THE GREAT EXODUS
"We'll lift our time and go, lads,
The long road lies before,
The places that we know, lads,
Will know our like no more.
Foot forth! the last bob's paid out,
Some see their last shift through.
But the men who are not played out
Have other jobs to do."
--From _Tramp Navvies_.
'Twas towards the close of a fine day on the following summer that we
were at work in the dead end of a cutting, Moleskin and I, when I, who
had been musing on the quickly passing years, turned to Moleskin and
quoted a line from the Bible.
"Our years pass like a tale that is told," I said.
"Like a tale that is told damned bad," answered my mate, picking stray
crumbs of tobacco from his waistcoat pocket and stuffing them into the
heel of his pipe. "It's a strange world, Flynn. Here to-day, gone
to-morrow; always waitin' for a good time comin' and knowin' that it
will never come. We work with one mate this evenin', we beg for crumbs
with another on the mornin' after. It's a bad life ours, and a poor one,
when I come to think of it, Flynn."
"It is all that," I assented heartily.
"Look at me!" said Joe, clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders.
"I must be close on forty years, maybe on the graveyard side of it, for
all I know. I've horsed it since ever I can mind; I've worked like a
mule for years, and what have I to show for it all to-day, matey? Not
the price of an ounce of tobacco! A midsummer scarecrow wouldn't wear
the duds that I've to wrap around my hide! A cockle-picker that has no
property only when the tide is out is as rich as I am. Not the price of
an ounce of tobacco! There is something wrong with men like us, surely,
when we're treated like swine in a sty for all the years of our life.
It's not so bad here, but it's in the big towns that a man can feel it
most. No person cares for the likes of us, Flynn. I've worked nearly
ev'rywhere; I've helped to build bridges, dams, houses, ay, and towns!
When they were finished, what happened? Was it for us--the men who did
the buildin'--to live in the homes that we built, or walk through the
streets that we laid down? No earthly chance of that! It was always,
'Slide! we don't need you any more,' and then a man like me, as helped
to build a thousand houses big as castles, was hellish glad to get the
shelter of a ten-acre field and a shut gate between me and the winds of
night. I've spent all my money, have I? It's bloomin' easy to spend all
that fellows like us can earn. When I was in London I saw a lady spend
as much on fur to decorate her carcase with as would keep me in beer and
tobacco for all the rest of my life. And that same lady would decorate a
dog in ribbons and fol-the-dols, and she wouldn't give me the smell of a
crust when I asked her for a mouthful of bread. What could you expect
from a woman who wears the furry hide of some animal round her neck,
anyhow? We are not thought as much of as dogs, Flynn. By God! them rich
buckos do eat an awful lot. Many a time I crept up to a window just to
see them gorgin' themselves."
"I have often done the same kind of thing," I said.
"Most men do," answered Joe. "You've heard of old Moses goin' up the
hill to have a bit peep at the Promist Land. He was just like me and
you, Flynn, wantin' to have a peep at the things which he'd never lay
his claws on."
"Those women who sit half-naked at the table have big appetites," I
said.
"They're all gab and guts, like young crows," said Moleskin. "And they
think more of their dogs than they do of men like me and you. I'm an
Antichrist!"
"A what?"
"One of them sort of fellows as throws bombs at kings."
"You mean an Anarchist."
"Well, whatever they are, I'm one. What is the good of kings, of
fine-feathered ladies, of churches, of anything in the country, to men
like me and you? One time, 'twas when I started trampin' about, I met an
old man on the road and we mucked about, the two of us as mates, for
months afterwards. One night in the winter time, as we were sleepin'
under a hedge, the old fellow got sick, and he began to turn over and
over on his beddin' of frost and his blankets of snow, which was not the
best place to put a sick man, as you know yourself. As the night wore
on, he got worse and worse. I tried to do the best I could for the old
fellow, gave him my muffler and my coat, but the pains in his guts was
so much that I couldn't hardly prevent him from rollin' along the ground
on his stomach. He would do anythin' just to take his mind away from the
pain that he was sufferin'. At last I got him to rise and walk, and we
trudged along till we came to a house by the roadside. 'Twas nearly
midnight and there was a light in one of the windows, so I thought that
I would call at the door and ask for a bit of help. My mate, who bucked
up somewhat when we were walkin', got suddenly worse again, and fell
against the gatepost near beside the road, and stuck there as if glued
on to the thing. I left him by himself and went up to the door and
knocked. A man drew the bolts and looked out at me. He had his collar
on back to front, so I knew that he was a clergyman.
"'What do you want?' he asked.
"'My mate's dyin' on your gatepost,' I said.
"'Then you'd better take him away from here,' said the parson.
"'But he wants help,' I said. 'He can't go a step further, and if you
could give me a drop of brandy----'
"I didn't get any further with my story. The fellow whistled for his
dog, and a big black animal came boundin' through the passage and
started snarlin' when it saw me standin' there in the doorway.
"'Now, you get away from here,' said the clergyman to me.
"'My mate's dyin',' I said.
"'Seize him,' said the man to the dog."
"What a scoundrel that man must have been," I said, interrupting
Moleskin in the midst of his story.
"He was only a human being, and that's about as bad as a man can be,"
said Joe. "Anyway, he put the dog on me and the animal bounded straight
at the thick of my leg, but that animal didn't know that it was up
against Moleskin Joe. I caught hold of the dog by the throat and twisted
its throttle until it snapped like a dry stick. Then I lifted the dead
thing up in my arms and threw it right into the face of the man who was
standin' in the hallway.
"'Take that an' be thankful that the worst dog of the two of you is not
dead,' I shouted. 'And when it comes to a time that sees you hangin' on
the lower cross-bars of the gates of heaven, waitin' till you get in,
may you be kept there till I give the word for you to pass through.'
"My mate was still hangin' on the gatepost when I came back, and he was
as dead as a maggot. I could do nothin' for a dead man, so I went on my
own, leavin' him hangin' there like a dead crow in a turnip field. Next
mornin' a cop lifted me and I was charged with assaultin' a minister and
killin' his dog. I got three months hard, and it was hard to tell
whether for hittin' the man or killin' the dog. Anyway, the fellow got
free, although he allowed a man to die at his own doorstep. I never
liked clergy before, and I hate them ever since; but I know, as you
know, that it's not for the likes of you and me that they work for."
"Time to stop lookin' at your work, boys!" interrupted Red Billy, as he
approached us, carrying his watch and eternal clasp-knife in his hands.
"Be damned to you, you could look at your work all day, you love it so
much. But when you go to the pay-office to-night, you'll hear a word or
two that will do you good, you will!"
On arriving at the pay-office, every man in turn was handed his lying
time and told that his services were no longer required. Red Billy
passed the money out through the window of the shack which served as
money-box. Moleskin came after me, and he carefully counted the money
handed to him.
"Half-a-crown wrong in your tally, old cock," he said to Red Billy.
"Fork out the extra two-and-a-tanner, you unsanctified, chicken-chested
cheat. I didn't think that it was in your carcase to cheat a man of his
lyin' time."
"No cheatin'," said Billy.
"Well, what the hell----!"
"No cheatin'," interrupted Billy.
"I'm two-and-a-tanner short----"
"No cheatin'," piped Billy maliciously.
"I'll burst your nut, you parrot-faced, gawky son of a Pontius Pilate,
if you don't fork out my full lyin' time!" roared Moleskin.
"I always charge two-and-six for a pair of boots and the same for a
clasp-knife," said the ganger.
Billy had a long memory, and Joe was cornered and crestfallen. I,
myself, had almost forgotten about the knife which Joe had lifted from
Red Billy on the morning of our arrival in Kinlochleven, and Joe had
almost lost memory of it as well.
"I had the best of that bargain," Red Billy went on sweetly. "The knife
was on its last legs and I just intended to buy a new one. A half-crown
was a good penny for a man like me to spend, so I thought that if
Moleskin paid for it, kind of quiet like, it would be a very nice thing
for me--a--very--nice--thing--for--me."
"I grant that you have the best of me this time," said Moleskin, and a
smile passed over his face. "But my turn will come next, you know. I
wouldn't like to do you any serious harm, Billy, but I must get my own
back. I have only to look for that old woman of yours and send her after
you. I can get her address easy enough, and I have plenty of time to
look for it. You don't care much for your old wife, Billy, do you?"
Billy made no answer. It was rumoured that his wife was a woman with a
tongue and a temper, and that Billy feared her and spent part of his
time in endeavouring to get out of her way. Joe was working upon this
rumour now, and the ganger began to look uncomfortable.
"Of course, if I get my half-crown and another to boot, I'll not trouble
to look for the woman," said Joe. "It won't be hard to find her. She'll
have gone back to her own people, and it is well known that they belong
to Paisley. Her brothers are all fightin' men, and ready to maul the man
that didn't play fairly with their own blood relations. By God! they'll
give you a maulin', Billy, when I send them after you. They'll come up
here, and further until they find you out. You'll have to shank it when
they come, run like hell, in fact, and lose your job and your lyin'
time. If you give me seven-and-six I'll not give you away!"
"I'll give you the half-crown," said Billy.
"I'm losin' my time talkin' to you," said Joe pleasantly, and he pulled
out his watch. "Every minute I stop here I'm goin' to put my charge up a
shillin'."
"I'll give you the five shillin's if you go away and keep clear of
Paisley," growled the ganger. "Five shillin's! you damned cheat! Are you
not content with that?"
"One minute," said Joe solemnly. "Eight-and-six."
"My God!" Billy cried. "You're goin' to rob me. I'll give you the
seven-and-six."
We were heartily enjoying it. There were over one hundred men looking
on, and Joe, now master of the strained situation, kept looking
steadfastly at his watch, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
"Two minutes; nine-and-six," he said at the end of the stated time.
"Here's your nine-and-six!" roared Billy, passing some silver coins
through the grating. "Here, take it and be damned to you!"
Joe put the money in his pocket, cast a benevolent glance at Billy, and
my mate and I went out from Kinlochleven. We did not go into the shack
which we had occupied for over a year. There was nothing there belonging
to us, all our property was on our backs or in our pockets, so we turned
away straight from the pay-office and took to the road again.
The great procession filed down the hillside. Hundreds of men had been
paid off on the same evening. The job was nearly completed, and only a
few hands were required to finish the remainder of the labour. Some men
decided to stay, but a great longing took possession of them at the
last moment, and they followed those who were already on the road.
Civilisation again! Away behind the hunchbacked mountains the sunset
flamed in all its colours. Islands of jasper were enshrined in lakes of
turquoise, rivers of blood flowed through far-spreading plains of dark
cumulus that were enshrouded in the spell of eternal silence. Overhead
the blue was of the deepest, save where one stray cloud blushed to find
itself alone in the vastness of the high heavens.
We were an army of scarecrows, ragged, unkempt scare crows of
civilisation. We came down from Kinlochleven in the evening with the
glow of the setting sun full in our faces, and never have I looked on an
array of men such as we were. Some were old, lame men who might not live
until they obtained their next job, and who would surely drop at their
post when they obtained it. These were the veterans of labour, crawling
along limply in the rear, staggering over boulders and hillocks, men who
were wasted in the long struggle and who were now bound for a new
place--a place where a man might die. They had built their last town and
were no longer wanted there or anywhere else. Strong lusty fellows like
myself took the lead. We possessed hale and supple limbs, and a mile or
two of a journey meant very little to any of us.
Now and again I looked behind at the followers. The great army spread
out in the centre and tailed away towards the end. A man at the rear sat
down and took a stone out of his boot. His comrades helped him to his
feet when he had finished his task. He was a very old, decrepit, and
weary man; the look of death was in his eyes, but he wanted to walk on.
Maybe he would sit down again at the foot of the mountain. Maybe he
would sleep there, for further down the night breezes were warmer, much
warmer, than the cold winds on the hillside. Probably the old fellow
thought of these things as he tumbled down the face of the mountain; and
perhaps he knew that death was waiting for him at the bottom.
Some sang as they journeyed along. They sang about love, about drink,
about women and gambling. Most of us joined in the singing. Maybe the
man at the rear sang none, but we could not hear him if he did, he was
so far behind.
The sun paled out and hid behind a hump of the mountain. Overhead a few
stars twinkled mockingly. In the distance the streams could be heard
falling over the cliffs. Still the mountain vomited out the human
throng, and over all the darkness of the night settled slowly.
What did the men think of as they walked down from Kinlochleven? It is
hard to say, for the inmost thoughts of a most intimate friend are
hidden from us, for they lack expression and cannot be put into words.
As to myself, I found that my thoughts were running back to Norah Ryan
and the evenings we spent on the shores of the Clyde. I was looking
backward; I had no thoughts, no plans, for the future.
I was now almost careless of life, indifferent towards fortune, and the
dreams of youth had given place to a placid acceptance of stern
realities. On the way up to the hills I had longed for things beyond my
reach--wealth, comfort, and the love of fair women. But these longings
had now given place to an almost unchanging calm, an indifference
towards women, and an almost stoical outlook on the things that are.
Nothing was to me pleasurable, nothing made me sad. During the last
months in Kinlochleven I had very little desire for drink or cards, but
true to custom I gave up neither. With no man except Moleskin did I
exchange confidences, and even these were of the very slightest. To the
rest of my mates I was always the same, except perhaps in the whisky
saloon or in a fight. They thought me very strong in person and in
character, but when I pried deeply into my own nature I found that I was
full of vanity and weaknesses. The heat of a good fire after a hard
day's work caused me to feel happier; hunger made me sour, a good meal
made me cheerful. One day I was fit for any work; the next day I was
lazy and heedless, and at times I so little resembled myself that I
might be taken for a man of an entirely opposite character. Still, the
river cannot be expected to take on the same form in shine as in shadow,
in level as in steep, and in fall as in freshet. I am a creature of
environment, an environment that is eternally changing. Not being a
stone or clod, I change with it. I was a man of many humours, of many
inconsistencies. The pain of a corn changed my outlook on life. Moleskin
himself was sometimes disgusting in my sight; at other times I was only
happy in his company. But all the time I was the same in the eyes of my
mates, stolid, unsympathetic, and cold. In the end most of my moods
went, and although I had mapped out no course of conduct, I settled into
a temperate contentment, which, though far removed from gladness, had no
connection with melancholy.
Since I came to Kinlochleven I had not looked on a woman, and the
thoughts of womankind had almost entirely gone from my mind. With the
rest of the men it was the same. The sexual instinct was almost dead in
them. Women were merely dreams of long ago; they were so long out of
sight that the desire for their company had almost expired in every man
of us. Still, it was strange that I should think of Norah Ryan as I
trudged down the hillside from Kinlochleven.
The men were still singing out their songs, and Joe hummed the chorus
through the teeth that held his empty pipe as he walked along.
Suddenly the sound of singing died and Moleskin ceased his bellowing
chorus. A great silence fell on the party. The nailed shoes rasping on
the hard earth, and the half-whispered curse of some falling man as he
tripped over a hidden boulder, were the only sounds that could be heard
in the darkness.
And down the face of the mountain the ragged army tramped slowly on.