I thought of Kalgoorlie and the seething mine valleys of the Rockies and the big new concrete buildings that housed their plants. And they seemed so recent and characterless beside this little strip of torn-up coast where tin had been streamed by men who had left traces of their rude hut circles and megalithic burial chambers up here on these desolate moors. These were the mines that had given the Ancient Britons the ore to barter with for ornaments and silks with Greek merchants from Marseilles way back in the Bronze Age… And only fifty years ago the whole area had seethed with activity, as thousands of men worked beneath the rugged cliffs and even out under the sea. And now it was all derelict. Just that one mine — Wheal Geevor — still working.
The ruddy glow of the sun began to fade out of the heather. The great red ball was sinking behind the gathering storm clouds.
I watched until the last red slice of it disappeared. And when I looked down the slope of the hillside to the coast again, the sea had become a dark abyss and the worked cliff-tops and broken hillside were gloomy and unfriendly. The heather was like burnt stubble now and the rocks took on weird shapes in the gathering dusk. The country seemed to shiver in the cold wind and withdraw into its dark past.
I went on again then, making for the nearest of the tracks that led down into Botallack. But I went slowly, almost reluctantly. Now that I was face to face with the future I felt ill at ease again. I tried to pretend that if I didn't like the job I could go elsewhere. But back of my mind there lurked a fear that I should not be allowed to do that. All sense of excitement at returning to my father's own country was drained out of me. Perhaps it was because all warmth had left the country with the setting of the sun. It was bleak and bare — and depressing. Or perhaps I had a sense of premonition.
By the time I had reached the coast road that runs from St. Ives to the Land's End it was almost dark. The clouds mat had fringed the horizon when the sun set were now a black mass piled up half across the sky. Distant lightning forked in jagged streaks, providing the only indication where cloud ended and sea began. After each flash, the far-off roll of thunder sounded above the dull roar of the sea and the moan of the wind in the telegraph wires. To the north, the revolving light of Pendeen Watch swung in a white glare through the dark of the gathering storm.
Many of the cottages must have disappeared since my father's day, for Botallack was now little more than an inn and a few farm buildings. There was not a soul on the road. But from the lighted doorway of the inn came the sound of an accordion and men's voices. They were singing The Old Grey Duck.' I hadn't heard that old song since my father had died. It had been a great favourite with him when he was drunk. I hesitated. I did not want to face the curious gaze of the inhabitants of this tiny village. Yet I had to find out where Captain Manack lived and I needed a drink to steady myself. I needed time to think too.
There were about half a dozen men seated in the bar when I went in. Two were playing Cornish skittles; the rest were grouped around the accordion player. He was a big, burly man with short, grizzled hair and he sang with an old clay pipe clamped between toothless gums. The singing was punctuated by the clatter of the wooden pins as the ball on its string swung through their ranks. A big fire blazed in the grate and the place looked warm and cheerful. I crossed over to the bar and ordered a pint of beer, very conscious of the fact that the singing had almost ceased as they watched me. Samples of ore stood among the bottles and glasses that twinkled at their reflections in the mirror that backed the shelves. There was a leaden chunk of mother tin and a big lump of iron pyrites that glittered brighter man gold in the strong light. The landlord was friendly enough, and I began talking to him about the mining industry. He was short and wide in the shoulders. Every now and then he gave a little rasping cough and his skin had the grey pallor of silicosis.
I suddenly realised that the accordion had stopped playing. The singing had ceased, so had the click of the skittles. I turned quickly. No one was talking. They were all looking at me. I was seized with a panic desire to run. But my feet seemed to be rooted to the floor. I took a grip on myself. They couldn't tell just by the look of me. 'Why do you all stare at me?' I heard myself ask.
It was the accordion player who answered.''We bin trying to make 'ee out from yer talk. Thee's a furriner sure, an' yet 'ee's a fitly way of speaking.'
'I'm Canadian,' I said.
'Iss, iss, but thee's got Cornish blood in 'ee,' the old man insisted.
I felt relieved. But I wondered how he could tell. I suppose it was the fact that I'd been brought up to Cornish dialect. I could drop into it quite easily and did now. 'Iss,' I said. 'Me father was a tinner over to Redruth afore we went to Canada. Born at Boscaswell, he was, an' worked cores down in Botallack till they knacked the bal.'
The old man nodded approvingly. 'A' thort so,' he said. The whole room was smiling at me. 'The way 'ee were talking,' the old man went on, 'puts me in mind of the old days in Camborne and Redruth. I mind the time when the bals were working full blast and the kiddiwinks was full o' Cornishmen tarkin' all sorts of strange, outlandish tongues. They'd packed their traps when things were bad — that were in the Nineties. Iss, an' there weren't a corner o' the world they hadn't been to, 'ee knaw; Chile, Peru, the silver mines at Lima where old Dick Trevithick went, Kimberley, Jo'burg, the States — they'd been most everywheres there'd been a mine working. They came home soon's the bals began to open up again. Strange clo's they wore an' strange 'abits they had, but they hadn't forgot their native Cornish way o' speakin', no more'm 'ee have, boay.' He shook his head sadly. 'There was money about in them days, 'ee knaw. Not laike it is now. Why me father would tell me o' the days when there was nigh on fifty bals working in this part o' the country alone. Now there's only the one.' He took his pipe out of his mouth and spat. 'Navvies' work, that's what it is now. Mind 'ee, they was rough lads that came back in the old days. Whilst 'ee got 'eesel' eddicated.' He peered across at me. 'Thee's not looking for work, is 'ee boay?' I didn't say anything and he didn't seem to expect a reply.
'Thee wouldn't find much mining work in these parts now. Edn't I right, Garge?' he asked the landlord.
'Thas right, Bill.' The landlord turned to me. 'Thee'll hear people say that the bals in Cornwall is worked out,' he said. "Taint so. But 'ee's got to go deep, deeper'n they'll go these days for all their modern equipment. Started some o' the mines up, the Government did during this last war. Thee can see one of'n in the cove down beyond Cape Cornwall. That was when Malay was took by the Japs. Spent a mint o' money they did in the valley there. But it were the same as it were with the adventurers. No sooner'n they were gettin' near the tin than they knacked 'er — found they could get tin from Bolivia or some sicn place. When I was a boay, copper were 'bout all anybody thort on around here. An' when the copper was worked out, the mine closed down. But under the copper there's tin — and plenty of it. Thee can ask any of the boays who've worked deep. They'll tell 'ee the same. There's tin under the copper. I seen it meself. But it would cost a heap of money to get at it, for the mines is all full o' water now, full right up to the adits.'
'What about the eyebits?' I asked. 'There must be some rich patches left above water. Isn't anybody working them?'