THE GREAT BLACK WHEEL.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXX, Issue 45, 6 November 1902, Page 24

THE GREAT BLACK WHEEL.

Jane Barden sat in her wattle ' shanty ' on the main Quartz Gully-road, gazing out gloomily at her bit of garden, where the few cabbages and beds of onions and other vegetables struggled "down to the bare patch of ground, where a lordly rooster and his harem picked a precarious livelihood. The front fence was not in the best state of repair, and several feathered truants were enjoying full liberty out on the public way, where also a pet croat and her kid wandered at will. However, as few people passed along, and those who did were too much accustomed to goats (Quartz Gully being a happy hunting ground for those climbing animals;) ,. it dikin'tl matiter, much. Mrs Barden was_reckoned a ' bit daft ' by the inhabitants of Quartz Gully. ' She's had her troubles, poor woman ! said the more sympathetic ; ' her man's sudden death unhinged her mind.' • And it was a terrible shock when her son was killed,' observed others While the cynical declared : '"She's an idiot to mounn over one son's loss when the other has deserted her so shamefully. Indeed, it was of this son, of whom report spoke so badly she was thinking as she let her glance wander to the gurgling creek and the opposite high) mountains — which nearly shut out all sign of sky— and her dark, brow grew darker, and her sombre eyes more sombre as she lifted an open letter from he* lap and gnoped her slow way through it once again. ' Dear mother,' it ran, ' you will be troubled when you know I have lost m^ billet. I was never a success at business, and was one of the first to be put off when the depression set in. I've been expecting dismissal for some time, so it was not a surprise to me, but I kept it from you as long as I could, because I knew you would worry. Since I left I have been trying to get work elsewhere, but have not succeeded, so I've resolved to go back to Quartz Gully and start mining again.' When she read this Mrs Barden groaned and clenched her hands fiercely. ' I understand battery work and perhaps will get taken on at the" Lone Star." I wiill be home Tuesday.' And this was Tuesday. The woman laid the letter down, and covering her face with her hands, rocked her body to and fro tin bitter anguish. Only she could tell the pain 'those written words gave her, bringing back as they did the memory of all her past troubles with terrible force. 'He must not ! Ho shall not ! ' she exclaimed at last, starting up and walking about excitedly. But after a while her agitation calmed somewhat, and taking hen sewing she drew a chai,r towards the open door, and, sitting down worked away feverishly, as if to drown the remembrances called up by her son's letter. In. spito of her efforts, however, her thoughts would wander, and every now and then she let her work drop into her lap. and gazed abstractedly across the road and creek, and half way up the side of the mountain, to the discharged droppings of mixed yellow clay and stones which told where tfie great ' Lone Star ' mine was A little nearer to her was tho (inclined tramway, down which were rolled the trucks filled with quartz for tho battery, and the battery itself stood just in front of Jano Banden s own door. Whenever she looked out her eyea fell on the big black water-wheel which swirled round and round in Perpetual motion as the volume of water from the race above it rushed on to it. The great black wheel was no novelty to her. Year in. year out, it spun round and round, keeping the massive inachiner- -aing and putting power into the mighty stampers to do their proper work. And as the thud, and tho crash and tho roar went 'on unceasingly day and night, she was used to tt. h?i Se hi a ii dd w ° vl 111 1 11d 1 have felt lonely without it. Indeed, the big black wheel had become a friend and companion to her, living a ] one as sho did> and bei f in £ ffin a_ Vnrf temperamrnt, much given to gloomy brooding ; and in tho quiet evenings when the twilight was stealing p\cr. the surrounding ranges, the noise of the batter? took the sound of the human voice, and spoke strange Words V\4 h - or - * ow ' as Rhe sat w ith frrnh'-clasped hands, letting her mind dwell on those dear, to her who to fn^nw ?n a tT ny f° n ? * hink i nff ° f thiS SOn who waJtod to follow in their footsteps— to work as they worked and perchance die as they died-thc battery seemed to S fanciful mind to take a tone of warnirie-. and tho thud and roar of the stampers said prophetically : ' He wi 1 bo killed ! Just like the others ! It is his fate ! ' An hour later Stephen Barden arrived Ho was a till well set un voun- fellow, with palish cheeks and dark eyes, like his mother's. They were not demoSstritivo these two, and greeted each other quietv Tt a £ observer would have seen there was a largo store of af fection between them. Stevo was as the annle of his mothers eye-and she r,cad every thought" of his and an After tho meal was over, the evening beinc warm iml cSI - hor hnv " ! Pnl ° J- aCG and d " H eVCS and

' Steve ! ' said Mrs. Barden, with a sort of choke in her, voice, ' don't think I sent you away from me to Melbourne — just for a whim. . . . You remember how your father died — a man in fine health cut off suddenly. Then there was your brother. Even now my heart turns sick when I think of him, brought in crushed and mangled, after being buried alive ! When he was killed I resolved you would never work another day at mining. which ds the most accursed employment on God's earth ! You were well educated, so 1 sent you to town. I felt lonely and desolate without you, and people said you had deserted me, and were a bad son, but I bore it all to have you away from danger. And now you have como back to it a.gann.' The youth's lip quivered ; he was little more than a boy. ' A fellow must make his living, mother. I know you don't' like mining, but I can't go ""back to town. I hated it so ! I hated the .close, dingy little office. I hated the white paper, which made my eyes ache, and the black lines and figures crammed into my brain, and made me miserable. ■! fcated the crowded streets and the stuffy houses, and I often longed— oh ! so anxiously !to be back to the old, free life up here, where I could breathe agin, and feel the fresh air of the ranges entering into my lungs ! I know I'll get work. The manager of the " Lone Star " was always a good fniend to us.' 'He was, always,' sobbed Mrs. Barden. ' I cannot blame him because dynamite choked off my husband, and a fall of earth killed nay son. And he cannot prevent a similar catastrophe happening to you.' ' Nonsense, mother. I'll set on all right— never fear. Every miner doesn't get killed. Besides, I'll try to pet on in the battery— where I was work/ing when I was a boy. Then I won't bo in danger of falling earth or dynaSoon afterwards, tired from the long coach journey, he retired, and slept without dreams, but his mother still sat with her eyes fixed on the dim outlines of tho dark battery wheel," and the stampers still roared the same refrain : 'He will be killed !, Just like the others ! It is his fate ! ' ' But I'm only a half silly woman,' she sighed, rousing herself at last. ' I've lived alone too long. I want Steve at home to 'liven me up a bit. I can't blame him either for his fancy. Even as a child he liked pottering aboTTTHhe old workings. A love for the life was born in him ; we were always miners.' Next day Steve Barden had an interview with the manager of the ' Lone Star ' and succeeded in getting engaged as a battery hand. 'So I won't have to go into the tunnels at all,' ho told his mother reassuringly. And as she watched him getting back into his. old healthy condition, his cheeks becoming ruddy again, and his step alert and vigorous, she comforted herself with tho reflection that it was all for the best. She caught tho infection of his bright, sanguine spirit, too and became happier and more human. She spoke when anyone passed her door and accosted her, and her dress assumed the neatness which had characterised Mrs. Barden of tho past days, when she lhed in a nice, four-roomed cottage up on the ' Left branch,' and her husband was boss of the ' shift.' The home became tidier. The dilapidated fence was carefully mended by Steve's industrious hands, tho straggling vegetable beds wore coaxed into order, ,whilo the wandering goats were taught to seek pasture at the back of the premises rather than the public road in front. Winter came on, and the snow began to drift liorhtly down into Quartz Gully, and lay in soft fleecy flakes on every leaf and twig. Up above, all the ranges were thickly co\ered with snow, while down below the flooded creek 'ran along with a turbulent rush that would have done uistice to a bier river. The yellow earth still flowed out ot the heart of The hill, and the trucks rushed down TOith their loads of quartz for the battery, and the big black wheel went round and round— the little feathery scraps of snow sometimes mingling with the splashes of race water. 'It was intensely cold up among the ranges but Jane Barden in her little hut, warmed with her bi^ r.oarmg fire of bush logs, which her devoted son had kept her abundantly supplied with, did not feel it. She was becoming quite happy and contented, and whenever she looked out of her sohtarv front window and caught a glimpse of her boy through the door of the battery house she felt comforted by his continual companionship. Each ' crib ' time she arixiouslv waited for his home-coming, and his cheerful words were like sunshine to her. One evening she felt strangely uneasy. Steve was on night ' shift,' 'and though his mother had work to do, she laid lit aside, and, sitting at the small window, fastened her gaze on the battery house opposite. There was only a faint gleam of light there, from the lantern suspended from tho roof, but the thud ! thud ! and the crash ! crash ! sounded as unceasingly as ever, and terrible to relate, they rammed and roared the same doleful words that heralded Steve's home-corninsr 'Ho will be killed ! Just like Iho others ! Tt is his fate ! ' the stampers repeated with maddening persistence. •But the sound grew less distinct. A pale wintry moon rose at last, and transformed the valley into a vision of loveliness. gleaming on the snow-clad mountains all around and silvering the creek which flowed in the middle of the gorge. The moonbeams lingered over the big black wheel of the batter-"- tunning the sparkling water into veritable diamonds as it poured from the race, splashing into a thousand glittering drops. It was a weirdly beautiful scene, and tho woman's artistic soul absorbed it greedily. Besides, all was well. The lantern still twinkled dimly, and even as she looked, a

figure passed the chink of the door, and she recognised it. The white, solemn grandeur began to overpower her senses. A strange dreaminess stole over her, and many haunting memories ol other days — pale, bhadowy phantoms of long ago — glided through her bnain. But suddenly there came a sound that brought her back to the present and turned her sick — a tragic shriek of terrible agony which rose clear above the noise of the battery ; and springing up, with wild eyes and panning breath, Jane Barden rushed to the door and threw it open. Then she halted. She knew there was no necessity of going any farther — the trouble had come to her before. Her instinct told her what had happened : that the doom foretold had come. When they bore the poor, maimed, crushed body out of the battery house, across the rocky patch of ground, lightly dredged with snowdrift, and over the little wooden bridge which spanned the roaring torrent of the creek, she received them dry-eyed — without a word or moan. They explained how it happened : how Steve had been oiling the machinery and must have slipped or leant over, too far, and got caught in the bands of the rapidly revolving wheel, which clutched him with a terrible grip, then flung him away — battered and dead. Marching two and two with reverently tincovered heads, six of the ' Lone Star ' men bore the .corpse up the steep, snow-covered track to the dismal, scrulbby cemetenv 6n the bleak hillside. Jane Barden — still -with that bitter, set face, and those tearless, fierce black eyes — followed immediately behind the coffin. She spoke to no one, and all, respecting her grief, left her in silence. The highi fence which had surrounded the grave had been taken down, and the famflv tombstone — hewn out of quartz — lay on top of it, and it was noticed that Mrs. Barden's lips curved into a fearful smile as she read the inscriptions on the latter. When the sad peremony was over the crowd went mournfully back to their homes, and Jane went' to hers. She wanted no one's sympathy, and turning a cold face to a neighbor who tried to speak a few comforting words, she shut herseli into her house— alpn© with her overwhelming sorrow.