CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The explosion came just as they reached Rowena’s cottage, and Henry watched the smoke billow from the hillside of the mine with a rising sense of horror. By the time he and Rowena arrived at Plas Helyg it was all commotion; the servants’ trap was being prepared, loaded with supplies – blankets, food and water, soap, spare clothes, anything that might help – and when Rowena agreed to stay behind and follow later in the cart, Henry and Linette rode ahead as fast as the horses would carry them.

Henry has never had to deal with a disaster such as this, but he already imagines what he will find – at best, superficial cuts and grazes, deeper lesions into flesh and muscle, broken bones; at worst, collapsed lungs, crushed skulls, miners trapped under mounds of earth and rubble, unable to catch their breath. He tries not to think of the miners he saw during his last visit; their legs wrapped in chains, dangling from the creviced ceiling, what such an almighty force of gravity might do to such a limb …

The site is a swarm of activity, and Henry and Linette tie Gwydion and Pryderi as far away from the cavern entrance as possible to shield them from the cloying dust. As they walk to the top, the damage does not look so very bad – the cavern entrance is clear of rubble, and the miners, though dirty and bloodied, appear blessedly unharmed.

But that does not mean those below should be as lucky.

At least twenty miners have managed to emerge above ground, but Henry knows from his visit with Linette that he saw far more than that. For those he does see, he begins to catalogue injuries. Many possess cuts and grazes as Henry originally surmised, a man holds a dirty rag to his nose. One lad of no more than sixteen nurses an arm to his chest, holding it at a crooked angle. Nearby a donkey stands, swaying, bloody scratches on its bony knees. Henry shares a worried look with Linette, and she shakes her head in dismay.

‘Where is Mr Lambeth?’

A miner limps by, and Linette stretches out her arm to touch his. ‘ Hari, ble mae Mr Lambeth? ’ she asks, and with a grimace the man points over his shoulder before lumbering away.

The bewigged man is standing near a cart piled with felled tree trunks – Pennant’s offering, Henry surmises – with his leather folder poised, pencil in his gloved hand. Lambeth does not notice their approach, so absorbed is he in his papers, but when Linette calls his name he looks up, and his already sour face shifts into an expression of deep annoyance.

‘This is not a place for a woman.’

‘What happened?’ Linette asks, ignoring the comment, and the agent looks between her and Henry, lips settling into a thin unpleasant line.

‘There wasn’t enough room to get the wood down to build the pulleys, so we set off some gunpowder in the smallest cavern to speed things along. It appears the site was not properly prepared, and the cavern collapsed.’

Henry shifts his knapsack from one hand to the other. ‘How many still below?’

Lambeth levels him with a look. ‘You’re here to offer your expertise, I see. Well, I’ll not refuse your help though I would appreciate it if she does not interfere. As I said, this is no place for a woman.’

‘And this is no time for such nonsense,’ Linette snaps, and Lambeth’s beetle-eyes grow wide. ‘I know the men, I can offer comfort. I have people from Plas Helyg coming with provisions. Believe me, I’m not here to be idle.’

‘Fine,’ he says, shutting the calfskin folder with irritable force. ‘Do as you will. But Lord Tresilian will not be pleased when he arrives.’

‘Damn my cousin! I’ll do what I like.’

‘Don’t you always?’

‘How many are still below?’ Henry cuts in, for he can see Linette’s temper rising by the second and does not fancy seeing how far her viper’s tongue might carry her this time.

‘Thankfully the damage seems only to have centred in the smaller caverns,’ Lambeth replies. ‘They’re the newest, where we were trying to expand. You’ll be of no use down there, I promise you. Leave it to those more experienced in such matters. You can help with aiding those above ground while the others dig the rest out.’

It is, then, as he feared. Through gritted teeth Henry repeats, ‘How many men, Mr Lambeth?’ and with a belligerent sigh the agent flips open the folder to a list of names, counts under his breath.

‘I’ve accounted for forty-three. We’re still missing seventeen.’

The rest of the villagers appeared over the next few hours. For those who were injured, their presence was a comfort. For the rest they were a hindrance, disturbing the work of the other miners who were trying to focus on their rescue attempts, and an irritation to Lambeth who could not yet account for the missing. It was Linette who offered succour, Linette who deflected their hampering machinations, and her strength and patience were everything Henry needed – while she distracted worried wives and mothers, he could concentrate on treating the miners without suffering the fuss of their kin.

And they let him. They let him! He had been afraid at first that their stubborn pride and wilful dislike would rule over their need for treatment, but the miners – perhaps seeing little choice in the matter – acquiesced to Henry’s care without argument. He stitched cuts, set broken arms. One man (Henry had to bite down his anger) had lost a foot, the remains of a chain still wrapped around his leg. But he treated them, one after the other, and Henry felt a sense of deep elation, the closest he has felt to contentment since arriving in Penhelyg – this is what he is good at, this is where his talents can be tried, and it is a relief to find himself useful again in the only way he knows how. No, his operating table is not made of smooth polished wood, and no, he does not work in a semicircular room filled with benches of learned men. Henry works now in an open field where tall grasses rustle in the breeze and distant cows bellow, observed by people who cannot rightly fathom what they are seeing, but despite it all Henry is in his element. And the miners seem to recognise this, the speed and skill with which Henry works; often he receives a word of thanks, a clasp of the hand. They look him in the eye, not with distrust and hatred but with respect and gratitude.

Of course, the external injuries have been easier to deal with, and the more minor ones can be left in Rowena’s capable hands. But, at length, those who have been recovered from deeper within the caverns are brought to him, and here Henry’s skill has been tested. One boy came to him with what Henry suspected were broken ribs, a man of middling age with a burst eardrum. Once more Henry was obliged to refer to his Welsh dictionary and his translated notes so he might understand the internal pain of his patients. But, somehow, he has managed.

He has managed it all.

It is just when Henry is tying off a suture to a split elbow that an unconscious man is brought to the top of the line, carried by three of his fellow miners. Only when he is set down on the grass does Henry recognise him. This is Rhodri Jones, their guide from the other day. The man’s sandy hair is matted with blood. Carefully Henry parts it to find the cause.

‘Jesus,’ he mutters. The flesh is torn along the cranium, a flap of skin exposing the ghost-white of skull. The skull itself possesses a deep compression of fractures, shattered fragments of bone reminiscent of cracks in broken porcelain.

Henry tries to measure the mathematical certainty in his head. The collapse happened (he removes his pocketwatch) four and a half hours ago. It is likely Rhodri will have been unconscious all that time, and the longer someone maintains such a state, the worse the outcome is likely to be. Henry peers closer at the skull. While there is blood present from the flesh surrounding the tear, there is very little of it within the bone’s hairline cracks, and that can mean only one thing: the blood is pooling beneath, building pressure on the brain, with no place to go.

The miners are looking at him expectantly. Henry runs a hand through his hair. He has only done one of these procedures before, on a soldier who suffered a fall from his horse.

It did not work. He died from fever three days later.

This injury, Henry knows immediately, is worse than that soldier’s. Would such an operation even work?

‘ Tada! Tada! ’

Cai Jones, pointed face filled with abject panic, is running across the field as fast as his limp will allow and inwardly Henry groans. So far he has been lucky – Linette has managed to keep the rest of the villagers at bay – but he should have known that at least one would slip through, and for it to be Cai seems like a cruel sort of injustice. With a feeling of rising dread Henry watches him approach, only a little relieved to see Linette and Rowena close at the lad’s heels.

‘ Paid a chyffwrdd ag ef! ’ he cries, flinging himself down on the ground next to his father. ‘ Paid a meiddio! ’

The tirade of words coming from Cai’s mouth is too fast for Henry to interpret, but from the mixture of hate and fear on the boy’s face the general meaning is clear. Linette, caught up now and breathing heavily, confirms it.

‘He doesn’t want you to touch him.’

‘If I don’t,’ Henry says, ‘he will die.’

Linette translates, but Cai shakes his head at her with such violence that Henry feels sorry for him. They argue for what seems like minutes, and all he can do is try to drown their harsh voices out. Instead Henry plans what to do and, decided, reaches for his knapsack. Cai pushes his hand away.

‘ Mi fydd o’n ei ladd o! ’ he cries, and Henry must rein in his patience.

‘Don’t be a bloody fool! Either I try and he dies or I try and he lives, but if I don’t try at all his death is a certainty. Which will you choose?’

Something in Cai’s face makes Henry suspect that the boy comprehends some of what he has said. Cai stares at him across the unconscious body of his father, lip trembling. His cheeks are wet with tears, his nose snotty and red, but then Rowena very gently takes him by the shoulders.

‘ Gad iddo drio, Cai ,’ she says softly. ‘ Dyna ei unig gyfle. ’

For a long fraught moment they stare at each other. Then, to Henry’s intense relief, Cai nods.

‘Right, then.’

He reaches for his knapsack again, removes a small green case.

‘What is that?’ Linette asks.

She looks tired, weary. Her unruly blonde hair has fallen from its heavy plait, her shirt is smeared with dust. It occurs to him that she too has been working without relief, and Henry feels a wave of affinity run through him.

‘A skull drill set.’

He lifts the lid. Linette pales at the sight of the instruments resting within.

‘What are you going to do?’ she whispers.

‘Trephination. I’m going to drill a hole through his head, release the pressure of blood building on the brain. If it works, Rhodri should wake up.’

‘ If it works?’

‘ Ie ,’ he says. ‘If.’

He clears a space around him, sets the cylindrical instruments out on the grass, some clean cloths, needle, thread, then moves to kneel directly at the top of Rhodri’s head.

‘I need two people to hold him down, keep him steady.’

Again, Linette translates. One of the other miners steps forward immediately, sinks to the ground on Rhodri’s left side. Linette settles down on his right, and Henry looks at her in surprise.

‘Are you sure?’

She smiles a little with some of her old wry humour. ‘Don’t vex me, Henry.’

‘Then I hope you have a strong stomach.’

‘It’s strong enough.’

He is as fast as safety will allow. The small circular saw is placed above the compression fracture, and he twists with as much pressure he thinks the skull will stand without cracking further. It is the noise that is the worst, its harsh scrape and grind against bone. Linette shuts her eyes, turns her head away. Rowena presses her hand to her mouth. Someone, somewhere, vomits.

It is a hard task. At one point Henry fears he might lose his grip on the instrument, his hold on Rhodri’s head. His upper lip beads with sweat at the strain of it and his palm becomes sticky, but he dare not ask for help lest his concentration slips. But it is Cai who recognises this, Cai who holds his father’s head with a calmness that belies his earlier panic. It is Cai who watches intently as Henry stays true and the saw eventually eases through the skull with a raw dull snap . Blood starts to pool around the circular line.

‘Scalpel.’ He points at the instrument with his free hand. Cai passes it to Henry handle first, then takes the trepan saw from him and places it almost reverently on the ground. The air is filled with an unbearable tension, a tension that simmers through all those who watch.

If he were to slip now, if he does not exert the utmost care, then it will all be over.

Henry turns the scalpel between his fingers, poises its deadly point above Rhodri’s skull. Then, very carefully, Henry prises away the disc of bone. Immediately the blood flows loose and ready, and Linette passes Henry a cloth to stem the deluge. It soaks through almost instantly, but when Henry lifts it he sees the hole is clean, tidy, the healthy pulse of pink brain-matter visible beneath. And then, then, Rhodri stirs between them.

There is a release of collected breath, a shout of laughter. Cai begins to cry.

‘ Henry ,’ Linette whispers, her voice full of wonderment, but Henry will not bask in it. He knows how crucial these next steps are and so he stitches fast, cleans the blood from Rhodri’s hair and scalp, bandages his head tight.

‘Tell them,’ he says when he is done, ‘that they must keep him still on the way back down the hill as best they can. No jolting to the head, keep it cushioned. He must, must , be kept to his bed until I say he can leave it. Tell them to watch for signs of fever. I shall visit tomorrow.’

Linette does as he asks, and Rhodri – gaining consciousness now – is slowly carried from the field, Cai trailing behind. At the gate the lad turns, stares at Henry as if he does not know what to make of it all. Henry wonders if he means to say something, to thank him perhaps, but then Lord Pennant’s carriage clatters up the hill behind him stirring dust in the wake of its wheels, and the moment passes like a great hand over the face of the sun.