Chapter 13 - The First Message from Ninety Feet Down
The crack stopped.
Water did not.
Fenner and Cole sealed the accidental bore with timber, cloth, pitch, and enough profanity to make Bellamy leave the tunnel twice.
Flow slowed to a trickle.
Below, the trapped chamber water rose several inches.
Then stabilized.
Another disaster postponed.
Crowley ordered the drilling angle changed.
The new route added eleven feet.
No one complained.
Accuracy mattered more than speed now.
At 7:00 in the morning, Dorothy realized she had been awake for nearly fifty hours with only brief moments sitting in chairs.
Bellamy realized it too.
“You’re sleeping.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“You become authoritarian under stress.”
“You become stupid without sleep.”
Dorothy stared.
Bellamy stared back.
Then he did something astonishing.
He pointed toward her upstairs room.
“Two hours.”
“What if—”
“I will wake you if anyone dies.”
Dorothy flinched.
Bellamy’s expression softened.
“Poor wording.”
“Yes.”
“If anything changes.”
She hesitated.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Two and a half.”
“Bellamy.”
“Go.”
Dorothy went.
She slept seventy-three minutes.
A pounding door woke her.
She sat upright.
“Caleb?”
Bellamy opened the door.
“No. Message.”
She followed him downstairs barefoot.
Tom stood beside the kitchen table holding paper.
“What?”
Tom handed it over.
Not tapping.
Writing.
With the widened supply bore, they had sent pencil and several strips of paper.
The trapped men had written a complete status report.
Dorothy read.
All 28 alive. Samuel worse but awake. Caleb can stand with help. Morgan shoulder likely dislocated. Water 19 inches below platform. Air good. Food holding. Spirits bad when drilling stops. Keep making noise.
At bottom:
We can hear you.
Dorothy looked at Crowley.
“What does that mean?”
“Drill noise.”
“They hear rescue.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t stop.”
Crowley nodded.
The drill resumed.
The words changed everything.
Aboveground, the sound was unbearable.
Belowground, it was hope.
From then on, even during bit changes, miners struck metal against rock so trapped men heard something.
A rhythm.
We are here.
We are coming.
At noon, Dorothy received another sheet.
This one contained personal messages.
Samuel to his wife.
Benjamin to Tom.
Owen to his children.
Caleb to Dorothy.
She almost did not read his in front of others.
Tom saw.
“Go on.”
“Mind your business.”
“Been trying. Boring.”
She stepped aside.
Caleb’s message was short.
Dorothy, if we get out, I owe you dinner. Not at Bellamy’s because you’ll cook it yourself and call that fair. Somewhere you sit down. Also I am never criticizing your biscuits again. That promise may be harder than surviving this mine. —Caleb
Dorothy pressed the paper to her chest for one second.
Then folded it.
Bellamy pretended not to notice.
Tom did not pretend.
“Oh?”
Dorothy pointed toward the kitchen.
“Potatoes.”
“I’m not employed here.”
“You are today.”
Tom went.
At 2:20, Fenner announced sixteen feet remaining.
At 4:00, fourteen.
At 6:00, eleven.
Then the drill bit snapped.
Nobody spoke.
Fenner stared at the broken rod.
“Spare?”
Crowley asked.
Fenner looked away.
“Different diameter.”
“How long to adapt?”
“Three hours.”
Tom swore.
Vale punched the tunnel wall.
Dorothy looked at the machine.
“What broke?”
“Cutting head.”
“Blacksmith?”
“Needs hardened steel.”
“You have pieces?”
“Yes.”
“Then why three hours?”
“Must shape, temper, fit.”
Dorothy nodded.
Something she understood.
Tools took time.
You could not shout metal into changing faster.
“How long do the miners have?”
Crowley asked.
Doctor answered.
“Samuel? I don’t know.”
Dorothy returned to the kitchen.
Helplessness again.
She hated it.
So she did what people had done throughout the rescue.
Found another task.
“Hot food,” she said.
Bellamy looked confused.
“For whom?”
“Drilling crew.”
“They can eat stew.”
“No. Something they can carry.”
She made meat pies.
Small ones.
Men laughed when they saw them.
“Not Mud Pie?” Tom asked.
Dorothy pointed a knife at him.
“Continue.”
He stopped.
The story of Dorothy’s Mud Pie had now transformed.
Men used the name proudly.
Women painted it on a wooden sign above the kitchen as a joke.
DOROTHY’S MUD PIE RESCUE KITCHEN
Dorothy pretended to hate it.
She did not remove the sign.
At 8:00, the blacksmith returned with the modified bit.
Fenner inspected.
Mounted.
Tested.
Drilling resumed.
Below, miners tapped excitedly.
At 11:30, six feet remained.
At 1:15 in the morning, four.
The doctor waited with supplies.
Stretchers ready.
Ropes.
Blankets.
Crowley planned the extraction.
The hole they were drilling would only be six inches.
It was not a rescue opening for bodies.
It was a pilot bore.
Once they reached the chamber, they could confirm exact alignment, communicate directly, and then widen surrounding rock from both sides if miners had tools.
The trapped crew did.
Pickaxes.
Short drills.
Hammers.
They began striking toward the sound.
Men above drilled.
Men below hammered.
Two worlds separated by feet.
At 2:07, Fenner stopped the machine.
“Listen.”
Everyone froze.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Not from the ventilation line.
From directly ahead.
Crowley grinned.
“Three feet.”
Tom began laughing.
Dorothy closed her eyes.
Caleb was on the other side of that wall.
At 3:12, the drill advanced.
Two feet.
At 3:48, one.
Fenner reduced pressure.
Slow.
Slow.
The bit suddenly lurched forward.
Air exploded around the rod.
Men shouted.
They had broken through.
A tiny black hole appeared around the steel.
From the other side came voices.
Actual voices.
Not pipe whispers.
Twenty-eight men cheering.
Tom fell to his knees.
Dorothy covered her mouth.
Then a man shouted through the new bore.
“DOROTHY!”
She laughed.
Caleb.
She crouched beside the opening.
“You alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You still owe me dinner.”
“Was hoping you forgot.”
Men on both sides laughed.
For the first time, rescue felt close enough to touch.
Then Fenner inserted a lamp near the bore.
The flame flickered.
Cole checked airflow.
His smile vanished.
“What?”
Crowley asked.
Cole looked at him.
“This chamber isn’t stable.”
“How unstable?”
Before he could answer, stone crashed on the trapped side.
Men shouted.
Caleb’s voice vanished.
The small breakthrough hole filled with dust.
Dorothy screamed his name.
No answer came.
May you like
And after nearly three days of fighting toward twenty-eight living men, Copper Jack suddenly faced the possibility that the final three feet had arrived too late.
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