CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH NAVVY
BY
PATRICK MACGILL
[Illustration: Logo]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 Fifth Avenue
THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX, ENGLAND.
FOREWORD
"I wish the Kinlochleven navvies had been thrown into the loch. They
would fain turn the Highlands into a cinderheap," said the late Andrew
Lang, writing to me a few months before his death.
In the following pages I have endeavoured to tell of the navvy; the life
he leads, the dangers he dares, and the death he often dies. Most of my
story is autobiographical. Moleskin Joe and Carroty Dan are true to
life; they live now, and for all I know to the contrary may be met with
on some precarious job, in some evil-smelling model lodging-house, or,
as suits these gipsies of labour, on the open road. Norah Ryan's painful
story shows the dangers to which an innocent girl is exposed through
ignorance of the fundamental facts of existence; Gourock Ellen and Annie
are types of women whom I have often met. While asking a little
allowance for the pen of the novelist it must be said that nearly all
the incidents of the book have come under the observation of the writer:
that such incidents should take place makes the tragedy of the story.
PATRICK MACGILL.
The Garden House,
Windsor.
_January, 1914._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A NIGHT IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE 1
II. OLD CUSTOMS 8
III. A CORSICAN OUTRAGE 15
IV. THE GREAT SILENCE 18
V. THE SLAVE MARKET 25
VI. BOYNE WATER AND HOLY WATER 34
VII. A MAN OF TWELVE 41
VIII. OLD MARY SORLEY 48
IX. A GOOD TIME 56
X. THE LEADING ROAD TO STRABANE 62
XI. THE 'DERRY BOAT 67
XII. THE WOMAN WHO WAS NOT ASHAMED 74
XIII. THE MAN WITH THE DEVIL'S PRAYER BOOK 84
XIV. PADDING IT 92
XV. MOLESKIN JOE 99
XVI. MOLESKIN JOE AS MY FATHER 105
XVII. ON THE DEAD END 111
XVIII. THE DRAINER 127
XIX. A DEAD MAN'S SHOES 129
XX. BOOKS 136
XXI. A FISTIC ARGUMENT 146
XXII. THE OPEN ROAD 151
XXIII. THE COCK OF THE NORTH 168
XXIV. MECCA 175
XXV. THE MAN WHO THRASHED CARROTY DAN 182
XXVI. A GREAT FIGHT 197
XXVII. DE PROFUNDIS 213
XXVIII. A LITTLE TRAGEDY 217
XXIX. I WRITE FOR THE PAPERS 225
XXX. WINTER 230
XXXI. THE GREAT EXODUS 243
XXXII. A NEW JOB 254
XXXIII. A SWEETHEART OF MINE 263
XXXIV. UNSKILLED LABOUR OF A NEW KIND 274
XXXV. THE SEARCH 287
XXXVI. THE END OF THE STORY 298
CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END
CHAPTER I
A NIGHT IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE
"The wee red-headed man is a knowing sort of fellow,
His coat is cat's-eye green and his pantaloons are yellow,
His brogues be made of glass and his hose be red as cherry,
He's the lad for devilment if you only make him merry,
He drives a flock of goats, has another flock behind him.
The little children fear him but the old folk never mind him.
To the frogs' house and the goats' house and the hilly land and
hollow,
He will carry naughty children where the parents dare not follow.
Oh! little ones, beware. If the red-haired man should catch you,
You'll have only goats to play with and croaking frogs to watch
you,
A bed between two rocks and not a fire to warm you!--
Then, little ones, be good and the red-haired man can't harm you."
--From _The Song of the Red-haired Man_.
It was night in the dead of winter, and we sat around the fire that
burned in red and blue flames on the wide open hearth. The blue flames
were a sign of storm.
The snow was white on the ground that stretched away from the door of my
father's house, down the dip of the brae and over the hill that rose on
the other side of the glen. I had just been standing out by the little
hillock that rose near the corner of the home gable-end, watching the
glen people place their lamps in the window corners. I loved to see the
lights come out one by one until every house was lighted up. Nothing
looks so cheerful as a lamp seen through the darkness.
On the other side of the valley a mountain stream tumbled down to the
river. It was always crying out at night and the wail in its voice could
be heard ever so far away. It seemed to be lamenting over something
which it had lost. I always thought of women dreeing over a dead body
when I listened to it. It seemed so strange to me, too, that it should
keep coming down and down for ever.
The hills surrounding the glen were very high; the old people said that
there were higher hills beyond them, but this I found very hard to
believe.
These were the thoughts in my mind as I entered my home and closed the
door behind me. From the inside I could see the half-moon, twisted like
a cow's horn, shining through the window.
"It will be a wet month this," said my father. "There are blue flames in
the fire, and a hanging moon never keeps in rain."
The wind was moaning over the chimney. By staying very quiet one could
hear the wail in its voice, and it was like that of the stream on the
far side of the glen. A pot of potatoes hung over the fire, and as the
water bubbled and sang the potatoes could be seen bursting their jackets
beneath the lid. The dog lay beside the hearthstone, his nose thrust
well over his forepaws, threaping to be asleep, but ready to open his
eyes at the least little sound. Maybe he was listening to the song of
the pot, for most dogs like to hear it. An oil lamp swung by a string
from the roof-tree backwards and forwards like a willow branch when the
wind of October is high. As it swung the shadows chased each other in
the silence of the farther corners of the house. My mother said that if
we were bad children the shadows would run away with us, but they never
did, and indeed we were often full of all sorts of mischief. We felt
afraid of the shadows, they even frightened mother. But father was
afraid of nothing. Once he came from Ardara fair on the Night of the
Dead[1] and passed the graveyard at midnight.
Sometimes my mother would tell a story, and it was always about the wee
red-headed man who had a herd of goats before him and a herd of goats
behind him, and a salmon tied to the laces of his brogues for supper. I
have now forgotten all the great things which he went through, but in
those days I always thought the story of the wee red-headed man the most
wonderful one in all the world. At that time I had never heard another.
For supper we had potatoes and buttermilk. The potatoes were emptied
into a large wicker basket round which we children sat with a large bowl
of buttermilk between us, and out of this bowl we drank in turn. Usually
the milk was consumed quickly, and afterwards we ate the potatoes dry.
Nearly every second year the potatoes went bad; then we were always
hungry, although Farley McKeown, a rich merchant in the neighbouring
village, let my father have a great many bags of Indian meal on credit.
A bag contained sixteen stone of meal and cost a shilling a stone. On
the bag of meal Farley McKeown charged sixpence a month interest; and
fourpence a month on a sack of flour which cost twelve shillings. All
the people round about were very honest, and paid up their debts
whenever they were able. Usually when the young went off to Scotland or
England they sent home money to their fathers and mothers, and with this
money the parents paid for the meal to Farley McKeown. "What doesn't go
to the landlord goes to Farley McKeown," was a Glenmornan saying.
The merchant was a great friend of the parish priest, who always told
the people if they did not pay their debts they would burn for ever and
ever in hell. "The fires of eternity will make you sorry for the debts
that you did not pay," said the priest. "What is eternity?" he would
ask in a solemn voice from the altar steps. "If a man tried to count the
sands on the sea-shore and took a million years to count every single
grain, how long would it take him to count them all? A long time, you'll
say. But that time is nothing to eternity. Just think of it! Burning in
hell while a man, taking a million years to count a grain of sand,
counts all the sand on the sea-shore. And this because you did not pay
Farley McKeown his lawful debts, his lawful debts within the letter of
the law." That concluding phrase "within the letter of the law" struck
terror into all who listened, and no one, maybe not even the priest
himself, knew what it meant.
Farley McKeown would give no meal to those who had no children. "That
kind of people, who have no children to earn for them, never pay debts,"
he said. "If _they_ get meal and don't pay for it they'll go
down--down," said the priest. "'Tis God Himself that would be angry with
Farley McKeown if he gave meal to people like that."
The merchant established a great knitting industry in West Donegal. My
mother used to knit socks for him, and he paid her at the rate of one
and threepence a dozen pairs, and it was said that he made a shilling of
profit on a pair of these in England. My mother usually made a pair of
socks daily; but to do this she had to work sixteen hours at the task.
Along with this she had her household duties to look after. "A penny
farthing a day is not much to make," I once said to her. "No, indeed, if
you look at it in that way," she answered. "But it is nearly two pounds
a year and that is half the rent of our farm of land."
Every Christmas Farley McKeown paid two hundred and fifty pounds to the
church. When the priest announced this from the altar he would say,
"That's the man for you!" and all the members of the congregation would
bow their heads, feeling very much ashamed of themselves because none of
them could give more than a sixpence or a shilling to the silver
collection which always took place at the chapel of Greenanore on
Christmas Day.
When the night grew later my mother put her bright knitting-needles by
in a bowl over the fireplace, and we all went down on our knees, praying
together. Then mother said: "See and leave the door on the latch; maybe
a poor man will need shelter on a night like this." With these words she
turned the ashes over on the live peat while we got into our beds, one
by one.
There were six children in our family, three brothers and three sisters.
Of these, five slept in one room, two girls in the little bed, while
Fergus and Dan slept along with me in the other, which was much larger.
Father and mother and Kate, the smallest of us all, slept in the
kitchen.
When the light was out, we prayed to Mary, Brigid, and Patrick to shield
us from danger until the morning. Then we listened to the winds outside.
We could hear them gather in the dip of the valley and come sweeping
over the bend of the hill, singing great lonely songs in the darkness.
One wind whistled through the keyhole, another tapped on the window with
an ivy leaf, while a third swept under the half-door and rustled across
the hearthstone. Then the breezes died away and there was silence.
"They're only putting their heads together now," said Dan, "making up a
plan to do some other tricks."
"I see the moon through the window," said Norah.
"Who made the moon?" asked Fergus.
"It was never made," answered Dan. "It was there always."
"There is a man in the moon," I said. "He was very bad and a priest put
him up there for his sins."
"He has a pot of porridge in his hand."
"And a spoon."
"A wooden spoon."
"How could it shine at night if it's only a wooden spoon? It's made of
white silver."
"Like a shillin'."
"Like a big shillin' with a handle to it."
"What would we do if we had a shillin'?" asked Ellen.
"I'd buy a pocket-knife," said Dan.
"Would you cut me a stick to drive bullocks to the harvest fair of
Greenanore?" asked Fergus.
"And what good would be in havin' a knife if you cut sticks for other
folk?"
"I'd buy a prayer-book for the shillin'," said Norah.
"A prayer-book is no good, once you get it," I said. "A knife is far and
away better."
"I would buy a sheep for a shillin'," said Fergus.
"You couldn't get a sheep for a shillin'."
"Well, I could buy a young one."
"There never was a young sheep. A young one is only a lamb."
"A lamb turns into a sheep at midsummer moon."
"Why has a lamb no horns?" asked Norah.
"Because it's young," we explained.
"We'll sing a holy song," said Ellen.
"We'll sing _Holy Mary_," we all cried together, and began to sing in
the darkness.
"Oh! Holy Mary, mother mild.
Look down on me, a little child.
And when I sleep put near my bed
The good Saint Joseph at my head,
My guardian Angel at my right
To keep me good through all the night;
Saint Brigid give me blessings sweet;
Saint Patrick watch beside my feet.
Be good to me O! mother mild,
Because I am a little child."
"Get a sleep on you," mother called from the next room. "The wee
red-headed man is comin' down the chimley and he is goin' to take ye
away if ye aren't quiet."
We fell asleep, and that was how the night passed by in my father's
house years ago.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] The evening of All Souls' Day.