Water Blast Vein for John Hardy

The nervous stutter

of april branches

brush dale side

and Fremington’s

Edge is blunted.

           Rocks cling

                     tumble ready.

           Ling shifts

earth-shocked.

Hills shake

sending rivers

off course.

Flood explodes

           from shaft mouth:

                     bloated sheep

and rivets,

upturned ponies,

blasted rock

and corpses of men

and boys,

surge down dale

gouging hushes

new-forced

stippling

earth’s grey palette

with hoof and foot

and twisted metal.

Time unwinds.

Water borne

light cleanses

levels, washes

the scarred scree.

Rock settles under leadwort.

And now,

no eye

can tell

flue from wall

hush from gill

pipe from stalk

and the rusted chamber

melds with the rusting fern.

No stones record

the names of the dead,

their story hidden in a map.

All is silent now,

in Booze.

An extract from 'Swaledale' by John Hardy published 1998.

'Bolt Tom, a native of Booze, and an old man at the beginning of this century, said that his father had told him that in the 18th Century the miners were driving on to a vein in Arkengarthdale, when they blasted into an underground lake. Twenty-four miners perished that day, having not the slimmest chance of survival, and the two pit ponies were washed out of the level. Eighteen of these men came from the hamlet of Booze, and three or four from the C.B. Yard.

When I questioned the number of deceased miners that came from Booze, I was firmly told that there could be no doubt about the number, as eighteen coffins had been counted. The anguish and misery suffered as a result of this disaster can hardly be imagined now, as it left behind it a trail of widows and fatherless children. In a small community of this size, scarcely a household could have escaped the cruel clutches of the angel of death. I understood that it was of great importance to Fremie to unburden himself of this story on to me, and I recognised it naturally as a great tragedy that was part and parcel of the sufferings of the Arkengarthdale people; it never occurred to me to question its veracity. There appears to have been a strange sequel to these tragic events many years later. A gang of miners were making their way up the same level, when they heard the unmistakable rumbling of approaching tubs. Being totally familiar with this type of situation, they jumped to the side of the rails to allow them through. To their amazement, however, no tubs appeared. Astonished and fearful, they could not but connect these strange happenings with the terrible loss of life that had occurred long years before.

I duly published the story, and it was not until some months later that I had an interesting conversation with Donald Law, the late proprietor of the Swaledale Folk Museum. He pointed out to me that in discussions with other people concerning the matter, he understood that there appeared to be no statistical record of this great disaster story, and it must be conceded that this is a strange turn of events. He did agree with me that such an event could have taken place in the 18th Century without leaving a trace, and seemed to remember that William Scot had said something very similar to him some years before. This conversation that had been held in a spirit of enquiry, inevitably led me to think very carefully of the whole matter. I returned to question Fremie very closely. It was clear to me that he believed himself to be a custodian of these tidings that had been passed on down from generation to generation in the village of Booze, and he saw it as his duty to ensure that this long cherished memory of many generations did not die with him. His strength of conviction led me to give a great deal more thought to the matter.'