men like that!’
He immediately gave orders for the lamps to be counted. Three hundred and twenty-two had been issued that morning, and only two hundred and fifty-five had been handed in. However, several miners admitted that they had left theirs behind after dropping them in the general panic. They tried to have a roll-call, but it was impossible to establish precise figures: some miners had already rushed away, others did not hear their names. Nobody could agree on who was missing. Twenty of them perhaps, or forty. But for Négrel one thing was clear: there were still men below. If you leaned over the edge of the shaft, you could make out their screams coming up through the debris from the collapsed tubbing, despite the noise of the falling water.
Négrel’s first thoughts were to send for M. Hennebeau and to shut the pit. But it was too late: miners had already raced off to Village Two Hundred and Forty as though they were being pursued by the collapsing mine itself and had spread alarm through every household. Groups of women and an assortment of old men and children were all rushing down the hill towards them, sobbing and screaming. They had to be driven back, and a cordon of supervisors was detailed to hold them off so as to prevent them from hampering operations. Many of the workers who had come up from the mine were still standing there in a daze, oblivious to the fact that they might change their clothes, and frozen with fear as they contemplated this terrifying hole in which they had nearly lost their lives. Distraught women milled round them, quoting names and besieging them with questions. Had so-and-so been down there? And this person? And that person? They had no idea and simply mumbled, shivering violently and making wild gestures as though to ward off some ghastly vision that haunted them. The crowd was growing rapidly, and the sound of wailing filled the surrounding roads. Up on the spoil-heap, in Bonnemort’s shelter, a man was sitting on the ground: it was Souvarine, who had stayed to watch.
‘Names! Just tell us the names!’ cried the women, their voices choked with tears.
Négrel appeared briefly and said:
‘As soon as we have the names, we’ll let you know. But all is not lost. Everyone will be rescued…I’m on my way down.’
Then, in silent anguish, the crowd waited. And, indeed, with quiet bravery, the engineer was preparing to go down. He had had the cage unhitched and ordered a small tub to be attached to the end of the cable instead; and, suspecting that his lamp would be extinguished by the water, he instructed the men to hang another one underneath, where it would be protected.
Some deputies were helping with these preparations, shaking all over, their faces white and drained.
‘You’re coming down with me, Dansaert,’ Négrel said curtly.
But when he saw that none of them had the courage and watched the overman swaying on his feet, faint with terror, he brushed him aside with contempt.
‘On second thoughts, you’ll only get in my way…I’d rather go alone.’
Already he had climbed into the narrow bucket dangling on the end of the cable; and, holding his lamp in one hand and the communication rope in the other, he called out to the operator himself:
‘Gently now!’
The engine started the pulleys turning, and Négrel disappeared down into the chasm, where the wretched souls could still be heard screaming.
At the top nothing had shifted, and he noted that the upper tubbing was in good condition. As he hung in the middle of the shaft, he swivelled this way and that, shining his light on the sides: so few of the