Children of the Dead End: The Autobiography of an Irish Navvy

by Patrick MacGill

On the day following it rained and rained. We tasted the dye of our caps as the water washed it down our faces into our mouths. By noon we came to the crest of a hill and looked into a wild sweep of valley below. The valley—it was Glencoe—from its centre had a reach of miles on either side, and standing on its rim we were mere midges perched on the copestones of an amphitheatre set apart for the play of giants. Far away, amongst grey boulders that burrowed into steep inclines, we could see a pigmy cottage sending a wreath of blue spectral smoke into the air. No other sign of human life could be seen. The cottage was subdued by its surroundings, the movement of the ascending smoke was a sacrilege against the spell of the desolate places.

"It looks lonely," I said to my mate.

"As hell!" he added, taking up the words as they fell from my tongue.

We took our meal of bread and water on the ledge and saved up the crumbs for our supper. When night came we turned into a field that lay near the cottage, which we had seen from a distance earlier in the day.

"It's a god's charity to have a shut gate between us and the world," said Moleskin, as he fastened the bars of the fence. Some bullocks were resting under a hazel clump. These we chased away, and sat down on the spot which their bellies had warmed, and endeavoured to light our fire. From under grey rocks, and from the crevices in the stone dyke, we picked out light, dry twigs, and in the course of an hour we had a blazing flame, around which we dried our wet clothes. The clouds had cleared away and the moon came out silently from behind the shadow of the hills. The night was calm as the face of a sleeping girl.

We lay down together when we had eaten our crumbs, but for a long while I kept awake. A wind, soft as the breath of a child, ruffled the bushes beside us and died away in a long-drawn swoon. Far in the distance I could hear another, for it was the night of many winds, beating against the bald peaks that thrust their pointed spires into the mystery of the heavens. From time to time I could hear the falling earth as it was loosened from its century-long resting place and flung heavily into the womb of some fathomless abyss. God was still busy with the work of creation!

I was close to the earth, almost part of it, and the smell of the wet sod was heavy in my nostrils. It was the breath of the world, the world that was in the eternal throes of change all around me. Nature was restless and throbbing with movement; streams were gliding forward filled with a longing for unknown waters; winds were moving to and fro with the indecision of homeless wayfarers; leaves were dropping from the brown branches, falling down the curves of the wind silently and slowly to the great earth that whispered out the secret of everlasting change. The hazel clump twined its trellises of branches overhead, leaving spaces at random for the eternal glory of the stars to filter through and rest on our faces. Joe, bearded and wrinkled, slept and dreamt perhaps of some night's heavy drinking and desperate fighting, or maybe his dreams were of some weary shift which had been laboured out in the lonely places of the world.

Coming across the line of hills could be heard the gathering of the sea, and the chant of the deep waters that were for ever voicing their secrets to the throbbing shores.

The fire burned down but I could not go to sleep. I looked in the dying embers, and saw pictures in the flames and the redness; pictures of men and women, and strange pictures of forlorn hopes and blasted expectations. I saw weary kinless outcasts wandering over deserted roads, shunned and accursed of all their kind. Also I saw women, old women, who dragged out a sordid existence, labouring like beasts of burden from the cradle to the grave. Also pictures of young women with the blood of early life in them, and the fulness of maiden promise in them, walking one by one in the streets of the midnight city—young women, fair and beautiful, who knew of an easier means of livelihood than that which is offered by learning the uses of sewing-needle or loom-spindle in fetid garret or steam-driven mill. In the flames and the redness I saw pictures of men and women who suffered; for in that, and that only, there is very little change through all the ages. Thinking thus I fell asleep.