The Underworld by James C. Welsh

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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.

CHAPTER II

A TURN OF THE SCREW

On the Friday following Jock Walker's visit to Mrs. Sinclair, a notice
was put up at the pit by Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall, to the effect
that a collection would be taken next day on behalf of Geordie Sinclair.
The notice was posted up before Andrew and Peter descended the pit for
the day.

"Black Jock," as Walker was called by the miners, saw the notice before
it had been ten minutes posted, and deliberately tore it down. He then
visited Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall at the coal face.

"I suppose you an' Andrew are goin' to gather for Geordie Sinclair the
morn?" he said, addressing Peter.

"Ay," Peter answered, "we were thinkin' it was aboot time somethin' was
done. There's four bairns an' their two selves, an' though times are no'
very guid for ony of us now, it maun be a lot worse for them. Geordie
has been a guid while off."

"Do ye think, Peter, they are in such need?" asked Walker, with a hint
in his voice that was meant to convey he knew better.

"Lord, they canna be aught else!" decisively returned Peter. "How can
they be? I ken for mysel'," he went on, "that if it was me, I wad hae
been in starvation lang syne."

"Weel, wad ye believe me when I tell ye--an' it's a fact--they're about
the best-off family in this place, if ye only kent it."

"What!" cried Peter in surprise, "the best-off family in the place!
Lord, I canna take that in!"

"Maybe no'," said Walker, "but I ken, an' ye're no' the first that's
been taken in by Nellie Sinclair. If ye notice, she never tells any
thin' to anybody; but she lets ye carry the notion in your mind that
she's in great straits. She's a cute one, Nellie."

"Weel, Nellie does keep hersel' to hersel'," admitted Peter. "She's no'
given to clashin' and claverin' about the doors like some o' the rest o'
the women; but I canna' for the life o' me see where she can be onythin'
but ill aff at this time."

"Weel, I ken when folk are bein' imposed on," said Walker, in a knowing
tone, "an' I tore down your notice this mornin'. I didna want to see you
mak' a fool o' yersels. I ha'e been considerin' for a while," he went
on, speaking quickly, "about puttin' a stop to this collectin' business
at the office on pay Saturdays, for it just encourages some men to lie
off work when there's no' very muckle wrong wi' them; after they get the
collection they soon start work again. Ye had better no' stand the morn,
for I might as well begin at once and put a stop to it."

Up till now Andrew Marshall had not spoken; he was a silent man, given
more to thought than speech, but this was a way of doing things he did
not like.

"But ye might let us tak' the collection first, and then put up a notice
yersel sayin' that a' collections have to be stopped. It wad be best to
gi'e the men notice."

"No," said Walker, "there's to be nae mair collections taken. I might as
well stop it this time as wait. So ye'll no' stand the morn."

"Will I no'?" returned Andrew challengingly. "How the hell do ye ken
whether I will or no'?"

"I ken ye'll no'," replied Walker, with quiet menacing tones; "the
ground at the office belongs to the company, and is private. So ye can
do it if ye like, but ye'll be weel advised no' to bother."

"I don't gi'e a damn," cried Andrew explosively, "whether the ground is
private or no'. I'll take that 'gathering' for Geordie Sinclair the
morn, though ye ha'e a regiment o' sodgers at the office."

"Very well," said Walker, as he departed, "if ye do, ye can look out."

Peter took his pipe out of his mouth and spat savagely on the ground;
he then replaced it with great deliberation and looked gloomily at the
stoop-side. He was a man about thirty-five, tall, bony and angular; his
neck was long and thin, and his head seemed always on the point of
turning to allow him to look over his shoulder. His right eye was half
closed, while his left eye looked big and saucer-like, and never seemed
to wink; one eye was ready to laugh and the other to "greet," as his
comrades described it. He had been badly disfigured in a burning
accident in the pit when he was a young man, and a broken nose added
still more to the strangeness of his appearance. Andrew, on the other
hand, was stout and broadly built, with a bushy whisker on each cheek,
and a clump of tufty hair on his head.

"What do ye mak' o' that, Andrew?" enquired Peter, after a few minutes,
as he again spat savagely at the stoop-side.

"What do I mak' o't?" echoed Andrew, as he glowered across the little
bing of dross at his mate, "it's just in keepin' wi' the rest o' his
dirty doin's, the dirty black brute that he is!"

"I wonder what's wrong wi' him?" mused Peter as he sucked quietly at his
snoring pipe. But there was no answer from Andrew, who was sitting
silent and glum, gazing at his little lamp.

"What are ye goin' to do about it, then?" broke in Peter again.

"Just what I said," returned Andrew with quiet firmness. "I'll take that
collection the morn, some way or another, if I should be damned for it.
Does he mean to say that we can let folk starve?" He lifted his pick and
began to hew the coal with an energy that told of the passion raging
within him.

"Does he mean to think I'm goin' to see decent folk starve afore my
e'en?" he asked after a while, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
"No' damned likely! Things ha'e come to a fine pass when folk are
compelled to look at other folk starvin' an' no' gi'e them a crust."

"Do ye think there's onything in what he said about them bein'
weel-aff?" asked Peter cautiously, while his big eye tried to wink.
"Nellie is a wee bit inclined to be prood an' independent, ye ken, an'
disna say muckle about her affairs. An forby we don't ken very muckle
about her; she's an incomer to the place, and she might ha'e been
weel-aff afore she married Geordie, for aught we ken."

"It disna matter," replied Andrew, "I dinna care though
they had thousan's. What I don't like is this
'ye'll-no'-do-this-an'-ye'll-no'-do-that' sort o' thing. What the hell
right has ony gaffer wi' what a man does? It's a' one to him what I do.
I'm nae slave, an' forby, I dinna believe they are weel-aff. They maun
be hard up."

"But he'll maybe sack ye," suggested Peter, "if ye take the collection."

"Well, let him," cried Andrew, now thoroughly roused, "the bastard! I
would see the greyhounds o' hell huntin' him roun' the rocks o' blazes
afore I'd give in to him!"

Nothing further was said of the matter until well on in the day, when it
suddenly occurred to Andrew that Peter, who had a large family, might
not care to incur the displeasure of Walker by taking the collection the
next day.

"Of course, Peter," he said, after he had thought the matter over, "if
ye don't care to take the collection wi' me, I won't press ye. I'll no'
think ony worse o' ye if ye don't. Ye ha'e a big family, while I ha'e
only the wife to look after. Sometimes I think it's lucky we ha'e nae
weans; I can flit, and ye might no' be able to rise an' run. But I mean
to take the collection onyway, for I don't like a man to order me what I
ha'e to do."

"Oh, I wasna mindin' that, Andra," replied Peter, trying to make Andrew
believe that he had not guessed the truth. "I'll take the collectin wi'
ye, an' Black Jock can gang to hell if he likes."

"No, Peter, ye'll do naethin' o' the kind. I'll take it mysel'." And
Andrew would not move from that decision.

Next day everybody was curiously expectant; it had got noised abroad
that Walker had defied Andrew Marshall to take a collection at the
office, and had threatened him with arrest. There were wild rumors of
other penalties, and when pay-day came everybody was surprised to see
Andrew draw his pay and walk home. They concluded that Andrew had
thought better of it, and had been cowed into submission. When darkness
began to fall, however, Andrew sauntered out and visited every home in
the village, soliciting aid on behalf of Geordie Sinclair. There were
few houses from which he did not get a donation, though the will to give
was often greater than the means. In each house Andrew had to give in
detail the interview between Black Jock and himself in the pit.

"The muckle big, black, dirty brute that he is!" the good-wife would cry
in indignation. "It's a pity but he could ken what starvation is
himsel'. It might make him a bit mair like a human bein'."

"That's true," Andrew would agree.

In one or two houses he met with a blank refusal, but in these he was
not disappointed, for he knew that the men would not risk Walker's
disapproval by contributing. Again, some were wholly hostile. They were
the "belly-crawlers," as Geordie Sinclair had once dubbed them at a
meeting, those who "kept in" with the management by carrying tales, and
generally acting as traitors to the other men.

"No, I'll no' gi'e ye onythin'," would be the reply; "he can just be
like me an' gang an' work for his bairns. Forby, look at yon stuck-up
baggage o' a wife o' his. She can hardly pass the time o' day wi'
ye--she thinks hersel' somethin'."

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