The Stars Look Down (31 page)

There were nine of them altogether: Robert, Hughie, Slogger, Pat Reedy, Jesus Wept, Swee Messer, Ned Softley, Harry Brace and two other men named Bennett and Seth Calder. The first day they had spent jowling, chiefly in jowling… ta-ta… ta-ta… ta-ta-ta-ta-tap… on and on… ta-ta… ta-ta… ta-ta-ta-ta-tap… like a hard tattoo beat out upon a tribal drum. Jowling was good; it signified their position in this unfathomable darkness; dozens of men had been rescued by jowling their rescuers towards them. Ta-ta… ta-ta… ta-ta-ta-ta-tap… they took turns upon the stone. But towards the second day Slogger shouted suddenly:

“Stop! For Christ’s sake, stop, I can’t stand that bloody hammering any longer.”

Ned Softley, whose turn it was, stopped at once. In fact everybody seemed glad when the jowling stopped. It stopped for about an hour, then they all agreed, and Slogger did too, that the jowling must go on. They must be very near them now, the men coming in through the Scupperhole. Oh, they must be hellofa near now, Swee Messer said. So Ned resumed: …ta-ta… ta-ta… ta-ta-ta-ta-tap.

It was shortly after this that Wept held his first service.
Jesus Wept had been upon his knees a great deal, praying by himself, away from the others, praying with a passionate intensity like Jesus Himself in the Garden of Gethsemane. Wept was a silent earnest little man, he did not impose himself upon others except through the silent medium of his tracts and sandwich boards. At Whitley Bay or the Sleescale football matches Wept would be silent amongst the noisy crowds, just standing silent, or walking slow and silent, advertising the tears of Jesus, back and front. He was the quietest publicity man Jesus ever had and not by any means the worst. So it wasn’t Wept’s nature to force others to a service. But oddly enough, Robert, who never went to chapel, suggested they ought to have a service.

Though Wept had not mentioned the service he had wanted the service. He had wanted it badly and he took it gladly, gladly. He began with a prayer. It was a very good prayer with nothing about rending of garments or the scarlet woman in it. It was full of good faith and bad grammar and it ended quietly—”… so get us out of here, dear God, for Jesus’ sake, Amen.” Then Wept gave a short address. He took the text simply: John viii. 12,
I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.

He simply talked to them, he spoke quite ordinarily.

Then they sang the hymn:
Come, Great Deliverer, Come.

An echoing silence fell. None of them seemed to want to break that silence. They all sat very still, Slogger in particular sat gritting his teeth, but Slogger was the one who gave way.

“O God,” Slogger groaned, “oh, my God Christ so help me God.” And Slogger began to cry. A hard case was Slogger, but with streaks of softness in him. He sat now with his head in his hands, shaking with dry sobs, and his racking grief was horrible to hear. They were all a little unstrung by this time, each found it difficult to keep his manhood on an empty belly. They had no food and no water but a tiny puddle that bled down slowly from the roof above. It was strange to have come away from that terrific flood of water
and to have so little now, just enough for each, a mouthful of brackish coaly fluid.

Wept went over to Slogger and began to comfort him. A great joy was in Wept that he should have saved the Slogger and for a little while the joy was in Slogger too.

Then some of them felt hungry. Pat Reedy, being the youngest, felt the want of food the most. Robert had three cough sweets in his pocket. He slipped one to Pat and then another. How long was it between each sweet? …five minutes or five days? God alone knew! After the second Pat whispered:

“That was good, that was, mester.”

Robert smiled. He made to give Pat the third sweet, but the curious understanding that it was the last held him back. I’ll keep it for him, he thought.

This same desire to keep something in reserve made Robert withhold the last pit candle, though at first the darkness was not kind but difficult, terribly difficult to bear after the yellow glow of the candle set like a tiny camp fire in their midst.

The darkness made time much harder to compute. Only Robert amongst them had a watch and it had stopped when he went into the water of the Swelly. Hughie especially was worrying about time. Hughie was always a silent one, but now more so than ever; since they had come upon the fall of rock Hughie had hardly said one word. He sat beside his father, his brow knitted, brooding. His whole body was tense with this secret brooding. At last he said in a low voice:

“Dad! How long have we been in?”

Robert said:

“I cannot tell ye, Hughie.”

“But, dad, how long do ye think?”

“Two days, maybe, or maybe three.”

“What day is this, then, dad?”

“I don’t know, man, Hughie… it’s Wednesday likely.”

“Wednesday…” Hughie sighed, settled back stiffly against the wall. If it was only Wednesday that wasn’t quite so bad, that left three whole days to go, three days until the match. He must get out of this pit by Saturday, he must, he must… in a sudden torment of anxiety Hughie picked up the stone and began to jowl… ta-ta… ta-ta… a-ta-ta-ta-tap!

When Hughie stopped jowling there was a long silence. It was then that Ned Softley put his hand out to move himself
and touched Harry Brace’s face. At first he thought Harry was asleep; he tried again gingerly and his fingers went right into Harry’s cold, dead, open mouth.

Robert lit the candle. Yes, Harry Brace was gone. Poor Harry, he’d never given his missus the truss for her rupture he’d always promised her. Robert and Slogger lifted Harry. He lifted very heavy. Or were they just weak? They carried him down the roadway about thirty yards. They placed him upon his back. Robert crossed Harry’s hands on his pit singlet and shut Harry’s eyes. Wept was asleep, sleeping for the first time in three days, snoring deeply. Robert did not waken him. He recited the Lord’s Prayer over Harry, then Slogger and he came back.

“We’ll burn another inch of candle, lads,” Robert said. “Just to keep our spirits up.”

Pat Reedy was crying quietly again; he had met with death for the second time and still he did not like it much.

“Hover a bit, man,” Robert said. He put his arm round Pat’s shaking shoulders. “It’s time I was giving you something to do. Will you have a turn jowling?”

Pat shook his head.

“I want to write to my mam,” he said, letting himself go altogether.

“Very well,” Robert said gravely. “You shall write to your mam. I have a pencil. Who has some paper?”

Ned Softley had a notebook for checking tubs. He passed it to Robert. Robert tore out a narrow double sheet, slapped it on the back of the notebook, passed it over with the pencil to Pat.

Pat took the paper and the notebook and the pencil with a gulp of gratitude. He cheered up. He began straightway and wrote in big round letters:
My dear mam
… Then he stopped, head on one side, reading what he had written.
My dear mam
… he stopped again.
My dear mam
… he read it again and stopped. Then he began to cry in earnest. He cried bitterly. He was only fifteen.

When the candle had burned down its inch he was a little easier. Robert took back the notebook and the pencil and the narrow double sheet of paper and slipped them in his pocket. He put out the candle. He placed his left arm round Pat Reedy as though protecting him. In that position Pat Reedy fell asleep.

Robert drowsed off himself. Time passed. He awoke into the silent, the unceasing darkness and had a long bout of
coughing, his silent, intimate, familiar cough. His wet clothes had dried on him and that was not good for him. I’ll have another attack for sure when we get out, he thought. Then with a vague coldness about his heart he thought, if we get out. More time passed. Surely they must be near them now, the men coming in, oh, surely they must be near them now!

“Dad,” Hughie again. “What day is it, dad?”

“I cannot say, Hughie, lad.” Robert tried to speak calmly, reasonably.

“But, dad… what day is it?”

“I cannot say, Hughie, lad.” Robert again tried to speak calmly, reasonably, but his voice remained flat and weary.

“But, dad… what day is it? It’s the match, dad… the United, dad… the United… I’ve got to be out by Saturday. I’ve got to… I’ve got to, dad.” Hysteria shrilled into the silent Hughie’s voice. He rocked himself to and fro in the darkness. He must be out by Saturday, he must, he must be out by Saturday! It was then Sunday evening.

Slogger woke up. Everybody seemed to be sleeping a bit now; there must be traces of black damp in the air, or was it simply weakness? Slogger said:

“Oh, my God, what a dream I was having. If my poor old missus only knew. Oh, my God, if only I had a pint of beer. I’m not hungry no more, it’s just the beer I want. O God, what am I sayin’, diddent I promise to give up the drink if Ye got us out of here, O God, get us out of here, God, for God’s sake.” His voice rose to a shout.

Ned Softley shouted too. Several of the others joined in. “Get us out! Get us out!” Even Wept was losing himself now. He called out suddenly in a high voice:

“How long, O Lord, until Thou deliverest us?” It was like the roaring of caged beasts.

Bennett died next and Seth Calder six hours after him. They were marrows who had worked with each other for nearly fourteen years. For fourteen years they had worked, got drunk, played pot-stour bowls together. But it didn’t seem in the least appropriate to them that they should die together. Bennett was the quieter of the two, Seth Calder, when he felt himself sinking, kept moaning:

“I don’t want to die. I’m a young man yet. I’ve got a young wife. I don’t want to die.” But for all that he did die.

Everyone was too weak now to move the bodies of Benbett
and Seth Calder, and besides Robert had only two matches left in his pocket with his stump of candle. He gave the last cough sweet to Pat Reedy. Surely to God it wouldn’t be long now before they broke through from the Scupperhole. Surely to God! Oh, let them come in quick, dear God, or it won’t be no use!

They just lay there now, too weak to move themselves. They were too weak even to move up to the place they used. They just lay. Lying there Robert had an idea. He called out each name three times. If no answer came back after the third time he knew it was finished.

Ned Softley stopped answering next. He must have died as quietly as Harry Brace. Ned always had the name for being weak-witted, but he died well. He never said a whimper. Then Swee Messer went, a lewd fellow was Swee, but he’d finished with his funny stories now for good.

It was after Swee died that Wept went mad. Like the rest of them he had been quiet for a long time. But now he got up on his feet. He stood there in the darkness, they could feel his madness as he stood there in the darkness. He said:

“I see them! I see the seven angels which stood before God! I hear their trumpets. It is revealed to me.”

At first they tried to take no notice, but Wept went on:

“I hear them sound their trumpets. The first angel sounds and then follows hail mingled with blood.”

Slogger said:

“Oh, for God’s sake, man, shut up.”

Wept continued louder:

“Then the second angel sounds and as it were a great mountain burning with fire is cast into the sea and the third part of the sea becomes blood. Not water, my brethren, but blood. It is not water that has brought us here, but blood.”

Slogger sat up. He said:

“Wept, for the love of God, I can’t stand no more of that.”

Wept went on in that rapt voice:

“The third angel sounds and the star Wormwood falls. Wormwood and gall, my brethren, is our lot upon earth, we are crushed by the greed of man. And the fourth angel sounds and the fifth and another star falls into the bottomless pit and there arises a smoke out of the pit. We are in the pit, my brethren, and the air is darkened by reason of the smoke in the pit and the seal of God is upon our foreheads, and punishment will come upon those in high places
who brought us here. I see it, my brethren. To me is given the gift of prophecy. I am a prophet in the Paradise pit.”

Then Robert knew that Wept was mad. He said:

“Sit down, man, do.” He coaxed Wept. “Sit down, now, do. It cannot be long till they reach us now. Sit down and wait quiet like. It isn’t long now.”

Wept went on:

“And the sixth angel sounds and a voice from the four horns of the golden altar which is before God and the four angels loosed which are prepared to slay the third part of men by smoke and by brimstone and the rest of men which are not killed by these plagues yet repent not of the works of their hands, nor repent they of their murders nor of their sorceries, nor of their fornications, nor of their thefts.”

Wept’s voice rose gradually to a shout that echoed, reverberating, and seemed to rock the very roof.

Slogger groaned:

“I cannot stand no more of this.” He crawled forward to Wept, feeling with his hands.

Wept went on in a terrible voice:

“And now the seventh angel sounds…”

But before the seventh angel sounded, Slogger caught Wept by the ankle and pulled the feet from him. Wept collapsed, moaning.

“But the seventh angel sounds. I see it. I see the millennium brought by the madness and the greed of man. Money, money, money… we are crushed and killed for it. I will prophesy…. From high places they fall… not water, but blood… the blood of the Lamb… come, mother, pass the hymn-books and we’ll sing love is poke my hand, mother, hold me tight for it is no sin come great Deliverer come….”

His voice trailed off, he lay groaning for a few minutes, then he was silent. He had exhausted himself with prophesy. He cried a little. For a minute Jesus Wept wept. Then Jesus Wept died.

Time passed. Robert gave Pat Reedy a drink. Pat was only half conscious, he retched back the coaly water over Robert’s cupped hands.