Chapter five
The Heavenly MinesEverything had a number.
Every pickax carried its number burned into the haft and punched into the ax. Every shovel carried its number burned and cut. Every drinking bowl. Every spoon. Every eating bowl. A number was branded on the hide of every calsany. Each tunnel, each chamber, each working face, every one possessed its own number.
We slept in rock shelters set against an old and abandoned cut’s side. Each rock hut had a number painted above the open door, which was provided with no blanket or hide. We slept on packed earth and each little space had a number scribed in the earth. We each possessed a single thin blanket, and this miserable covering had its number also.
And, as was inevitable, every slave had his own number.
Dray Prescot scarcely existe
