Underworld , livre ebook

THE UNDERWORLD
THE STORY OF ROBERT SINCLAIR, MINER
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JAMES C. WELSH
 
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The Underworld The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner First published in 1920 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-461-1 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-462-8 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface Chapter I - The Thong of Poverty Chapter II - A Turn of the Screw Chapter III - The Block Chapter IV - A Young Rebel Chapter V - Black Jock's Threat Chapter VI - The Coming of a Prophet Chapter VII - On the Pit-Head Chapter VIII - The Mantle of Manhood Chapter IX - The Accident Chapter X - Heroes of the Underworld Chapter XI - The Strike Chapter XII - The Rivals Chapter XIII - The Red Hose Race Chapter XIV - The Awakening Chapter XV - Peter Makes a Decision Chapter XVI - A Stir in Lowwood Chapter XVII - Mysie Runs Away Chapter XVIII - Mag Robertson's Frenzy Chapter XIX - Black Jock's End Chapter XX - The Conference Chapter XXI - The Meeting with Mysie Chapter XXII - Mysie's Return Chapter XXIII - Home Chapter XXIV - A Call for Help Chapter XXV - A Fight with Death
Preface
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I have tried to write of the life I know, the life I have lived, and ofthe lives of the people whom, above all others, I love, and of whom I amso proud.
My people have been miners for generations, and I myself became a minerat the age of twelve. I have worked since then in the mine at everyphase of coal getting until about five years ago, when my fellow workersmade me their checkweigher.
I say this that those who read my book may know that the things of whichI write are the things of which I have firsthand knowledge.
JAMES C. WELSH. DOUGLAS WATER, LANARK.
Chapter I - The Thong of Poverty
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"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'llsoon finish the sock, and that will be a pair the day. Is the pain inyour back worse the nicht, that you are so restless?" and the clickingof 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 bitsore; but a body gets tired lying always in the yin position. Forby, theday aye seems long when you are out, and I dinna like to think of youout working all day, and then sitting down to knit at nicht. It must bevery tiring for you, Nellie."
"Oh, I'm no' that tired," she replied with a show of cheerfulness, asshe turned another wire in the sock, and set the balls of wool dancingon the floor with the speed at which she worked. "I've had a real goodday to-day, and I'm feeling that I could just sit for a lang while thenicht, if only the paraffin oil wadna' go down so quick. But the longerI 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 tillyou 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 totry and get up early in the morning, for I have to go to Mrs. Rundelland wash. She always gi'es me twa shillings, and that's a good day'spay. The only thing I grudge is being away all day, leaving you and thebairns, 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, poorthings, they must hae some freedom, Nellie. I wish I was ready for mywork."
"Hoot, man," she said with the same show of cheerfulness. "We might havebeen worse, and you will be better some day, and able to work as well asever you did."
For a time there was silence, broken only by the loud ticking of theclock, the clicking of the needles, and occasionally a low moan from thebed, 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 ina cart.
It was during the time known to old miners as the "two-and-sixpennywinter," 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 Bankhad failed, trade was dull, and the whole industrial system was inchaos. It had been a hard time for Geordie Sinclair's wife, for therewere four children to provide for besides her injured husband. Workwhich was well paid for was not over plentiful, and she had to toil fromearly morning till far into the night to earn the bare necessities oflife. There were times like to-night, when she felt rebellious andbitter at her plight, but her tired eyes and fingers had to get to theend 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 thebed, and the lamp threw eerie shadows on the walls, and the chimneysmoked incessantly.
Her eyes grew watery and smarted with the smoke. She dropped stitchesoccasionally, as she hurried with her work, which had to be lifted againwhen she discovered that the pattern was wrong, and sometimes quite aconsiderable part had to be "ripped out," so that she could correct themistake.
The dismal calling of a cat outside irritated her, and the loudcomplacent ticking of the clock seemed to mock her misery; but still sheworked on, the busy fingers turning the needles, as the wool unwounditself from the balls which danced upon the floor. There was life inthose balls of wool as they spun to the tune of the woman's misery. Theyadvanced and retired, like dancers, touching hands when they met, thenwhirling away in opposite directions again; they side-stepped andwheeled 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 anembracing whirl, as if married in an ecstasy of colored flame,many-shaded, yet one; then, at last, just as the tune seemed to havereached a crescendo of spirit, she dashed her work upon the floor, asshe discovered another blunder, and burst into a fit of passionateweeping.
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 butvery deliberate tap, which convinced her that someone was outside in thedarkness. Softly she stole on tiptoe across the room, so as not todisturb her sleeping husband, and opening the door quietly, cranedforward 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 darknessby the window, and she saw then the form of a man edging nearer thedoor.
"And who are you?" she asked a little nervously, but trying to masterthe alarm in her voice.
"Do you not ken me?" replied the voice with an attempt to speak asnaturally as possible; yet there was something in the tone that made hermore uneasy.
Then the figure of the man drew nearer, and he whispered "Are they allsleeping?" alluding to the inmates of the house.
"Ay," she answered, drawing back into the shelter of the doorway. "Whydo you ask? And what is it you want?"
"Oh, I just came along to see how you were all getting on," was thereply. "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 aningratiating tone in the words now as he sidled nearer. "You must have avery hard battle just now, and I would like to do something to helpyou."
"Come away in," said the woman, with still an uneasy tremor in hervoice, yet feeling more assured. "Geordie is sleeping, but he'll not behard to waken up. Come away in, and let us see who you are, and tell uswhat you really want."
"No, I'm no' coming in," he whispered hoarsely. "Do you no' ken me? Shutthe door and not let any of them hear. I'm wanting you!" and he steppedinto 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 itwas that stood before her.
"No," she cried decisively, stepping further back into the shelter ofthe house, her voice low and intense with indignation. "No, I have notcome 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'serrands to people in distress had always in them an ulterior motive.
He was the under manager at the pits, and his reputation was of theblackest. There were men in the village of Lowwood who were well awareof this man's relations with their wives, and they openly agreed to thesale of the honor of their women folk in return for what he gave them inthe shape of contracts, at which they could make more money than theirneighbors, or good "places," where the coal was easier won. In fact, tobe a contractor was a synonym for this sort of dealing, for no one evergot a contract from Walker unless his wife, or his daughter, was a womanof easy virtue, and at the service of this man.
"Very well," replied Walker with chagrined anger. "Please yourself. Butlet me tell you that you'll maybe no' ay be so high and mighty; you'llmaybe be dam'd glad yet of the chance that I have given you."
"No, no," protested Mrs. Sinclair. "Go away—