SCENE THREE

  The stokehole. In the rear, the dimly-outlined bulks of the furnaces and boilers. High overhead one hanging electric bulb sheds just enough light through the murky air laden with coal dust to pile up masses of shadows everywhere. A line of men, stripped to the waist, is before the furnace doors. They bend over, looking neither to right nor left, handling their shovels as if they were part of their bodies, with a strange, awkward, swinging rhythm. They use the shovels to throw open the furnace doors. Then from these fiery round holes in the black a flood of terrific light and heat pours full upon the men who are outlined in silhouette in the crouching, inhuman attitudes of chained gorillas. The men shovel with a rhythmic motion, swinging as on a pivot from the coal which lies in heaps on the floor behind to hurl it into the flaming mouths before them. There is a tumult of noise—the brazen clang of the furnace doors as they are flung open or slammed shut, the grating, teeth-gritting grind of steel against steel, of crunching coal. This clash of sounds stuns one’s ears with its rending dissonance. But there is order in it, rhythm, a mechanical regulated recurrence, a tempo. And rising above all, making the air hum with the quiver of liberated energy, the roar of leaping flames in the furnaces, the monotonous throbbing beat of the engines.

  As the curtain rises, the furnace doors are shut. The men are taking a breathing spell. One or two are arranging the coal behind them, pulling it into more accessible heaps. The others can be dimly made out leaning on their shovels in relaxed attitudes of exhaustion.

  PADDY—(From somewhere in the line—plaintively.) Yerra, will this divil’s own watch nivir end? Me back is broke. I’m destroyed entirely.

  YANK—(From the center of the line—with exuberant scorn.) Aw, yuh make me sick! Lie down and croak, why don’t yuh? Always beefin’, dat’s you! Say, dis is a cinch! Dis was made for me! It’s my meat, get me! (A whistle is blown—a thin, shrill note from somewhere overhead in the darkness. YANK curses without resentment.) Dere’s de damn engineer crakin’ de whip. He tinks we’re loafin’.

  PADDY—(Vindictively.) God stiffen him!

  YANK—(In an exultant tone of command.) Come on, youse guys! Git into de game! She’s gittin’ hungry! Pile some grub in her! Trow it into her belly! Come on now, all of youse! Open her up! (At this last all the men, who have followed his movements of getting into position, throw open their furnace doors with a deafening clang. The fiery light floods over their shoulders as they bend round for the coal. Rivulets of sooty sweat have traced maps on their backs. The enlarged muscles form bunches of high light and shadow.)

  YANK—(Chanting a count as he shovels without seeming effort.) One—two—tree— (His voice rising exultantly in the joy of battle.) Dat’s de stuff! Let her have it! All togedder now! Sling it into her! Let her ride! Shoot de piece now! Call de toin on her! Drive her into it! Feel her move! Watch her smoke! Speed, dat’s her middle name! Give her coal, youse guys! Coal, dat’s her booze! Drink it up, baby! Let’s see yuh sprint! Dig in and gain a lap! Dere she go-o-es (This last in the chanting formula of the gallery gods at the six-day bike race. He slams his furnace door shut. The others do likewise with as much unison as their wearied bodies will permit. The effect is of one fiery eye after another being blotted out with a series of accompanying bangs.)

  PADDY—(Groaning.) Me back is broke. I’m bate out—bate—(There is a pause. Then the inexorable whistle sounds again from the dim regions above the electric light. There is a growl of cursing rage from all sides.)

  YANK—(Shaking his fist upward—contemptuously.) Take it easy dere, you! Who d’yuh tinks runnin’ dis game, me or you? When I git ready, we move. Not before! When I git ready, get me!

  YANK—(Contemptuously.) He ain’t got no noive. He’s yellow, get me? All de engineers is yellow. Dey got streaks a mile wide. Aw, to hell wit him! Let’s move, youse guys. We had a rest. Come on, she needs it! Give her pep! It ain’t for him. Him and his whistle, dey don’t belong. But we belong, see! We gotter feed de baby! Come on! (He turns and flings his furnace door open. They all follow his lead. At this instant the SECOND and FOURTH ENGINEERS enter from the darkness on the left with MILDRED between them. She starts, turns paler, her pose is crumbling, she shivers with fright in spite of the blazing heat, but forces herself to leave the ENGINEERS and take a few steps nearer the men. She is right behind YANK. All this happens quickly while the men have their backs turned.)

  YANK—Come on, youse guys! (He is turning to get coal when the whistle sounds again in a peremptory, irritating note. This drives YANK into a sudden fury. While the other men have turned full around and stopped dumfounded by the spectacle of MILDRED standing there in her white dress, YANK does not turn far enough to see her. Besides, his head is thrown back, he blinks upward through the murk trying to find the owner of the whistle, he brandishes his shovel murderously over his head in one hand, pounding on his chest, gorilla-like, with the other, shouting:) Toin off dat whistle!

THE LIFT-HEAVE SONG

 

  (He hurls his shovel after them at the door which has just closed. It hits the steel bulkhead with a clang and falls clattering on the steel floor. From overhead the whistle sounds again in a long, angry, insistent command.)

(Curtain)

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