Mining the Abyss: Inside Postlethwaite’s Moor Row Workings (1888 – 1920)

The history of Postlethwaite’s Moor Row Mine – known to the men who bled there as Fletcher Pit – is a dark chronicle of Victorian industrial hubris and the quiet, desperate bravery of the Cumbrian miner. It is a story that begins in a stagnant tomb of foul air and ends with a man dragged into the abyss by the very machine he served.

​Sinking and Early Operation

  • ​Date Sunk: Mining on this royalty began in May 1888. While iron had been worked in the vicinity of Moor Row since the 1760s, this specific shaft followed the "Red Gold" boom of the late 19th century.
  • ​Depth: The shaft reached a depth of 50 fathoms (300 feet).
  • ​Geological Context: The mine followed a dipping body of haematite ore. Unlike the massive Montreal Mine nearby, which was an "open pit" operation in its early days, Postlethwaite’s was a traditional shaft mine utilizing underground levels and air tubes for ventilation (as famously debated in the 1889 trial).

​Production and "The Lift"

  • ​Output Capacity: While specific daily manifests for Postlethwaite’s are rare compared to larger companies, the mine was a "medium-sized" venture. At its peak during the late Victorian era, it employed roughly 25–30 men per shift.
  • ​Estimated "Lift": Based on the number of workers (23–30) and the standard 19th-century metrics for the district, the mine likely lifted between 5,000 and 10,000 tons of ore per annum during its most productive years. This was a fraction of the neighbouring Montreal Mine, which lifted a staggering 250,000 tons a year.

​Abandonment and Closure

  • ​Decline: The mine entered a period of instability following the turn of the century. The 1917 fatality of Joseph Braithwaite Wilson occurred during a phase where the mine was becoming increasingly marginal.
  • ​Date Abandoned: The Postlethwaite workings at Moor Row were largely abandoned by the early 1920s. By this time, the richer, easier-to-reach haematite pockets were exhausted, and the high cost of deep-shaft pumping made the site economically unviable.
  • ​Final Removal: The surface infrastructure and railway sidings connecting the pit to the Moor Row Junction were largely cleared or repurposed by the 1930s.

1889: The Trial of the "Horizontal Candles"

On 1st August 1889, the air in the Whitehaven Police Court was thick with tension as the "gentleman" owner, Miles Postlethwaite, and his agent, the famed geological expert John Dixon Kendall, faced the music. Kendall was a man of science, a future author of seminal mining texts, yet at Moor Row, his "expertise" had created a death trap.

The "Beastly" Truth

Assistant Inspector Oswald’s testimony was the stuff of nightmares. He had descended 300 feet into the earth to find an atmosphere so "stagnant" and "beastly" that his own physical health broke for days afterward.

In the depths of workings Nos. 3, 4, 9, and 12, Oswald witnessed a chilling sight: twenty-three men toiling in near-total darkness. Because the air was starved of oxygen – choked by "blackdamp" – a candle held upright would simply vanish, extinguished by its own breath. To see the ore they were hacking from the face, the miners practised a desperate trick: they worked with their candles held horizontally. By tilting the flame, they coaxed a few more moments of light from the dying wick, breathing in the same poison that was killing their flames.

A Verdict of the Elite

The prosecution demanded a "substantial penalty," but they had forgotten who held the scales of justice. The presiding magistrate was J. R. Bain, a fellow ironmaster. In a display of class solidarity, the Bench dismissed the charges of criminal negligence. The "expert" J. D. Kendall was fined a paltry 20s – not for suffocating his men, but for failing to write a name on a notice board.

1896: The Peril of the Shaft

Even when the air was clear, the physical mechanics of the pit were unforgiving. On a Thursday afternoon in 1896, a miner named William Reid stood with his comrades at the foot of the shaft, waiting for the cage to carry them home. Above them, a heavy pick – misplaced or dropped from the pit top – plummeted through the darkness.

The tool struck the cage at the bottom with a violent crack before rebounding into the crowd of men. It struck Reid with a terrible force, fracturing his collarbone and carving a deep wound into his head. While St. John ambulance men rendered "first aid", Dr Eaton was summoned. Reid’s journey home was not in a carriage of comfort, but in a farmer's spring cart (Mr. H. Hartley), his body broken by a tool that had fallen from the world above.

1917: The Man Who Wouldn't Let Go

Twenty-eight years later, the hazard had changed from the invisible to the iron. On 12th July 1917, the community gathered at Bigrigg School to mourn Joseph Braithwaite Wilson, a veteran miner of forty-seven years who had seen the worst the pits could offer.

The Fatal Gradient

The "Fletcher Pit" had grown more treacherous. Wilson was tasked with managing the "bogies" – heavy iron tubs – on a steep, unforgiving gradient. As a massive bogie broke loose, hurtling toward the "tip" (the precipice where waste was cast), Wilson faced a split-second choice.

The jury foreman, Robert Holmes, would later remark that Wilson was "a man who would hold on as long as possible." It was his pride and his undoing. Rather than leaping clear, Wilson threw his weight against the iron beast, trying to tame it. He was dragged over the edge, silhouetted against the pit light for a final, terrifying moment before plunging into the dark. He died instantly of a dislocated neck.

The Deference of the Damned

The inquest was a masterclass in Victorian resignation. Despite the lack of safety rails on a lethal slope, the jury – men who knew the management’s power – returned a verdict of "Accidental Death." They stated they had no suggestions for safety, "preferring to leave it to the management, who knew the place better."

Yet, sitting in that schoolroom was Thomas Gavan Duffy, the fierce Miners' Union secretary. His presence was a silent promise: the days of "horizontal candles" and unguarded tips were numbered.

The Ghost of Hollins Farm

The geography of this tragedy is closer than the history books suggest. The nerve centre of this operation was not a distant office, but Hollins Farm, Moor Row.

The 1911 Census reveals the final irony: the farm was home to William James, the pit overman. James was the same man who had walked beside Inspector Oswald in 1889, defending the "light" air while the miners gasped for breath. For decades, the James family lived at Hollins Farm, perched on the hill, watching the smoke rise from the Fletcher Pit – a site where they oversaw both the struggle for air and the eventual fall of Joseph Wilson.

The Final Silent Row

Today, Joseph Braithwaite Wilson likely lies in Egremont Cemetery, his headstone one of many marking a generation of men who were "good workers" until the very end. He died at the Postlethwaite Mines, a victim of a system that valued the "expert" at the top far more than the man holding the candle at the bottom.

Joseph Braithwaite Wilson Illustration
Joseph Braithwaite Wilson Illustration 
Location: Moor Row CA24, UK

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