FOOTNOTE:

FOOTNOTE:[11]Wages paid on the day on which it is earned.

[11]Wages paid on the day on which it is earned.

When rugged rungs stand up to fight, stark naked to the buff,Each taken blow but gives them zest, they cannot have enough,For they are out to see red blood, to curse and club and clout,And few men know and no one cares what brings the fuss about."—FromHard Knuckles.

When rugged rungs stand up to fight, stark naked to the buff,

Each taken blow but gives them zest, they cannot have enough,

For they are out to see red blood, to curse and club and clout,

And few men know and no one cares what brings the fuss about."

—FromHard Knuckles.

About fifty yards distant from Red Billy's hut a circle of shacks enclosed a level piece of ground, and this was used as a dumping place for empty sardine cans, waste tins, scrap iron, and broken bottles. This was also the favourite spot where all manner of quarrels were settled with the fists. It had been christened the Ring, and in those days many a heavy jowl was broken there and many a man was carried out of the enclosure seeing all kinds of dancing lights in front of his eyes. It was to this spot that Moleskin and Gahey came to settle their dispute on the evening of the second day, and I came with them, Joe having appointed me as his second, whose main duty would consist in looking on and giving a word of approval to my principal now and again. When we arrived two fights were already in progress, and my mates had to wait until one of these was brought to a satisfactory conclusion. Some men who had come out through sympathy with the combatants were seated on the ground in one corner, and had transferred their interest from the quarrels to a game of banker or brag. Moleskin and Gahey evinced not the slightest interest in the two fights that were taking place; but grumbled a little because they had towait their turn so long. For myself, I could hardly understand my mate's indifference to other people's quarrels. At that time, as a true Irishman, I could have spent all day long looking at fights. These men looked upon a fight as they looked upon a shift. "Hurry up and get it done, and when it is done trouble no more about it." Another man's shift or another man's fight was not their business.

I could not take my eyes away from the struggles which were going on already. A big Irishman, slow of foot, strong and heavy-going, was engaged in an encounter with a little Pole, who handled his fists scientifically, and who had battered his opponent's face to an ugly purple by the time we arrived. However, in the end the Irishman won. He lifted his opponent bodily, and threw him, naked shoulders and all, into the middle of a heap of broken bottles and scraggy tins. The Pole would fight no more. His mates pulled the edged scraps of tin out of his flesh, while his victor challenged all Poles (there were a fair sprinkling of them at Kinlochleven) who were yet on the safe side of hell to deadly battle.

The second fight was more vindictive. A Glasgow craneman had fallen foul of an English muck-filler, and the struggle had already lasted for the best part of an hour. Both men were stripped to the buff, and red splotches of blood and dirt covered their steaming bodies. The craneman thought that he had finished matters conclusively when he gave his opponent the knee in the stomach, and knocked him stiff to the ground. Just as he was on the point of leaving the ring the Englishman suddenly recovered, rose to his knees and, grabbing his adversary by the legs, inserted his teeth in the thick of the victor's right calf. Nothing daunted, however, the craneman bent down and tightened his thumbs under his enemy's ear, and pressed strongly until the latter let go his hold.

"Our turn now," said Moleskin affably, as he stripped to the waist and fastened his gallowses around his waist. "It'll give me much pleasure to blacken your eyes, Gahey."

Joe was a fine figure when stripped. His flesh was pure white below the brown of his neck, and the long muscles of his arms stood out in clearly defined ridges. When he stretched his arms his well-developed biceps rose and fell in graceful unison with every movement of his perfectly-shaped chest. When on the roads, dressed in every curious garment which he could beg, borrow, or thieve, Joe looked singularly unprepossessing; but here, naturally garbed, and standing amidst the nakedness of nature, he looked like some magnificent piece of sculpture, gifted with life and fresh from the hands of the genius who fashioned it.

Gahey was of different build altogether. The profusion of hair that covered his body resolved itself into a mane almost in the hollow of the breast bone. His flesh was shrivelled and dried; his limbs looked like raw pig-iron, which had in some strange manner been transformed into the semblance of a human being.

"Hell-fire and Moleskin Joe," I heard the gamblers say as they threw down their cards and scraped the money from the ground. "This will be a good set-to. Moleskin can handle his mits, and by this and that, Hell-fire is no slow one!"

Joe stepped into the ring, hitched up his trousers and waited. Gahey followed, stood for a moment, then swung out for his enemy's head, only to find his blow intercepted by an upward sweep of the arm of Moleskin, who followed up his movement of defence by a right feint for the body of Gahey, and a straight left that went home from the shoulder. Gahey replied with a heavy smash to the ribs, and Joe looked at him with a smile.

"See and don't hurt your knuckles on my ribs, Gahey," he said.

"I was only feelin' if yer heart was beatin' just a trifle faster than the usual," replied Gahey.

Both men smiled, but the smile was a mask, behind which, clear-headed and cool-eyed, each of them looked for an opening and an opportunity to drive home a blow. To each belonged the wisdom bred of many weary, aching fights and desperate gruellings. Gahey was by far the quicker man; his long brown arms shot out like whiplashes, and his footwork was very clever. He was a man, untrained in the art, but a natural fighter. His missing thumb seemed to place him at no disadvantage. Joe was slower but by far the stronger man. He never lost his head, and his blows had the impact of a knotted club. When he landed on the flesh of the body, every knuckle left its own particular mark; when he landed on the face, there was a general disfigurement.

Gahey broke through the mask of his smile, and struck out with his right. In his eyes the purpose betrayed itself, and his opponent, forewarned, caught the blow on his arm. Hell-fire darted in with the left and took Joe on the stomach. The impact was sharp and sudden; my mate winced a trifle slightly, but the next moment he forced a smile into his face.

"You're savin' your knuckles, matey," he said to Gahey. "There's no danger of you breakin' them on the soft of my belly."

"Well, I'll test them here," Gahey retorted, and came in with a resounding smack to Moleskin's jaw. Joe received the blow stolidly, and swung a right for Gahey, but, missing his man, he fell to the ground.

"See! see!" everyone around the ring shouted. "Who'd have thought that a light rung of a fellow like Gahey would have beat Moleskin Joe?"

"Wait till he's beaten!" I shouted back angrily. "I'll have something to say to some of you idiots."

"Good, Flynn!" said Moleskin, rising to his feet. "Just put in a word on my behalf with them lubberly coopers. I'll see to them myself in a minute or two, when I get this wee job off my hands."

So saying, my mate made for Gahey, who was afraid to come into contact with Joe when he was on the ground. The men fought to win, and the fight had no rules. All was fair, clinching, clutching, scraping, kicking, sarcasm, and repartee. Joe followed Gahey up, coming nearer every moment and eager to get into grips. When that would happen, Gahey was lost; but being wary, he avoided Moleskin's clutches, and kept hopping around, aiming in at intervals one of his lightning blows, and raising a red mark on Moleskin's white body whenever he struck. Joe kept walking after his man; nothing deterred him, he would keep at it until he achieved his purpose. The other man's hope lay in knocking Moleskin unconscious; but even that would ensure victory only for the moment. Joe once fought a man twenty-six times, and got knocked out every time. In the twenty-seventh fight, Joe knocked out his opponent. Joe did not know when he was beaten, and thus he was never defeated.

Now he kept walking stolidly round and round the ring after Gahey. Sometimes he struck out; nearly always he missed, and seldom was he quick enough to avoid the lightning blows of his enemy. Even yet he was smiling, although the smile had long gone from the face of Gahey, who was still angry and wanting to inflict punishment. He inflicted punishment, but it seemed to have no effect; apparently unperturbed, Joe took it all without wincing.

The crowd watched Gahey wistfully; now they knew instinctively that he was going to get beaten. Joe was implacable, resistless. He was walking towards an appointed goal steadily and surely; his pace was merciless, and it wasslow, but in the end it would tell. For myself, I doubted if Joe could be successful. He was streaming with blood, one eyebrow was hanging, and the flesh of the breast was red and raw. Gahey was almost without a scratch; if he finished the fight at that moment, he would leave the ring nearly as fresh as when he came into it. Joe still smiled, but the smile looked ghastly, when seen through the blood. Now and again he passed a joke.

The look of fear came into Gahey's eyes suddenly. It came to him when he realised that he would be beaten if he did not knock Joe out very soon. Then he endeavoured at every opportunity to strike fully and heavily, trying to land on the point, but this Joe kept jealously guarded. Gahey began to lose confidence in himself; once or twice he blundered and almost fell into Joe's arms, but saved himself by an effort.

"I'll get you yet, my Irish blanket-grabber!" Joe said each time.

"Get him now and put an end to the fight," I cried to Moleskin. "It's not worth your while to spend so much time over a little job."

Joe took my advice and rushed. Gahey struck out, but Joe imprisoned the striking arm, and drawing it towards him, he gripped hold of Gahey's body. Then, without any perceptible effort, he lifted Gahey over his head and held him there at arm's length for a few minutes. Afterwards he took him down as far as his chest.

"For God's sake don't throw me into the tins, Moleskin," cried Gahey.

"I don't want to dirty the tins," answered Joe. "Now I want to ask you a question. Who was right about the blankets last night?"

Gahey gave no answer. Joe threw him on the ground, went on top of him, and began knuckling his knees along Gahey's ribs.

"Who was right about the blankets last night?" asked Moleskin again.

"You were," said Gahey sulkily. Joe smiled and rose to his feet.

"That's a wee job finished," he said to me. "You could knock Gahey out, yourself, Flynn."

"Could ye, bedamned!" roared Gahey, dancing around me and making strange passes with his fist.

"Go on, Flynn, give it to him same as you did with Carroty in Greenock!" shouted Joe as he struggled with the shirt which he was pulling over his head. Gahey's lip was swollen, his left ear had been thickened, but otherwise he had not received a scratch in the fight with Moleskin, and he was now undoubtedly eager to try conclusions with me. As I have said, I was never averse to a stand-up fight, and though the exhibition which Hell-fire made against Joe filled me with profound respect for the man, I looked at him squarely between the eyes for a moment, and then with a few seasonable oaths I stripped to the waist, my blood rushing through my veins at the thought of the coming battle.

I am not much to look at physically, but am strong-boned, though lacking muscle and flesh. I can stand any amount of rough treatment; and in after days men, who knew something about the art of boxing, averred that I was gifted with a good punch. Though very strong, my bearing is deceptive; new mates are always disinclined to believe that my strength is out of keeping with my appearance, until by practical demonstration they are taught otherwise. While slender of arm my chest measurement is very good, being over forty-three inches, and height five feet eleven. In movement inclined to be slow, yet when engaged in a fight I have an uncommonly quick eye for detail, and can preserve a good sound striking judgment even when getting the worst of the encounter, and never yet have I given into my man until he knocked me unconscious to the ground.

Gahey stood in the centre of the enclosure, and waited for me with an air of serene composure, and carried the self-confident look of a man who is going to win.

Despite the ease with which Moleskin had settled Gahey a few minutes previously, I felt a bit nervous when I took my way into the open and glanced at the circle of dirty, animated faces that glared at me from all comers of the ring. Gahey did not seem a bit afraid, and he laughed in my face when I raised my hands gingerly in assuming an attitude of defence. I did not feel angry with the man. I was going to fight in a cold-blooded manner without reason or excuse. In every previous fight I had something to annoy me before starting; I saw red before a blow was given or taken. But now I had no grievance against the man and he had none against me. We wanted to fight one another—that was all.

Gahey, though apparently confident of victory, was taking no chances. He swung his right for my head in the first onslaught, and I went slap to the ground like a falling log.

"Oh, Flynn!" cried Joe in an agonised voice; and I thought that his words were whispered in my ear where I lay. Up to my feet I jumped, and with head lowered down and wedged between my shoulder joints, I lunged forward at Gahey, only to recoil from an upward sweep of his fist, which sent all sorts of dancing lights into my eyes. My mouth filled with blood and a red madness of anger came over me. I was conscious no more of pain, or of the reason for the fight. All that I now wanted was to overcome the man who stood in front of me. I heard my opponent laugh, but I could not see him; he struck out at me again and I stumbled once more to the ground.

"Flynn! Dermod Flynn!" shouted Joe, and there was a world of reproach in his voice.

Again I stood up, and the blindness had gone from my eyes. My abdomen heaved frankly, and I gulped down mighty mouthfuls of air. Gahey stood before me laughing easily. My whole mind was centred on the next move of the contest; but in some subconscious way I took in every detail of the surroundings. The gamblers stood about in clusters, and one of them carried the pack of cards in his hand, the front of it facing me, and I could see the seven of clubs on top of the pack. Joe was looking tensely at me, his lips wide apart and his tobacco-stained teeth showing between. Behind him, and a little distance off, the rest of the crowd, shouldered together, stood watching; and behind and above the circle of dirty faces the ring of cabins spread outwards under the shadow of the hair-poised derricks and firmly-set hills.

A vicious jab from Gahey slipped along the arm with which I parried it. I hit with my left, and the soft of my enemy's throat jellied inwards under the stroke. I followed up with two blows to the chest and one to the face. A stream of blood squirted from Gahey's jowl as my fist took it; and this filled me with new hopes of victory. Joe had drawn very little blood from the man, but then, though faster than my mate on my feet, I was not gifted with his staying power.

Behind me Moleskin clapped his hands excitedly, and urged me afresh with hearty words of cheer.

"Burst him up!" he yelled.

"Sure," I answered. My anger had subsided, and a feeling of confidence had taken its place.

"Will ye, be God!" cried Gahey, and he rushed at me like a mad wind, landing his brown hard fists repeatedly on my face and chest, and receiving no chastisement in return.

"I'll burst yer ear!" he cried, and did so, smashing the lobe with one of his lightning blows. The blood from the wound fell on my shoulders for the rest of the fight. Another blow, a light one on the stomach, sickened me slightly, and my confidence began to ooze away from me. It went completely when I endeavoured to trip my opponent, and got tripped myself instead. My head took the ground, and I felt a little groggy when I regained my feet; but in rising I got in a sharp jab to Gahey's nose and drew blood again.

The battle sobered down a little. Both of us circled around, looking for an opening. Suddenly I drove forward with my right, passed Gahey's guard, and with a well-directed blow on the chest, I lifted him neatly off his feet, and left him sitting on the ground. Rising, he rushed at me furiously, caught me by the legs, raised, and tried to throw me over his shoulders.

Then the fight turned in my favour. I had once on my wanderings met a man who had been a wrestler, and he taught me certain tricks of his art. I had a good opening before me now for one of them. Gahey had hold of me by the knees, and both his arms were twined tightly around my joints. I stooped over him, gripped him around the waist, and threw myself backwards flat to the ground. As I reached the earth I let Gahey go, and flying clean across my head, he slid along the rough ground on his naked back. When he regained his feet I was up and ready for him, and I knocked him down again with a good blow delivered on the fleshy part, where the lower ribs fork inward to the breast-bone. That settled him for good. The crowd cheered enthusiastically and went back to their cards. One or two stopped with Gahey, and it took him half an hour to recover. When he was well again Moleskin and I escorted him back to the shack.

We washed our wounds together and talked ofeverything but the fights which had just taken place. The result of the quarrels seemed to have had no effect on the men, but my heart was jumping out of my mouth with pleasure. I had beaten one of the great fighters of Kinlochleven; I, a boy of nineteen, who had never shaved yet, had knocked Gahey to the ground with a good hard punch, and Gahey was a man twice my age and one who was victor in a thousand battles. Excitement seized hold of me, my step became alert, and I walked into the shack with the devil-may-care swagger of a fighting man. The gamblers were sitting at the table and the bright glitter of silver caught my eye. Big Jim Maloney was banker.

"Come here, ye fightin' men," he cried; "and take a hand at another game."

The excitement was on me. In my pocket I had three shillings sub., and I put it down on the board, the whole amount, as befitted a fighting man. I won once, twice, three times. I called for drinks for the school. I put Maloney out of the bank, I backed any money, and all the time I won. The word passed round that Flynn was playing a big game; he would back any money. More and more men came in from the other shacks and remained. I could hear the clink of bottles all round me. The men were drinking, smoking, and swearing, and those who could not get near the table betted on the result of the game.

My luck continued. The pile of silver beside me grew and grew, and stray pieces of gold found their way into the pile as well. Every turn-up was an ace or court-card. My luck was unheard of; and all around me Kinlochleven stood agape, and played blindly, as if fascinated. Gain was nothing to me, the game meant all. I called for further drinks; I drank myself, although I was already drunk with excitement. I had forgotten all about the good resolutions made on the doorstep of Kinlochleven but what did it matter? Let my environment mould me,let Nature follow out its own course, she knows what is best. I was now living large; the game held me captive, and the pile of glistening silver grew in size.

A man beside made some objection to my turn-up. He was one of the fiercest men in the shack, and he was known as a fighter of merit. I looked him between the eyes for a minute and he flinched before my gaze.

"I'll thrash you till you roar for mercy!" I called at him and he became silent.

The drink went to my head and the cards turned up began to play strange antics before my eyes. The knaves and queens ran together, they waltzed over the place, and the lesser cards would persist in eluding my hand when it went out to grip them. I was terribly drunk, the whisky and the excitement were overpowering me.

"I'm going to stop, mateys," I said, and I caught a handful of gold and silver and put it into my pocket, then staggered to my feet. A cry of indignation and contempt arose. "I was not going to allow any of them to overtake their luck; I was not a man; I was a mere rogue." I was well aware of the fact that a winner is always honour bound to be the last to leave the table.

"I'm going to play no more," I said bluntly.

The crowd burst into a torrent of abuse. My legs were faltering under me, and I wanted to get into bed. I would go to bed, but how? The players might not allow it; they wanted their money. Then I would give it to them. I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out the cash, and flung it amongst the crowd of players. There was a hurried scramble all round me, and the men groped in the muck and dirt for the stray coins. I got into bed with my clothes on and fell asleep. In a vague sort of way I heard the gamblers talk about my wonderful luck, and some of them quarrelled about the money lifted from the floor. When morning came I was still lying, fully-dressed, over theblankets on the centre of the bed, while Joe and Gahey were under the blankets on each side of me.

I still had two half-sovereigns in my pocket along with a certain amount of smaller cash, and these coins reminded me of my game. But I did not treasure them so much as the long scar stretching across my cheek, and the disfigured eye, which were tokens of the fight in which I thrashed Hell-fire Gahey. All that day I lived the fight over and over again, and the victory caused me to place great confidence in myself. From that day forward I affected a certain indifference towards other fights, thus pretending that I considered myself to be above such petty scrapes.

By instinct I am a fighter. I never shirk a fight, and the most violent contest is a tonic to my soul. Sometimes when in a thoughtful mood I said to myself that fighting was the pastime of a brute or a savage. I said that because it is fashionable for the majority of people, spineless and timid as they are, to say the same. But fighting is not the pastime of a brute; it is the stern reality of a brute's life. Only by fighting will the fittest survive. But to man, a physical contest is a pastime and a joy. I love to see a fight with the bare fists, the combatants stripped naked to the buff, the long arms stretching out, the hard knuckles showing white under the brown skin of the fists, the muscles sliding and slipping like live eels under the flesh, the steady and quick glance of the eye, the soft thud of fist on flesh, the sharp snap of a blow on the jaw, and the final scene where one man drops to the ground while the other, bathed in blood and sweat, smiles in acknowledgment of the congratulations on the victory obtained.

Gambling was another manner of fighting, and brim full of excitement. In it no man knew his strength until he paid for it, and there was excitement in waiting for the turn-up. Night after night I sat down to the cards, sometimes outin the open and sometimes by the deal plank on the floor of Red Billy's shack. Gambling was rife and unchecked. All night long the navvies played banker and brag; and those who worked on the night-shift took up the game that the day labourers left off. One Sunday evening alone I saw two hundred and fifty banker schools gathered in a sheltered hollow of the hills. That Sunday I remembered very well, for I happened to win seven pounds at a single sitting, which lasted from seven o'clock on a Saturday evening until half-past six on the Monday morning. I finished the game, went out to my work, and did ten hours' shift, although I was half asleep on the drill handle for the best part of the time.

One day a man, a new arrival, came to me and proposed a certain plan whereby he and I could make a fortune at the gambling school. It was a kind of swindle, and I do not believe in robbing workers, being neither a thief nor a capitalist. I lifted the man up in my arms and took him into the shack, where I disclosed his little plan to the inmates. A shack some distance off was owned by a Belfast man named Ramsay, and several Orangemen dwelt in this shack. Moleskin proposed that we should strip the swindler to the pelt, paint him green, and send him to Ramsay's shack. Despite the man's entreaties, we painted him a glorious green, and when the night came on we took him under cover of the darkness to Ramsay's shack, and tied him to the door. In the morning we found him, painted orange, outside of ours, and almost dead with cold. We gave him his clothes and a few kicks, and chased him from the place.

I intended, when I came to Kinlochleven, to earn money and send it home to my own people, and the intention was nursed in good earnest until I lifted my first day's pay. Then Moleskin requested the loan of my spare cash, and I could not refuse him, a pal who shared his very lastcrumb of bread with me time and again. On the second evening the gamble followed the fight as a matter of course; and on the third evening and every evening after I played—because I was a gambler by nature. My luck was not the best; I lost most of my wages at the card-table, and the rest went on drink. I know not whether drink and gambling are evils. I only know that they cheered many hours of my life, and caused me to forget the miseries of being. If drunkenness was a vice, I humoured it as a man might humour sickness or any other evil. But drink might have killed me, one will say. And sickness might have killed me, I answer. When a man is dead he knows neither hunger nor cold; he suffers neither from the cold of the night nor the craving of the belly. The philosophy is crude, but comforting, and it was mine. To gamble and drink was part of my nature, and for nature I offer no excuses. She knows what is best.

I could not save money, I hated to carry it about; it burned a hole in my pocket and slipped out. I was no slave to it; I detested it. How different now were my thoughts from those which buoyed up my spirit on first entering Kinlochleven! those illusions, like previous others, had been dispelled before the hard wind of reality. I looked on life nakedly, and henceforth I determined to shape my own future in such a way that neither I, nor wife, nor child, should repent of it. Although passion ran riot in my blood, as it does in the blood of youth, I resolved never to marry and bring children into the world to beg and starve and steal as I myself had done. I saw life as it was, saw it clearly, standing out stark from its covering of illusions. I looked on love cynically, unblinded by the fumes off the midden-heap of lust, and my life lacked the phantom happiness of men who see things as they are not.

The great proportion of the navvies live very pure lives, and women play little or no part in their existence.The women of the street seldom come near a model, even when the navvies come in from some completed job with money enough and to spare. The purity of their lives is remarkable when it is considered that they seldom marry. "We cannot bring children into the world to suffer like ourselves," most of them say. That is one reason why they remain single. Therefore the navvy is seldom the son of a navvy; it is the impoverished and the passionate who breed men like us, and throw us adrift upon the world to wear out our miserable lives.

"I've got kitchen for my grub out of the mustard-pot of sorrow."—Moleskin Joe.

"I've got kitchen for my grub out of the mustard-pot of sorrow."

—Moleskin Joe.

At that time there were thousands of navvies working at Kinlochleven waterworks. We spoke of waterworks, but only the contractors knew what the work was intended for. We did not know, and we did not care. We never asked questions concerning the ultimate issue of our labours, and we were not supposed to ask questions. If a man throws red muck over a wall to-day and throws it back again to-morrow, what the devil is it to him if he keeps throwing that same muck over the wall for the rest of his life, knowing not why nor wherefore, provided he gets paid sixpence an hour for his labour? There were so many tons of earth to be lifted and thrown somewhere else; we lifted them and threw them somewhere else: so many cubic yards of iron-hard rocks to be blasted and carried away; we blasted and carried them away, but never asked questions and never knew what results we were labouring to bring about. We turned the Highlands into a cinder-heap, and were as wise at the beginning as at the end of the task. Only when we completed the job, and returned to the town, did we learn from the newspapers that we had been employed on the construction of the biggest aluminium factory in the kingdom. All that we knew was that we had gutted whole mountains and hills in the operations.

We toiled on the face of the mountain, and our provisions came up on wires that stretched from the summit to the depths of the valley below. Hampers of bread, casks of beer, barrels of tinned meat and all manner of parcels followed one another up through the air day and night in endless procession, and looked for all the world like great gawky birds which still managed to fly, though deprived of their wings.

The postman came up amongst us from somewhere every day, bringing letters from Ireland, and he was always accompanied by two policemen armed with batons and revolvers. The greenhorns from Ireland wrote home and received letters now and again, but the rest of us had no friends, or if we had we never wrote to them.

Over an area of two square miles thousands of men laboured, some on the day-shift, some on the night-shift, some engaged on blasting operations, some wheeling muck, and others building dams and hewing rock facings. A sort of rude order prevailed, but apart from the two policemen who accompanied the letter-carrier on his daily rounds no other minion of the law ever came near the place. This allowed the physically strong man to exert considerable influence, and fistic arguments were constantly in progress.

Sometimes a stray clergyman, ornamented with a stainless white collar, had the impudence to visit us and tell us what we should do. These visitors were most amusing, and we enjoyed their exhortations exceedingly. Once I told one of them that if he was more in keeping with the Workman whom he represented, some of the navvies stupider than myself might endure his presence, but that no one took any heed of the apprentice who dressed better than his Divine Master. We usually chased these faddists away, and as they seldom had courage equal to their impudence, they never came near us again.

There was a graveyard in the place, and a few went therefrom the last shift with the red muck still on their trousers, and their long unshaven beards still on their faces. Maybe they died under a fallen rock or broken derrick jib. Once dead they were buried, and there was an end of them.

Most of the men lifted their sub. every second day, and the amount left over after procuring food was spent in the whisky store or gambling-school. Drunkenness enjoyed open freedom in Kinlochleven. I saw a man stark naked, lying dead drunk for hours on a filthy muck-pile. No one was shocked, no one was amused, and somebody stole the man's clothes. When he became sober he walked around the place clad in a blanket until he procured a pair of trousers from some considerate companion.

I never stole from a mate in Kinlochleven, for it gave me no pleasure to thieve from those who were as poor as myself; but several of my mates had no compunction in relieving me of my necessaries. My three and sixpenny keyless watch was taken from my breast pocket one night when I was asleep, and my only belt disappeared mysteriously a week later. No man in the place save Moleskin Joe ever wore braces. I had only one shirt in my possession, but there were many people in the place who never had a shirt on their backs. Sometimes when the weather was good I washed my shirt, and I lost three, one after the other, when I hung them out to dry. I did not mind that very much, knowing well that it only passed to one of my mates, who maybe needed it more than I did. If I saw one of my missing shirts afterwards I took it from the man who wore it, and if he refused to give it to me, knocked him down and took it by force. Afterwards we bore one another no ill-will. Stealing is rife in shack, on road, and in model, but I have never known one of my kind to have given up a mate to the police. That is one dishonourable crime which no navvy will excuse.

As the days went on, I became more careless of myself,and I seldom washed. I became like my mates, like Moleskin, who was so fit and healthy, and who never washed from one year's end to another. Often in his old tin-pot way he remarked that a man could often be better than his surroundings, but never cleaner. "A dirty man's the only man who washes," he often said. When we went to bed at night we hid our clothes under the pillows, and sometimes they were gone in the morning. In the bunk beneath ours slept an Irishman named Ward, and to prevent them passing into the hands of thieves he wore all his clothes when under the blankets. But nevertheless, his boots were unlaced and stolen one night when he was asleep and drunk.

One favourite amusement of ours was the looting of provisions as they came up on the wires to the stores on the mountains. Day and night the hampers of bread and casks of beer were passing over our heads suspended in midair on the glistening metal strings. Sometimes the weighty barrels and cases dragged the wires downwards until their burdens rested on the shoulder of some uprising knoll. By night we sallied forth and looted all the provisions on which we could lay our hands. We rifled barrels and cases, took possession of bread, bacon, tea, and sugar, and filled our stomachs cheaply for days afterwards. The tops of fallen casks we staved in, and using our hands as cups drank of the contents until we could hold no more. Sometimes men were sent out to watch the hillocks and see that no one looted the grub and drink. These men were paid double for their work. They deserved double pay, for of their own accord they tilted the barrels and cases from their rests and kept them under their charge until we arrived. Then they helped us to dispose of the contents. Usually the watcher lay dead drunk beside his post in the morning. Of course he got his double pay.

"The sweat was wet on his steaming loins and shoulders bent and scarred,

And he dropped to earth like a spavined mule that's struck in the knacker's yard.

Bury him deep in the red, red muck, and pile the clay on his breast,

For all that he needs for his years of toil are years of unbroken rest."

—From the song that follows.

Talking of thieving puts me in mind of the tragedy of English Bill. Bill was a noted thief. He would have robbed his mother's corpse, it was said. There were three sayings in Kinlochleven, and they were as follows:

Moleskin Joe would gamble on his father's tombstone.English Bill would rob his mother of her winding-sheet.Flynn would fight his own shadow and get the best of it.

Moleskin Joe would gamble on his father's tombstone.

English Bill would rob his mother of her winding-sheet.

Flynn would fight his own shadow and get the best of it.

The three of us were mates, and we were engaged on a special job, blasting a rock facing, in the corner of a secluded cutting. There was very little room for movement, and we had to do the job all by ourselves. One evening we set seven charges of dynamite in the holes which we had drilled during the day, put the fuses alight, and hurried off to a place of safety, and there waited until the explosion was over. While the thunder of the riven earth was still in our ears the ganger blew his whistle, the signal to cease work and return to our shacks.

Next morning Bill reappeared wearing a strongheavily-soled pair of new bluchers which he had purchased on the evening previously.

"They're a good pair of understandings, Bill," I said, as I examined my mate's boots with a feeling of envy.

"A damned good pair!" said Moleskin ruefully, looking at his own bare toes peeping through the ragged leather of his emaciated uppers.

Bill's face glowed with pride as he lifted his pick and proceeded to clean out the refuse from the rock face. Bill was always in a hurry to start work, and Joe often prophesied that the man would come to a bad end. On this morning Joe was in a bad temper, for he had drunk too well the night before.

"Stow it, you fool," he growled at Bill. "You're a damned hasher, and no ganger within miles of you!"

Bill made no reply, but lifted his pick and drove it into the rock which we had blasted on the day before. As he struck the ground there was a deadly roar; the pick whirled round, sprung upwards, twirled in the air like a wind-swept straw, and entered Bill's throat just a finger's breadth below the Adam's apple. One of the dynamite charges had failed to explode on the previous day, and Bill had struck it with the point of the pick, and with this tool which had earned him his livelihood for many years sticking in his throat he stood for a moment swaying unsteadily. He laughed awkwardly as if ashamed of what had happened, then dropped silently to the ground. The pick slipped out, a red foam bubbled on the man's lips for a second, and that was all.

The sight unnerved us for a moment, but we quickly recovered. We had looked on death many times, and our virgin terror was now almost lost.

"He's no good here now," said Moleskin sadly. "We'll look for a muck-barrow and wheel him down to the hut. Didn't I always say that he would come to a bad end, himwith his hurry and flurry and his frothy get-about way?"

"He saved us by his hurry, anyhow," I remarked.

We turned the man over and straightened his limbs, then hurried off for a muck-barrow. On coming back we discovered that some person had stolen the man's boots.

"They should have been taken by us before we left him," I said.

"You're damned right," assented Joe.

Several of the men gathered around, and together we wheeled poor Bill down to the hut along the rickety barrow road. His face was white under the coating of beard, and his poor naked feet looked very blue and cold. All the workmen took off their caps and stood bareheaded until we passed out of sight. No one knew whose turn would come next. When Bill was buried I wrote, at the request of Moleskin Joe, a song on the tragedy. I called the song "A Little Tragedy," and I read it to my mate as we sat together in a quiet corner of the hut.

"A LITTLE TRAGEDY.

"The sweat was wet on his steaming loins and shoulders bent and scarred,And he dropped to earth like a spavined mule that's struck in the knacker's yard.Bury him deep in the red, red muck, and pile the clay on his breast,For all that he needs for his years of toil are years of unbroken rest."And who has mothered this kinless one? Why should we want to knowAs we hide his face from the eyes of men and his flesh from the hooded crow?Had he a sweetheart to wait for him, with a kiss for his toil-worn face?It doesn't matter, for here or there another can fill his place."Is there a prayer to be prayed for him? Or is there a bell to toll?We'll do the best for the body that's dead, and God can deal with the soul.We'll bury him decently out of sight, and he who can may pray.For maybe our turn will come to-morrow though his has come to-day."And maybe Bill had hopes of his own and a sort of vague desireFor a pure woman to share his home and sit beside his fire;Joys like these he has maybe desired, but living and dying wild,He has never known of a maiden's love nor felt the kiss of a child."In life he was worth some shillings a day when there was work to do,In death he is worth a share of the clay which in life he laboured through;Wipe the spume from his pallid lips, and quietly cross his hands,And leave him alone with the Mother Earth and the Master who understands."

"The sweat was wet on his steaming loins and shoulders bent and scarred,

And he dropped to earth like a spavined mule that's struck in the knacker's yard.

Bury him deep in the red, red muck, and pile the clay on his breast,

For all that he needs for his years of toil are years of unbroken rest.

"And who has mothered this kinless one? Why should we want to knowAs we hide his face from the eyes of men and his flesh from the hooded crow?Had he a sweetheart to wait for him, with a kiss for his toil-worn face?It doesn't matter, for here or there another can fill his place.

"And who has mothered this kinless one? Why should we want to know

As we hide his face from the eyes of men and his flesh from the hooded crow?

Had he a sweetheart to wait for him, with a kiss for his toil-worn face?

It doesn't matter, for here or there another can fill his place.

"Is there a prayer to be prayed for him? Or is there a bell to toll?We'll do the best for the body that's dead, and God can deal with the soul.We'll bury him decently out of sight, and he who can may pray.For maybe our turn will come to-morrow though his has come to-day.

"Is there a prayer to be prayed for him? Or is there a bell to toll?

We'll do the best for the body that's dead, and God can deal with the soul.

We'll bury him decently out of sight, and he who can may pray.

For maybe our turn will come to-morrow though his has come to-day.

"And maybe Bill had hopes of his own and a sort of vague desireFor a pure woman to share his home and sit beside his fire;Joys like these he has maybe desired, but living and dying wild,He has never known of a maiden's love nor felt the kiss of a child.

"And maybe Bill had hopes of his own and a sort of vague desire

For a pure woman to share his home and sit beside his fire;

Joys like these he has maybe desired, but living and dying wild,

He has never known of a maiden's love nor felt the kiss of a child.

"In life he was worth some shillings a day when there was work to do,In death he is worth a share of the clay which in life he laboured through;Wipe the spume from his pallid lips, and quietly cross his hands,And leave him alone with the Mother Earth and the Master who understands."

"In life he was worth some shillings a day when there was work to do,

In death he is worth a share of the clay which in life he laboured through;

Wipe the spume from his pallid lips, and quietly cross his hands,

And leave him alone with the Mother Earth and the Master who understands."

My mate seemed very much impressed by the poem, and remained silent for a long while after I had finished reading it from the dirty scrap of tea-paper on which it was written.

"Have you ever cared a lot for some one girl, Flynn?" he asked suddenly.

"No," I answered, for I had never disclosed my little love affair to any man.

"Have you ever cared a lot for one girl, Flynn?" repeated Joe.

"I have cared—once," I replied, and, obeying the impulse of the moment, I told Joe the story. He looked grave when I had finished.

"They're all the same," he said; "all the same. I cared for a wench myself one time and I intended to marry her."

I looked at my mate's unshaven face, his dirty clothes, and I laughed outright.

"I'm nothin' great in the beauty line," went on Moleskin as if divining my thoughts; "but when I washed myself years ago I was pretty passable. She was a fine girl, mine, and I thought that she was decent and aboveboard. It cost me money and time to find out what she was, and in the end I found that she was the mother of two kids, and the lawful wife of no man. It was a great slap in the face for me, Flynn."

"It must have been," was all that I could say.

"By God! it was," Moleskin replied. "I tried to drink my regret away, but I never could manage it. Have you ever wrote a love song?"

"I've written one," I said.

"Will you say it to me?" asked Joe.

I had written a love song long before, and knew it by heart, for it was a song which I liked very much. I recited it to my mate, speaking in half-whispers so that the gamblers at the far end of the shack could not hear me.

"A LOVE SONG

Back to Index Next