E-text prepared by David Garcia, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE UNDERWORLD
The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner
by
JAMES C. WELSH
New York
Frederick A. Stokes Company
Publishers
1920
PREFACE
I have tried to write of the life I know, the life I have lived, and of
the lives of the people whom, above all others, I love, and of whom I am
so proud.
My people have been miners for generations, and I myself became a miner
at the age of twelve. I have worked since then in the mine at every
phase of coal getting until about five years ago, when my fellow workers
made me their checkweigher.
I say this that those who read my book may know that the things of which
I write are the things of which I have firsthand knowledge.
JAMES C. WELSH.
DOUGLAS WATER,
LANARK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE THONG OF POVERTY
II. A TURN OF THE SCREW
III. THE BLOCK
IV. A YOUNG REBEL
V. BLACK JOCK'S THREAT
VI. THE COMING OF A PROPHET
VII. ON THE PIT-HEAD
VIII. THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD
IX. THE ACCIDENT
X. HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD
XI. THE STRIKE
XII. THE RIVALS
XIII. THE RED HOSE RACE
XIV. THE AWAKENING
XV. PETER MAKES A DECISION
XVI. A STIR IN LOWWOOD
XVII. MYSIE RUNS AWAY
XVIII. MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY
XIX. BLACK JOCK'S END
XX. THE CONFERENCE
XXI. THE MEETING WITH MYSIE
XXII. MYSIE'S RETURN
XXIII. HOME
XXIV. A CALL FOR HELP
XXV. A FIGHT WITH DEATH
CHAPTER I
THE THONG OF POVERTY
"Is it not about time you came to your bed, lassie?"
"Ay, I'll no' be very long now, Geordie. If I had this heel turned, I'll
soon finish the sock, and that will be a pair the day. Is the pain in
your back worse the nicht, that you are so restless?" and the clicking
of the needles ceased as the woman asked the question.
"Oh, I'm no' so bad at all," came the answer. "My back's maybe a wee bit
sore; but a body gets tired lying always in the yin position. Forby, the
day aye seems long when you are out, and I dinna like to think of you
out working all day, and then sitting down to knit at nicht. It must be
very tiring for you, Nellie."
"Oh, I'm no' that tired," she replied with a show of cheerfulness, as
she turned another wire in the sock, and set the balls of wool dancing
on the floor with the speed at which she worked. "I've had a real good
day to-day, and I'm feeling that I could just sit for a lang while the
nicht, if only the paraffin oil wadna' go down so quick. But the longer
I sit, it burns the more, and it's getting gey dear to buy now-a-days."
"Ay," said the weary voice of the man. "If it's no' clegs it's midges.
Folk have always something to contend against. But don't be long till
you stop. It's almost twelve o'clock, and you ought to be in your bed."
"Oh, I'll no' be very long, Geordie," was the bravely cheerful answer.
"Just you try and gang to sleep and I'll soon finish up. I'll have to
try and get up early in the morning, for I have to go to Mrs. Rundell
and wash. She always gi'es me twa shillings, and that's a good day's
pay. The only thing I grudge is being away all day, leaving you and the
bairns, for I ken they're no' very easy to put up with. They're steerin'
weans, and are no' easy on a body who is ill."
"Ay, they're a steerin' lot, lassie," he answered tenderly. "But, poor
things, they must hae some freedom, Nellie. I wish I was ready for my
work."
"Hoot, man," she said with the same show of cheerfulness. "We might have
been worse, and you will be better some day, and able to work as well as
ever you did."
For a time there was silence, broken only by the loud ticking of the
clock, the clicking of the needles, and occasionally a low moan from the
bed, as the injured miner sank into a restless sleep.
There had been an accident some six weeks before, and Geordie Sinclair,
badly wounded by a fall of stone, had been brought home from the pit in
a cart.
It was during the time known to old miners as the "two-and-sixpenny
winter," that being the sum of the daily wage then earned by the miners.
A financial crisis had come upon the country and the Glasgow City Bank
had failed, trade was dull, and the whole industrial system was in
chaos. It had been a hard time for Geordie Sinclair's wife, for there
were four children to provide for besides her injured husband. Work
which was well paid for was not over plentiful, and she had to toil from
early morning till far into the night to earn the bare necessities of
life. There were times like to-night, when she felt rebellious and
bitter at her plight, but her tired eyes and fingers had to get to the
end of the task, for that meant bread for the children in the morning.
The silence deepened in the little kitchen. No sound came now from the
bed, and the lamp threw eerie shadows on the walls, and the chimney
smoked incessantly.
Her eyes grew watery and smarted with the smoke. She dropped stitches
occasionally, as she hurried with her work, which had to be lifted again
when she discovered that the pattern was wrong, and sometimes quite a
considerable part had to be "ripped out," so that she could correct the
mistake.
The dismal calling of a cat outside irritated her, and the loud
complacent ticking of the clock seemed to mock her misery; but still she
worked on, the busy fingers turning the needles, as the wool unwound
itself from the balls which danced upon the floor. There was life in
those balls of wool as they spun to the tune of the woman's misery. They
advanced and retired, like dancers, touching hands when they met, then
whirling away in opposite directions again; they side-stepped and
wheeled in a mad riot of joyous color, just as they were about to meet:
they stood for a little facing each other, feinting from side to side,
then were off again, as the music of her misery quickened, in an
embracing whirl, as if married in an ecstasy of colored flame,
many-shaded, yet one; then, at last, just as the tune seemed to have
reached a crescendo of spirit, she dashed her work upon the floor, as
she discovered another blunder, and burst into a fit of passionate
weeping.
Suddenly there was a faint tap at the window, and she raised her head,
staying her breath to listen. Soon she heard it again, just a faint but
very deliberate tap, which convinced her that someone was outside in the
darkness. Softly she stole on tiptoe across the room, so as not to
disturb her sleeping husband, and opening the door quietly, craned
forward and peered into the darkness to discover the cause of the tap.
"It's just me," said a deep voice, in uneasy accents, from the darkness
by the window, and she saw then the form of a man edging nearer the
door.
"And who are you?" she asked a little nervously, but trying to master
the alarm in her voice.
"Do you not ken me?" replied the voice with an attempt to speak as
naturally as possible; yet there was something in the tone that made her
more uneasy.
Then the figure of the man drew nearer, and he whispered "Are they all
sleeping?" alluding to the inmates of the house.
"Ay," she answered, drawing back into the shelter of the doorway. "Why
do you ask? And what is it you want?"
"Oh, I just came along to see how you were all getting on," was the
reply. "I ken you must be in very straitened circumstances by this time,
and thought I might be able to help you a bit," and there was an
ingratiating tone in the words now as he sidled nearer. "You must have a
very hard battle just now, and I would like to do something to help
you."
"Come away in," said the woman, with still an uneasy tremor in her
voice, yet feeling more assured. "Geordie is sleeping, but he'll not be
hard to waken up. Come away in, and let us see who you are, and tell us
what you really want."
"No, I'm no' coming in," he whispered hoarsely. "Do you no' ken me? Shut
the door and not let any of them hear. I'm wanting you!" and he stepped
into the light and reached forward his hand, as if to draw her to him.
Mrs. Sinclair gasped and recoiled in horror, as she recognized who it
was that stood before her.
"No," she cried decisively, stepping further back into the shelter of
the house, her voice low and intense with indignation. "No, I have not
come to that yet, thank God. Gang home, you dirty brute, that you are!
I'll be very ill off when I ask anything, or take anything, from you,
Jock Walker!" For it was well known in Lowwood that Jock Walker's
errands to people in distress had always in them an ulterior motive.
He was the under manager at the pits, and his reputation was of the
blackest. There were men in the village of Lowwood who were well aware
of this man's relations with their wives, and they openly agreed to the
sale of the honor of their women folk in return for what he gave them in
the shape of contracts, at which they could make more money than their
neighbors, or good "places," where the coal was easier won. In fact, to
be a contractor was a synonym for this sort of dealing, for no one ever
got a contract from Walker unless his wife, or his daughter, was a woman
of easy virtue, and at the service of this man.
"Very well," replied Walker with chagrined anger. "Please yourself. But
let me tell you that you'll maybe no' ay be so high and mighty; you'll
maybe be dam'd glad yet of the chance that I have given you."
"No, no," protested Mrs. Sinclair. "Go away--"
"Look here, Nellie," he said, his voice changing to a low pleading tone,
"you're in a hole. You must be. Be a sensible woman, and you'll never
need to be so ill-grippet again. I can put Geordie in a position that
he'll make any amount of money as soon as he is able to start. You are
not a bit better than anyone else, and for the sake of your bairns you
should be sensible. And forby," he went on, as if now more sure of his
ground, "what the hell's wrang in it? It's no' what folk do that is
wrong. It's in being found out. Now come away and be sensible. You ken
what is wanted, and you ken that I can make you well off for it."
"No, by heavens," she cried, now tingling with anger at the insult.
"Never! Get out of this, you brute! If Geordie Sinclair had been able
this nicht, I'd have got him to deal with you. Get out of here, or I'll
cleave your rotten body, and let out your rotten heart." And she turned
in, and closed and bolted the door, leaving Walker fuming with anger at
the repulse of his advances. Nellie Sinclair had never felt so outraged
in all her life before. She was trembling with anger at the insult of
his proposals. She paced the floor in her stockinged feet, as if a wild
spirit were raging within her demanding release; then finally she flung
herself into the "big chair," disgust and anger in her heart, and for
the second time that night burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which
seemed to shake her body almost asunder. For a long time she sat thus,
sobbing, her whole being burning with indignation, and her mind in a
fury of disgust and rebellion.
Then there was a faint stirring in the bed where the children slept, and
a little boy's form began to crawl from amongst the rough bedclothes,
his eyes gazing in amazement at the bowed figure of his mother. She was
crying, he concluded, for her shoulders were heaving and it must be
something very bad that made his beautiful mother cry like this. He
crept across the bare wooden floor, his bare sturdy legs showing beneath
the short and meager shirt, and was soon at her side.
"What's wrang wi' you, mother?" he asked, as he put his soft little
hand upon her head. "What's wrang wi' you? Will I kiss you held and make
it better?" But his mother did not look up--only the big sobs continued
to shake her, and the boy becoming alarmed at this, also began to cry,
as he placed his little head against hers. "Oh, mother, dinna greet," he
sobbed, "and I'll kiss your heid till it's better."
At last she lifted her head, and seeing the naked boy, she caught him in
her arms and crushed him to her breast, as if she would smother him.
This was strange conduct for his usually undemonstrative mother; but it
was nice to be hugged like that, even though she did cry.
"What made you greet, mother?" he queried, for he had never before, in
all his four years, seen his mother cry. For answer she merely caught
him closer to her breast, her hair falling soft and warm all over him as
she did so.
"Was you hungry, mither?" he tried again.
"No' very," she answered, choking back her sobs.
"Are you often hungry, too, mither?" he persisted, feeling encouraged at
getting an answer at last.
"Sometimes," she replied. "But dinna bother me, Rob," she continued.
"Gang away to your bed like a man."
He was silent for a time at this repulse, and lay upon her knee puzzling
over the matter.
"Do you greet when you are hungry?" he enquired, with: wide-eyed
earnestness and surprise.
"There noo," she answered, "don't ask so many questions, Daddy'll not be
long till he is better again, and when he is at work there'll be plenty
of pieces to keep us all from being hungry."
"And will there be jeely for the pieces?" pursued the boy, for it seemed
to him that there had never been a time when there was plenty to eat.
"Yes, we'll get plenty o' jeely too," she replied, drying the remaining
tears from her eyes, and hugging him again to her breast.
"Oh, my," he said, with a deep sigh. "I wish my father was better!" and
the little lips were moistened by his tongue, as if in anticipation of
the coming feast.
Another silence; and then came the query--"What way do we not get plenty
o' pieces when my daddy's no' working? Does folk no' get them then?"
"No, Robin," she answered, "but dinna fash your wee noddle with that.
You'll find out all about it when you get big. Shut your eyes and
mother'll sing, an' you'll go to sleep." And he snuggled in and shut his
eyes, while Mrs. Sinclair gathered him softly to her breast and began to
croon an old ballad.
As she sang it seemed to the boy that there were no such things as
"jelly-pieces" to bother about. He liked his mother to sing to him, for
he seemed to get rolled up in her soft, warm voice, and become restful
and happy. Gradually the low crooning song grew fainter in his ears, the
flicker of the fire danced further and further away, until long streaks
of golden thready light seemed to reach out, straight from his eyes to
the fireplace, and all the comfort that it was possible to have flowed
through his soul, and at last he slept. Mrs. Sinclair placed him beside
his brothers and sisters in the bed and went back to finish her
knitting. The night was far gone before she accomplished her task, and
she stood and surveyed her humble home with weariness in her heart.
Through the dim smoke which hung like a blue cloud along the roof, and
made more seemingly thick by the small lamp upon the table, she looked
at her husband lying asleep, and so far free from pain. Then her eyes
traveled to the children in the other bed, and they filled with tears as
she thought that she had had to put them supperless to bed that night,
and again rebellion surged through her blood as she thought of all the
misery of her life. Was it worth living and going on in this way? Was it
worth while to continue? What had she done to reap all this suffering?
She was hungry and weak and exhausted. Perhaps if she could sleep she
would forget it, and in the morning the socks she had finished would
bring her a few pence, and that would mean food.
She decided to go to bed, and in passing by the shelf at the window,
her eye caught sight of a plateful of potato skins, the remains of the
meager dinner of boiled potatoes which the children had had; and
clutching them, she began greedily to devour them, filling her mouth and
cramming them in in handfuls, until it seemed as if she would choke
herself. Then, licking the plate clean of every crumb, she undressed and
slipped quietly into bed, to lie and fret and toss, as she thought of
the insult which Black Jock had offered her, and pondered over the
unhappy lot of her children and their injured father.