CHAPTER XLI.

DESCENDING IN THE SAFETY-CAGE.

All being clad in the uniform of the gnomes of the silver-caverns, we go out to the shaft. A cage is stopped at the top of one of the compartments of the shaft, and its platform stands just on a level with the floor of the building. The cage is a heavy iron frame with grooves on two sides, which fit upon wooden guides run from the top to the bottom of the shaft. Upon these guides the cage runs smoothly through the whole course up and down the shaft, much the same as an elevator in a large hotel is seen to work.

The cage may have but a single floor or platform, or it may have two or three, upon each of which may be hoisted a car loaded with ore, or on which men may be raised or lowered. Those with two platforms are called “double-deckers,” and those with three platforms are called “three-deckers.”

One of the foremen of the mine, the superintendent, or whoever is to be our conductor, groups us upon the cage, showing us where we may safely grasp its iron frame for support, and finally all are in position.

The engineer is standing with one hand on the lever of his engine, watching our proceedings. Our conductor turns toward him with a wave of the hand. Instantly we feel ourselves dropping into the depth and darkness of the shaft.

Our first thought is, that between us and the bottom of the shaft—1500 feet below—we have nothing but the frail platform of the cage, and, instinctively, we tighten our grip upon the iron bars of the cage, determined that, should the bottom drop out, we will be found hanging to the upper works of our strange vehicle.

At the first plunge all is dark, but suspended from the cross-bar of the cage, or in the hands of our conductor, we have a lantern or two, and by the light afforded by these, we soon begin to distinguish the sides of the shaft. Our view is very unsatisfactory, however, as all the timbers on the sides of the compartment appear to be darting swiftly upward toward the top of the shaft; just as trees, fences, and telegraph poles seem to be running backwards when we are flying through the country on a lightning-express train.

Our speed is probably not half that at which the cage is lowered when its only load is an empty ore-car, a few beams of timber, or some such freight; but we are not anxious to go any faster. In the early days, on receiving a wink from a foreman, an engineer would drop men down a shaft at such a rate of speed that their breath was almost taken away, but at present, no superintendent on the Comstock allows any such dangerous fooling.

As soon as we have descended a few feet into the shaft, we see nothing of the steam, which, rushing out at its top, had presented so formidable an appearance above. It really amounts to nothing. It is merely the moist, warm breath of the mine coming in contact with the cold air at the surface. It is the same as the steam rising from a spring in winter, or as one’s breath blown into the air on a frosty morning. This steam is seen at the mouth of the Consolidated Virginia shaft because it is what is called an “upcast,” that is, the draft in it is upward. At the Ophir shaft no steam is seen, as it is a “downcast,” the surface air is drawn or sucked in at its mouth. The air that enters the mouth of the Ophir shaft comes out at the mouth of the Consolidated Virginia shaft.

As we dart along down the shaft, we soon begin to pass the stations of the first or upper levels. Our speed is such that we see but little. We get a glimpse of what appears to be a room of considerable size, see a few men standing about with candles or lanterns in their hands, hear voices, and probably the clank of machinery. An instant after, all is again smooth sailing, and we see only the upward-fleeing sides of the shaft. Then there is another flash of many lights, a glimpse of half-naked men, a murmur of voices, and a clash of machinery, and we have passed another station. It is much like running past a railroad station in the night.

Sometimes our conductor is hailed by some one at a station as we dart past. We hear the voice, but distinguish no words. The conductor, however, has understood, and makes answer. As he replies, we drop away from the sound of his voice at such a rapid rate that his words are drawn out into sounds which we can hardly understand, though we are standing by his side. The answer, which is left scattered along up the shaft, is finally gathered in at the station for which it was intended, and is there put together and understood.

When we have descended to such a depth that from one thousand to twelve hundred feet of cable have been paid out from the reel above, we begin to experience quite a novel sensation. This is the “spring” of the cable.

Most persons have observed the very active bobbing motion of a toy ball suspended from an india-rubber string. The motion of our cage, hanging at the end of the cable, is much the same. The less one has of this peculiar motion the more he enjoys it. When this motion sets in, we at once begin to speculate in regard to the probable amount of “stretch” to be found in a first-class steel-wire cable—how far it may stretch before reaching the breaking point. It may be no more than 500 feet to the bottom of the shaft, but we feel that we do not care to risk falling even that short distance.

However, should the cable really break, there would be no danger, we should not fall. Attached to the upper part of the cage is a safety-apparatus designed expressly to prevent accidents of this nature. At the instant that the cable parted there would be released powerful springs which would throw out on each side of the shaft an eccentric, toothed wheel. These wheels, biting into the guides on each side, would instantly stop and hold the cage, block it fast in the shaft, as the wheels are of such a shape that the greater the weight and downward pressure upon the cage, the tighter they hold. In case of the cable breaking, we should not fall an inch, perhaps not half an inch—thanks to that life-saving invention, the safety-cage!

When the safety-cage was first introduced on the Comstock, I had the pleasure of assisting in making a test of the efficacy of the safety-apparatus at the Savage mine. We attached the cage to the iron cable by means of a large hempen rope.

This done, the superintendent and a gentleman present, who was in search of excitement, got upon the cage, and we lowered them into the mouth of the shaft, which was 1,000 feet in depth. We at the surface, who were conducting the experiment, then asked the superintendent and his companion if they were ready to be “launched into eternity,” and receiving an affirmative reply, a brawny-armed miner, standing ready with a big broad-ax, severed the rope at a single blow. The cage dropped less than an inch, we above were all glad the experiment was over.

Had the safety apparatus failed to work, we at the surface would doubtless have all been summoned as witnesses when the coroner held his inquest.

In case of a train of railroad cars getting off the track, we never know where we shall bring up; we may go over an embankment or may be dragged against a point of rocks, but when a cable breaks while we are descending a shaft, we stop exactly where we happen to be when the accident occurs. Thus, as the sailor in a storm at sea pities the poor wretches who are on shore, so may the miner pity those persons above ground who travel on railroads.

In former times, however, previous to the introduction of the safety-cage in the Comstock mines, the breaking of a cable was an accident more dreaded and more dreadful than almost any other. There was no dodging when a cable parted. All who were on the cage must go to the bottom of the shaft. There the cage would be torn to pieces and driven through platforms of plank three or four inches in thickness into the “sump” or well of the shaft, where all who were not killed outright, were drowned.

Whether half a dozen men or a dozen were on the cage, it nearly always happened that all were killed. If any did in any instance escape, it was in such a horribly mangled condition that they were maimed for life. No wonder, then, that the miner every day of his life, and as often as he goes up and down the great shafts, blesses in his heart the inventor of the safety-cage!

[Illustration: HOISTING CAGES AND CARS IN SILVER MINES.]

We have been a long time in the shaft, though it takes but a very short time to make the actual descent. There is an occasional flash of lights, hum of voices, and clash of machinery, as described above, when the motion of the cage begins to “slow down,” and a moment after this is noticed it stops exactly on a level with the floor of the station, 1,500 feet below the surface of the earth. We can hardly realize that we are standing at such a great depth below the upper world and the light of day.

Before us is what is called the “Station.”

A ‘station’ is the place of landing at each level of the mine (the levels are generally about 100 feet apart), and it is at the station that the cage stops to take on or let off passengers, to take on cars loaded with ore that are going up, or to put off empty cars that are going down. The station is generally a large and roomy apartment, the walls of which are ceiled with rough boards, and the roof of which shows heavy supporting beams.

It looks not unlike the interior of some of the large, rude wayside-inns seen in places in California on mountain roads. Hats, coats, shirts, and many similar articles are seen hanging upon nails driven into the walls, and two or three large coal-oil lamps fixed in brackets, render the place light and cheerful.

Upon the floor of the station (it has a floor as good as would be seen in most houses), ranged along the walls are seen boxes of candles, coils of fuse, and many other mining stores. There is also a large cask containing ice-water, with a tin dipper hanging on a nail near at hand. The station is a sort of lounging place, where the men who happen to have nothing to do for a few minutes stop to hear the news from the surface. Here there is more chat and sociability than in any other part of the mine. The reports of the sales of stocks in the San Francisco Stock Board are brought to the office of the mine as soon as they are telegraphed to the city, and about the time the reports arrive, you will hear the men at the station anxiously inquiring the price of stocks of the first man who comes down from the surface. The man thus questioned seems well prepared to answer, and gives the prices for the day, of a dozen or more of the leading stocks.

His report doubtless quickly passes through the mine, and soon five or six hundred men away down in the silver caverns, from 1,500 to 2,000 feet beneath the surface, know as much about the price of stocks for the day as do those persons who are walking the streets of the town. Other items of news circulate in the same way; but stocks they are always interested in. Almost every miner owns shares in some mine. There are not a few men working in mines along the Comstock who are worth from $40,000 to $50,000, and some who are probably worth still larger sums. While at work they are earning $4 per day regularly, and can “speculate” just as well as if they were constantly on the streets watching the stock reports.

In some of the stations are to be seen things that one would not expect to find hundreds of feet below the surface. In the Crown Point mine, for instance, the visitor finds on one of the walls of the station at the 1,100-foot level, a handsome little cabinet of ores, minerals, coins, and curiosities of all kinds—all neatly displayed in a suitable case which is provided with glazed doors. On the walls is also to be seen a considerable collection of photographs of actors, actresses, singers, and other celebrities. There is one group that is labelled “Vasquez and His Friends.” The “friends” grouped about the notorious bandit are photographs of leading citizens of the town of Gold Hill, a church deacon among the number.

We have all heard about things being played “low down,” but it would seem that this joker, at the depth of 1,100 feet, has it down about as low as any man on the continent. The cabinet, and the gallery of celebrities are the property, the care, and the pride of the station-tender of the level named.

A car-track—a railroad track in miniature—is laid through the floor in the centre of the station, which track runs out to the main north and south drift of the mine (it must be borne in mind that the general course of the Comstock lode is north and south), and through the main drift connects—by means of turn-tables—with a great number of cross-cuts and other drifts.

As we stand in the station, cars loaded with ore are regularly arriving from the several “stopes” of the level. These are run upon the cage, the signal to hoist is given to the engineer above, and an instant after, the cage and car, with its load of ore, dart swiftly up the shaft. Perhaps at the same instant a cage comes down the adjoining compartment, bringing with it an empty ore-car. This is at once grasped by a man in waiting, known in the mine as a “carman,” and is trundled away to some distant part of the mine, to be again loaded with ore and again whisked up to the surface on the cage.

As there are three hoisting compartments, the arrivals and departures are quite frequent, and the station is really quite a business place.

[Illustration]