Vincent wondered why he was being told all this. “Where is the Borinage?” he asked.
“In the south of Belgium, near Mons. I recently spent some time there, and Vincent, if ever a people needed a man to preach to them and comfort them, it’s the Borains.”
A gulp came into Vincent’s throat, barring the passage of food. He laid down his fork. Why was Pietersen torturing him?
“Vincent,” said the Reverend, “why don’t you go to the Borinage? With your strength and enthusiasm you could do a great deal of fine work.”
“But how can I? The Committee . . .”
“Yes, I know. I wrote to your father the other day explaining the situation. I had an answer from him this afternoon. He says he will support you in the Borinage until I can secure you a regular appointment.”
Vincent jumped to his feet. “Then you will get me an appointment!”
“Yes, but you must give me a little time. When the Committee sees what splendid work you are doing it will surely relent. And even if it doesn’t . . . de Jong and van den Brink will come to me for a favour one of these fine days, and in return for that favour . . . The poor people of this country need men like you, Vincent, and as God is my judge, any means is justified in getting you to them!”
8
AS THE TRAIN neared the South a group of mountains appeared on the horizon. Vincent gazed at them with pleasure and relief after the monotonous flat country of Flanders. He had been studying them only a few minutes when he discovered that they were curious mountains. Each one stood utterly by itself, rising out of the flat land with a precipitate abruptness.
“Black Egypt,” he murmured to himself as he peered out of the window at the long line of fantastic pyramids. He turned to the man sitting next to him and asked, “Can you tell me how those mountains get there?”
“Yes,” replied his neighbour, “they are composed of terril, the waste material that is brought up from the earth with the coal. Do you see that little car just about to reach the point of the hill? Watch it for a moment.”
Just as he said this, the little car turned over on its side and sent a black cloud flying down the slope. “There,” said the man, “that’s how they grow. I’ve been watching them go up into the air a fraction of an inch every day for the past fifty years.”
The train stopped at Wasmes and Vincent jumped off. The town was located in the hollow of a bleak valley; although an anaemic sun shone at an oblique angle, a substantial layer of coal smoke lay between Vincent and the heavens. Wasmes struggled up the side of the hill in two winding rows of dirty, red brick buildings, but before it reached the top, the bricks ran out and Petit Wasmes appeared.
As Vincent walked up the long hill he wondered why the village was so deserted. Not a man was to be seen anywhere; an occasional woman stood in a doorway with a dull and stolid expression on her face.
Petit Wasmes was the miners’ village. It could boast of only one brick building, the home of Jean-Baptiste Denis, the baker, which sat right on the crest of the hill. It was to this house Vincent made his way, for Denis had written to the Reverend Pietersen, offering to board the next evangelist to be sent to their town.
Madame Denis welcomed Vincent heartily, led him through the warm kitchen-bakery with its smell of rising bread, and showed him his room, a small space under the eaves, with a window facing the rue Petit Wasmes, and rafters coming down at an abrupt angle at the rear. The place had been scrubbed by Madame Denis’s thick, competent hands. Vincent liked it immediately. He was so excited he could not even unpack his things, but rushed down the few rough, wooden stairs which led into the kitchen to tell Madame Denis that he was going out.
“You won’t forget to come back to supper?” she asked. “We eat at five.”
Vincent liked Madame Denis. He felt in her the nature that understands things without going to all the trouble of thinking about them. “I’ll be here, Madame,” he said. “I just want to look about a bit.”
“We have a friend coming tonight whom you should meet. He is a foreman at Marcasse and can tell you many things you will want to know for your work.”
It had been snowing heavily. As Vincent walked down the road he observed the thorn hedges around the gardens and fields that had been turned black from the smoke of the mine chimneys. On the east side of the Denis house was a steep ravine in which were located most of the miners’ huts; on the other side was a great open field with a black terril mountain and the chimneys of the Marcasse charbonnage, where most of the Petit Wasmes miners descended. Across the field there was a hollow road grown over with thorn bushes and torn up by the roots of gnarled trees.
Although Marcasse was only one of a string of seven mines owned by the Charbonnages Belgique, it was the oldest and most dangerous pit in the Borinage. It had a bad reputation because so many men had perished in it, either in descending or ascending, by poison gas, explosion, flooding water, or by the collapse of old tunnels. There were two squat, brick buildings above the ground, in which the machinery was operated for bringing up the coal and where the coal was graded and dumped into cars. The tall chimneys, which once had been of yellow brick, spread tangible, black smoke over the neighbourhood twenty-four hours a day. Around Marcasse were poor miners’ huts with a few dead trees, black from the smoke, thorn hedges, dunghills, ash dumps, heaps of useless coal, and towering above it all, the black mountain. It was a gloomy spot; at first sight everything looked dreary and desolate to Vincent.
“No wonder they call it the black country,” he murmured.
After he had been standing there for some time the miners began to pour out of the gate. They were dressed in coarse, tattered garments with leather hats on their heads; the women wore the same outfit as the men. All were completely black and looked like chimney sweeps, the whites of their eyes presenting a strange contrast to the coal-dust covered faces. It was not without reason that they were called gueules noires. The glare of the feeble afternoon sunlight hurt their eyes after they had laboured in the darkness of the earth since before dawn. They stumbled out of the gate, half blinded, speaking among themselves in a swift unintelligible patois. They were small people with narrow, hunched-in shoulders and bony limbs.
Vincent understood now why the village had been deserted that afternoon; the real Petit Wasmes was not the small cluster of huts in the ravine, but the labyrinth city which existed underground at a depth of seven hundred metres, and in which almost the entire population spent the majority of its waking hours.
9
“JACQUES VERNEY IS a self-made man,” Madame Denis told Vincent over the supper table, “but he has remained a friend to the miners.”
“Don’t all the men who get promoted stay friends with the workers?”
“No, Monsieur Vincent, it is not so. As soon as they move from Petit Wasmes to Wasmes they begin to look at things differently. For the sake of money they take the part of the owners and forget they once slaved in the mines. But Jacques is faithful and honest. When we have strikes he is the only one with any influence over the miners. They will listen to nobody’s advice but his. But, poor man, he hasn’t long to live.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Vincent.