Guy had heard of John Glenwyn, and remembering descriptions of him, he knew this man was he. He crouched down in the snow near the top of the hill, in order to be less conspicuous.
John began to talk in his heavy and resonant Welsh voice, which seemed natural to these naked hills and grim skies. He seemed to be speaking easily, without overmuch vehemence or drama. But every word carried, and not a man moved. They watched John’s slightest gesture, swayed from side to side in time to his voice.
“Well, boys, they’ve got the Militia out on us now. They’ve hung some of us. They’ve got the soldiery now to shoot us down. Because we’re starvin’. That’s the biggest crime in all this world: to be hungry, men. It’s the sin the vicars talk about, that God don’t forgive. It gives the Law the right to shoot you down or hang you, shut doors on you and beat your wives to death and let your babies starve. You ain’t got the right to live.
“Perhaps they’re right. But we don’t believe it! We believe we’re hungry because they’re lyin’ to us and cheatin’ us. This whole damn world’s full and overflowin’ with milk and honey, and they won’t let us have a share in it, and summon up the law and the soldiers to keep us from tastin’ what we’ve worked for. There’s enough for every man and his woman and his babies; God don’t play favorites. But we ain’t got the law—because we ain’t got the money. Just a matter of pounds and pence, my friends, and naught to do with God’s will, though the parsons say so.”
He had been speaking with a hoarse wry humor, a “gallows humor.” There was a dull and guttural roar from the men. No longer were they apathetic, lost, and bewildered, as though disoriented, as though wondering what had happened to them and what they were doing, idle out upon the hills in midday. John had pulled the ropes of their slack and hanging sails, had opened them to winds, and once again they knew where they were going and were alive once more with the thought of their destination. He had beat the drums in their foggy and purposeless dawns. He was giving them the joys of anger and courage. Enlivened and aroused, they milled about him, shouting, reaching up their hands to him, laughing, fiercely nodding heads, and spitting. He smiled down at them with grim satisfaction.
“Sometimes, lads, we think the law is all wrong, that there’s something bloody well daft about such law. We don’t think the good God in heaven meant us to starve, even if the blasted parsons nod their silly heads, like punch-and-judies, or the dummies them chaps talk through on the stage. We’re willin’ to work. Look at our hands! We’re patient, and we don’t want no rows with the law. But we come to a place where we ask: Is this all there is to livin’? Just the mines and the sweat and the blood and the darkness and not havin’ enough to eat, and the consumption that gets in our lungs from the dust, and never seein’ the sun, and not knowin’ every time we go down the shaft if we will ever come up again? Never gettin’ away, like bloody lifers, unless we get drunk—in their pubs!
“Right there in the Good Book it tells the bosses not to muzzle the ox that treads out the corn. But they do muzzle us! We tread out the corn from sun-up to sundown, but they got our jaws tied shut and not a grain goes into our gullets.
“Maybe it’s us that’s barmy, lads! Yes, maybe it is! Like the ox. Knee deep in corn all ready to eat, and we starve in it! Because we let a puny handful of greedy men put a muzzle on us! Why, we’re strong—we’re powerful—we can stamp out their guts if we’ve a mind to! What’s the matter with an ox that lets himself be muzzled when he could have a share in the corn he treads, if he’d just make up his silly mind he wants that share?”
“He’s right, boys, he’s right!” shouted a hoarse-voiced and grizzled miner with a frightful burn-scar on his right cheek. The men roared again, and now there was a sullen menace in their roaring.
The wry humor had gone from John’s face. There was a savagery, a fury, out upon it, a brutal passion.
“Two days ago Tim Murphy, here, sent for me from the Trudell mines to come and talk to you lads. ‘Help us, John,’ said he. ‘The lads are losin’ their silly hearts. They’re lettin’ a few Barbour guns put the fear of hell in ’em. If you don’t help us, they’ll be runnin’ back to the mines with kicks in their behinds, and sayin’ thank’ee for each kick.’ And so, I came. I came out and saw everything and says I to myself: ‘They can’t stop now. They don’t dare stop.’
“Lads, you can’t stop! Not for your own sakes, but for your kids. Want them to live like you? Want them to die like you? Ain’t they worth a little guts, a few bullets, an empty belly? Are you men or pigs?
“You might lose this fight. What of it? But our kids’ll remember! And because we fought, they’ll carry on the fight. And they won’t lose! Because of us, they’ll know they’ve got a right to live, and a right to some part of what we dig out of the earth. We’ll say to ’em: ‘Our hands bled on our picks and our feet got cut on the rocks, and we never saw the sun. But we fought for you, to give you the right to live like men, to share in what you bring out of the bowels of the earth.’
“We’ve got to remember that right for ourselves, too. We’re fightin’ for our share, and we can’t stop the fightin’, for it’s a just fight. We dig the coal—we carry it. It’s our strength that puts it in cars to be hauled away and burned in houses and factories and mills and palaces. It’s our labor that makes wheels turn and trains run. We, Labor, have made the earth and the good things that are in it! But have we inherited this earth we have made? No! By the Holy God, no! And why? Because we’ve been too addle-brained to realize that this, the earth, is ours, not theirs, that it is ours to claim and theirs to fall under our fists!
“Remember that, when you want to run whimperin’ back to the skirts of your women with a foot in your behinds. Remember that, and you’ll bring around a day when the bosses’ll have to listen, either because our voices get strong enough, or—,” and he paused ominously, looking at the breathless men with fierce and sparkling eyes, “or we got the guns!”
A deep hush followed his last words, then from the throats of them all one shout burst out, violent and enraged. It was a short shout, like an explosion, but after it had stopped, itself, the hills threw it back as though armed camps in hidden valleys acclaimed it and saluted it.
Guy had been crouching in the snow during all of John’s speech, his folded arms on his knees. He had listened, intent and motionless. Once he had thought, smiling ironically: There’s a man only Pa could appreciate! When the shout came he stopped smiling, and the thin and savage slash of pupil gleamed in his light eyes again. Then he heard a furtive, hissing, hurrying sound on the other side of the hill, crunching footsteps, the sliding of hooves, the rattle of arms. Swiftly yet cautiously, he scrambled up the four feet to the top, lay flat and looked over. At least fifty burly men, afoot and on horseback, armed with clubs and guns, were climbing rapidly and with deadly purpose to the top of the hill. One of the men, on horseback, was Paul Barbour, and he held a vicious-looking pistol ready in his hand.
Guy saw all this in an instant. He rolled over, rolled down a few feet, scrambled upright, and throwing up his arms into the air began to shout and scream warnings to the miners below as he raced down to them. He knew it was hopeless and was sick with the realization, but at least they had had a warning and a few might escape or make ready.
The miners, startled and suddenly frightened, looked up at the slight figure racing down to them, screaming and pointing backwards to the top of the hill. They stood in black and frozen groups, faces ghastly, eyes lifted, mouths dropped open. The apparition was too sudden, the noise too unexpected, for their slow minds to grasp it all quickly. They began to mill in panic; a faint terrified sound exhaled from them in their breath.
But John Glenwyn realized at once. He shouted, attracted their scattering animal eyes. He stamped, screamed. “Run, damn you, run!” he yelled. “Hang together and they’ll mow you all down in a body! Make it easy for ’em to slaughter you like sheep! Scatter! Each man for himself! Run, curse you, run!”
His voice
, jagged and lashing, roared through them like an electric current. They seemed to leap into the air; they darted and burrowed, dashed and scrambled, scuttled up the sides of the far hills, their bodies like struggling black beetles against the whiteness of the snow, which they were raising in clouds about them. John Glenwyn did not try to save himself; he jumped and stamped upon his box, throwing his great arms about, his fiery head like a leaping torch in the bitter sunlight. He screamed without pausing, urging the miners to fresh and desperate speed; his voice, stentorian and powerful, rang back from hilltop to hilltop. He was alone now, the space cleared about him, and most of the miners were halfway up the hills and moving with such speed that they made poor targets. Guy, exhausted and crumpled at the bottom of the hill, suddenly saw what John was about. His dancing figure, his height, his vehemence, his shouts, his agitated red hair, would attract the attention of the attackers for a few precious seconds longer, would give another man or two, slower than the rest, a chance for life. Moreover, his uproar would warn the attackers that their presence was known, would make them hesitate, gather together, hastily reorganize themselves and change their old plan of attacking swiftly and suddenly, without warning. This, again, would add a few more precious minutes. By now they had had sufficient time to reach the brow of the hill, but they had not done so. They were still hidden on the other side, and were completely silent.
Many of the miners, moving in a diagonal direction, had disappeared around the curve of the hill to the right; some of them, having climbed with incredible speed, had almost reached the top. John, shouting below, warned them to throw themselves down at the top, to roll down the other side. Guy, lifting himself slowly to his feet, could look at nothing but John Glenwyn. The boy, fascinated, moved as though by a supernatural and awed terror, could see nothing but this shouting man with the flaming hair and beating arms. And then he saw also that he was laughing and that upon his crimson face was a mad, exultant ferocity, the ferocity of a Titan who could meet red death with glee and contempt.
The attackers, massed together and cautious, appeared at the top of the hill. Guy, in affright, glared up at them. He was only a boy, and he was afraid. He suddenly realized that he would not be recognized, that he and John, as the only stationary targets, would be the first to die. He cried out, lifted one thin young arm in a desperate and futile gesture. Then, as if realizing the strength of John Glenwyn, he turned to him, flung himself toward him through the snow and rutted earth. Less than half of the miners were still in sight on the opposite hillsides.
Guy did not want to die. He was not of the stuff of which heroes are made. Whatever the mysterious motive, whatever hate or contempt or rage against his father, or sense of angry justice had brought him here to this place, he was not aware of it now, nor caring. He was terrified; he wanted to escape. He began to run and slide down the hill with heedless and increasing speed, screaming, glancing back and up over his shoulder.
Two shots rang out, almost simultaneously. And as they did so, Guy leapt into the air, arms and legs flung out, grotesquely, like a bounding dancer’s. As he fell to the earth again his legs buckled under him, he sank to his knees, collapsed abruptly in the snow on his face. He writhed once, violently, then lay still.
John Glenwyn, too, did not move again. He, too, lay, face down, in the snow, which was slowly turning red.
CHAPTER LXXXII
It seemed impossible to May, on the train to New York, to escape the exigent ministrations of Elsa and the sound of her loud and confident voice. She was beginning to forget her usual compassion and tolerance for the girl, and was developing an active dislike. She found that her facial muscles ached from her forced smiles, and that she could hardly keep impatience and sharpness out of her own voice. Finally, feeling cowardly, she suggested to Elsa that Gertrude was looking wan and tired, and so diverted the avalanche of officiousness and affectionate solicitude upon her distressed daughter. But really, she thought to herself, emergencies arise where even maternal affection goes under. Now she could talk to Ernest in peace. He had been sitting composedly reading his papers, undisturbed by the feminine confusion about him. When May, a little sharply, though smilingly, demanded his attention, he laid aside the papers and looked at her with a smooth and friendly expression.
“Really, Ernest, you might listen to me a moment. I realize, of course, that your journey to New York has nothing to do with the fact that your eldest son is making his debut at the Academy of Music. Naturally, you are too great and important a man to care about such trifles—”
He smiled. “Come, come, my dear. Why excite yourself? Remember what the doctor told you about your nerves. You are quite red in the face. But what was it you wanted to say?”
May still smiled, but her breath was jerky and uneven. She touched a handkerchief to her lips and forehead and jerked her stole about her neck. “I wanted to talk about another one of your children. You remember him? Guy? Your third son? Perhaps you have forgotten.” Tears smarted in her eyes.
“What about Guy?”
“I don’t like that idea of his going into the mining regions. Less and less do I like it. I realize it is too late to talk of it now. I don’t know why I ever consented, however. So foolish, a child like that. Why, he isn’t quite sixteen! Just a boy. Wherever he got the notion—”
“I’m sure I didn’t give it to him.”
“But, so foolish! Didn’t you see that, yourself?”
“Foolish? No. Guy didn’t deceive me at all with his fine talk of ‘taking interest.’ He’s got a notion, but he’s a secretive little devil. And hard as rock and smooth as tanned leather. Yes, he’s got a notion. It is interest, in a way, but not the kind he wanted me to believe it is. I won’t pretend I know what it is. I’m curious to find out, though. When he comes back, I’ll find out. He’s no fool. Yes, he’s better than I thought. I think we can make something of him, eventually.”
“What do I care for that?” May’s voice had become passionate. “All I care for is his safety. I don’t trust Paul. He doesn’t like Guy, and he’ll let him wander into all kinds of danger.”
“You think he might shoot him accidentally?” Ernest laughed. “I agree with you that there’s danger there, and roughness. Guy won’t find soft beds and pleasant speeches and good dinners. He’ll learn what life’s all about; he’ll see some of the things his father saw. Rawness. He’ll find there’re sterner things in this world than not having enough pocket money. He’ll see that men can get so hungry and desperate that they’ll die fighting for a little food. It won’t hurt him at all. Perhaps put a little seriousness in his head. Perhaps,” he added thoughtfully, “it’ll help his notion grow. Damn it, I almost don’t care what kind of a notion it is, so long as it’s a real one, and he’s got the guts to fight for it. And sometimes,” very slowly, “I think a notion of his might be real, and that he has the guts.” He settled back in his seat, smiling with unusual satisfaction.
“And sometimes,” said May unwillingly, “I think Guy is much like you. He has your eyes.”
“Perhaps.” Ernest’s satisfaction increased, made him amiable.
May, still heavily anxious and unaccountably depressed, glanced about the ornate gilt and crimson plush of the private car. Vaguely, she recalled that she detested plush; to her, it never seemed quite clean. Her anxiety became the sharper and the closer as her glance slowed over the gilt fixtures. She was not impressed, as the Barbours were, by private cars, personal maids, valets, plush, ornateness and oppressive, dusty and untidy luxury. She thought to herself that the private cars in which she occasionally travelled with Ernest resembled nothing on earth so much as circus cars. The painfulness of her thoughts, and her anxiety, made a web of hairlike wrinkles spring out over her plump cheeks; in the bright winter sunlight she looked haggard and tired, and her eyelids, once so white and full, were like sallow bags over the tired brilliance of her eyes. The hair under the trim bonnet was quite gray. She kept blinking, and occasionally moistened the puckered dryness
of her lower lip. Ernest watched her furtively from under the hand he had lifted to shut out the sunlight that poured through the small windows. When she spoke again, staring before her absently and not looking at him, he dropped the hand. His expression was very odd for him: both compassionate and gentle.
“It means nothing to you, of course, Ernest, that Frey’s about to justify all I have believed of him. You don’t care about that. You would prefer it if he were like Paul.” And now she looked at him directly. “You’ve never pretended otherwise. You’ve not lied about it. But it is poor comfort to me; sometimes I think I would rather you had lied.”
“May, believe me when I say that if it happens as you think it will happen, and you are happy, it will make me happy, too. Can’t you believe that?”
Her eyes, as she looked at him steadily, suddenly dilated, darkened with bitterness. “Yes,” she said, “I can believe that. It would be such a relief to you!” And she turned her head away from him.
Ernest’s secretary, who was with the party, discreetly knocked at the door. He brought in a sheaf of papers for Ernest’s attention. Ernest extended his hand for them calmly, glad of the interruption. May’s maid followed on the heels of the secretary to remind May that it was three o’clock and time for her afternoon nap. Elsa, seeing the slight commotion, rose from her place with Gertrude at the end of the coach, and came forward briskly, swaying from side to side with the motion. May, who had been about to refuse the nap, said hurriedly to her niece: “Darling, you must excuse me. I am so tired.”
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