Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

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.